By Chris Oddo | Wednesday June 29, 2016
Step inside Wimbledon's Centre Court and realize a tennis time machine in all its glory.
Photo Source: AFP
You queue with a group of wide-eyed tennis fans, and peer up at the scoreboard at the top of the portal to find that Djokovic and Ward have gone to deuce again. There, blocking the entry way, stands security in a firmly pressed military uniform—creases, epaulets, the works—the brim of his staff dress hat pulled closer to the bridge of his nose than to the top of his forehead. His eyes dart to and fro hyper-attentively—this is a man taking his job ever so seriously—and when Djokovic wins the game he knows it at the same time I do. It’s not serendipity, it’s total commitment.
Grass Clippings: This Is Wimbledon
That’s the kind of precision, the savoury attention to detail that you immediately feel at Wimbledon, and at Centre Court, this old-boned beauty that is nearly a century young, you feel it the strongest.
It had me at hello. It had me like the old Yankee Stadium had me, as much as I hated the Yankees. It had me like the Montreal Forum did, when I stood in the standing room only section to watch Larry Robinson’s last game in the city that loved him.
Wimbledon’s Centre Court in all its glowing glory. So green and lush on Day 1 of the Championships it hurts my eyes—in a good way—as if for 47 years they’ve been peering out of their sockets and into on the wrong tennis courts. It’s like I walked out of the hospital, my pupils dilated, and am now staring straight into the eyes of the sun.
As the crowd cheers for Ward despite the fact that he’s getting bageled in the opener, I contemplate other crowds, other days, other legends of the game that called this tennis’s holy grail and laid claim to it. From press row, a section of bench seating in a northwest quadrant of the bowl, I stare down and see two ballkids in a three-point stance, both have their right legs bent uniformly. Others are standing at parade rest, spread equidistantly around the court, ready to serve the player’s needs with near religious zeal. Yeah, mate, this is Wimbledon.
On the other side of the court the umpire’s chair towers over the net like a lighthouse. 96 years’ worth of Wimbledon champions have sat in that spot right next to the chair. Fathom that, if you’ve got a moment. In 1922, the first year that Centre Court opened its doors, Suzanne Lenglen was here, trampling an American woman named Molla Mallory, 6-2, 6-0 in 23 minutes for her fourth consecutive title. Years later it was Fred Perry, whose statue sits outside the east side of the stadium. Same longitude, same latitude. Sampras, Ashe, BJK, Goran, Steffi, their feet on that grass, patrolling that very same baseline. The grass grows anew but the memories they linger deeper.
I am choking back the emotions intermittently, resonating with history, with tennis’ roots.
I feel as if I’ve just won my 15th major title and unveiled a new white track suit especially embroidered to celebrate the occasion. That happened here in 2009, and it was Roger Federer’s sixth Wimbledon title. He defeated Andy Roddick 16-14 in the fifth and stood holding the Challenge Cup aloft while this magical court reverberated.
The year before that it was Rafa—and Serena!
Fast forward a few hours and I’m still here, watching the maestro Federer in the fading light as he takes on Guido Pella of Argentina. If things go well for Federer this fortnight he could become the winningest male player in Wimbledon history. The crowd comes to life (never quite heard crowd noise like this) as the Swiss drills back-to-back aces to finish off his 80th career win at Wimbledon, just four shy of Jimmy Connors’ all-time record.
Tennis players have good days and bad days. Federer, mostly good. Others, like his second round opponent Marcus Willis of Great Britain, mostly bad. But I get the feeling that Centre Court, apart from those dreary World War Two years after it was bombed and taken out of action, never has a bad day.
The All-England Club, with their unceasing attention to detail, simply will not let that happen.
The sightlines are perfect. The slight difference in shade of green between the darker, freshly painted concrete, the lighter grass and the bolder seat covers, perfect. The white stenciling of the portals that mark each section with dignity, perfect. The presence of silence, perfect. The iconic scorebards that sit in the northwest and southeast corners of the court, must I say it?
It is with a lump in the throat that I watch Federer depart, vanquished Pella by his side as is the custom. He’s as graceful a tennis player as there ever has been, cut from the cloth of genius and seemingly born to prowl this lawn like an artistic relic from the past, souped-up to meet the needs of today. I made it just in time. It is my summer at Wimbledon and it is Federer’s autumn.
They’ve come and gone, the great ones. The summers, too. The Lavers, the Borgs, the Navratilovas, the ryegrass their canvas, this resplendent pit their Colosseum. They’re gone in body now, but oh hell can I feel them in spirit.
I have spent the day watching two of the greatest tennis players that have ever lived inside the greatest tennis stadium ever built.
Like the kiss of death, this lasts forever.