Wimbledon Quotes

The first point is always important, more so in a Wimbledon final

Nor had I any illusions about Algernon Charles Swinburne, who often used to stop my perambulator when he met it on Nurses’ Walk, at the edge of Wimbledon Common, and pat me on the head and kiss me: he was an inveterate pram-stopper and patter and kisser.

If Bengali cuisine were Wimbledon, the hilsa would always play on Centre Court.

You’ve never potty-trained a toddler, have you, Johanna? It’s like working as a ball boy at Wimbledon, but with shit. And it goes on for months. With people crying at you.

She’d dreamed of playing at Wimbledon too, and she’d dreamed of seeing one of her children or one of her students play at Wimbledon, and she’d dreamed, far more reasonably and feasibly, of one day being a spectator at Wimbledon, but her dreams didn’t have the same ferocious entitlement as Stan’s, because she was a woman, and women know that babies and husbands and sick parents can derail your dreams, at any moment they can drag you from your bed, they can forestall your career, they can lift you from your prized seat at Wimbledon from a match later described as “epic.

My father wore drugstore cologne. But right now, in this moment, I love this drugstore cologne more than I love the smell of Wimbledon grass or California oranges or the rubber of a freshly popped can of tennis balls. This drugstore cologne is my home.

4. In between rounds at Wimbledon in 1982, I struggled to learn David Bowie’s “Suffragette City” and “Rebel, Rebel” in my hotel flat. I heard a knock on my door. It was David Bowie. “Come up and have a drink,” he told me. “Just don’t bring your guitar.

The difference between a goal-directed individual and someone without goals is like the difference between a Wimbledon champion and a kid batting a tennis ball around on a court with no net, no opponent to bring out the best in him, and no way of keeping score.

If the US Open was a two-week trip to Ibiza, Wimbledon was a meditative hike through a scenic national park.

Maybe this is the plan. Maybe I was born to live most of my life in a five-by-seven so I could travel the world. I would have never won Wimbledon if I hadn’t gone to death row.

The world of [comic book] collecting is not a pretty place. For a bunch of guys who like good-over-evil stories, you sure meet a lot of morally bankrupt assholes.

Opportunity is a function of density. Get to a place that’s crowded with success. Big cities are Wimbledon—even if you aren’t Rafael Nadal, your game will improve by being on the court with him. And you’ll either get in better shape or learn you shouldn’t be at Wimbledon.

she was a woman, and women know that babies and husbands and sick parents can derail your dreams, at any moment they can drag you from your bed, they can forestall your career, they can lift you from your prized seat at Wimbledon from a match later described as “epic.” She

The public never appears to tire of endless courses of strawberries and cream, and the theory that you run the risk of boring people with endless photo montages of the Chelsea Pensioners in their dress reds, or close-ups of a Pimm's Cup sprouting all kinda of flora, has yet to be proven. People like Wimbledon in the same way they like blue jeans or even their own spouses: for the pleasure yielded by their reliable sameness.

but her dreams didn’t have the same ferocious entitlement as Stan’s, because she was a woman, and women know that babies and husbands and sick parents can derail your dreams, at any moment they can drag you from your bed, they can forestall your career, they can lift you from your prized seat at Wimbledon from a match later described as “epic.

I wanted to prove myself again and again and again. I wanted to beat them all. I was eighteen years old, the reigning Wimbledon champ, with nothing but time in front of me.

My tenth Wimbledon. My twenty-first Slam.

I ran the risk of being mobbed for autographs. This is an occupational hazard that I accept and I try to take it with good grace. I can’t say “no” to people who ask me for my signature, even to the rude ones who just stick a piece of paper in front of me and don’t even say “please.” I’ll sign for them too, but what they won’t get from me is a smile. So going to the supermarket in Wimbledon, while an enjoyable distraction from the tension of competition, does have its pressures. The only place where I can go shopping in peace—where I can do anything like a normal person—is my home town of Manacor.

My tenth Wimbledon. My twenty-first Slam. The crowd continues to scream. I stand up as the announcers declare me the winner of the 109th annual Wimbledon Championships. I feel as if I can hear my father cheering.

Asian woman to ever win Wimbledon. The first woman like me to do almost any of the things I’ve done in tennis—hitting these records. Because we both know tennis doesn’t make it easy for those of us who aren’t blond and blue-eyed.

The Rafa Nadal the world saw as he stormed onto the Centre Court lawn for the start of the 2008 Wimbledon final was a warrior, eyes glazed in murderous concentration, clutching his racquet like a Viking his axe. A glance at Federer revealed a striking contrast in styles: the younger player in sleeveless shirt and pirate’s pantaloons, the older one in a cream, gold-embossed cardigan and classic Fred Perry shirt; one playing the part of the street-fighting underdog, the other suave and effortlessly superior.

Were you serious when you said I might win someday at Wimbledon?" Claire answered, "There's so much that's pure luck, good or bad. The weather can be terrible. We always say we should re-schedule Wimbledon and hold it in the summer!" I frowned. "Wimbledon is in the summer." Claire sighed. "It's a joke, Fiona." "Oh.

The bartender pops her head up. Her eyes go wide, looking at the two of us. “Wait, are you Nicki Chan?” Nicki smiles wide and lopsided, a dimple forming. “Why, yes, I am,” she says. “Number one in the world. Record holder for the most Grand Slam singles ever.” “And yet she’s only won Wimbledon twice,” I say to the bartender. “Isn’t that funny?

Nicki keeps her eyes focused entirely on watching the trainer wrap her foot. But her next words are aimed squarely at me. “I don’t think you’ve ever understood what I can do. What I am doing.” “I do,” I say. “I see it.” “I am better than you,” she says. “Give me a break, Nicki.” “You think that if this was 1982, I wouldn’t stand a chance against you,” Nicki continues. “I know that if this was 1982, you wouldn’t stand a chance against me,” I say. “Because it’s 1995, and you don’t stand a chance against me.” Nicki scoffs. “You just can’t see it.” “How good you are?” I say. “I see how good you are.” “You don’t respect what I’ve done for tennis the way I respect what you’ve done.” “What have you done that I haven’t done?” Nicki turns and looks at me. Her gaze is heavy. “I’m the first Asian woman to ever win Wimbledon. The first woman like me to do almost any of the things I’ve done in tennis—hitting these records. Because we both know tennis doesn’t make it easy for those of us who aren’t blond and blue-eyed.” “Yes,” I say, nodding. “Absolutely.

Do we ever stop dreaming? I know I haven't. I must have been at least twenty-five when the Spice Girls happened, and I distinctly remember imagining my way into the group. I was going to be the sixth Spice, 'Massive Spice', who, against all the odds, would become the most popular and lusted-after Spice. The Spice who sang the vast majority of solo numbers in the up-tempo tracks. The Spice who really went the distance. And I still haven't quite given up on the Wimbledon Ladies' Singles Championship. I mean, it can't be too late, can it? I've got a lovely clean T-shirt, and I've figured out exactly how I'd respond to winning the final point (lie on floor wailing, get up, do triumphant lap of the ring slapping crowd members' box). It can't be just me who does this. I'm convinced that most adults, when travelling alone in a car, have a favourite driving CD of choice and sing along to it quite seriously, giving it as much attitude and effort as they can, due to believing – in that instant – that they're the latest rock or pop god playing to a packed Wembley stadium. And there must be at least one man, one poor beleaguered City worker, who likes to pop into a phone box then come out pretending he's Superman. Is there someone who does this? Anyone? If so, I'd like to meet you and we shall marry in the spring (unless you're really, really weird and the Superman thing is all you do, in which case BACK OFF).

Our Father which art in Hendon Harrow be thy name Thy Kingston come, Thy Wimbledon, In Erith as it is in Hendon. Give us this day our Leatherhead And forgive us our bypasses As we forgive those who bypass against us. Lead us not into Thames Ditton But deliver us from Ewell For thine is the Kingston, the Purley and Crawley For Esher and Esher, Crouch End.791

There is only one acceptable response to the question “How are you?” That answer is “Finethanksandyou?” (must be spoken as one word).

I was one of only two native English speakers in the company, so other departments would send me English texts for correction. That lasted two weeks, until they noticed I had no idea how the English language worked. I sent their creations back with more mistakes than they’d had when I received them. They began sending the texts to the Scandinavian team instead. They spoke such lovely English, after all.

because she was a woman, and women know that babies and husbands and sick parents can derail your dreams, at any moment they can drag you from your bed, they can forestall your career, they can lift you from your prized seat at Wimbledon from a match later described as ‘epic’. She thought she’d need to call an ambulance or take him to a hospital. She was thinking about travel insurance and telling the children, and how would they transport his body home?

Lester, I’ve won Wimbledon five times. I’ve played third base for the Yankees and led the league in home runs for ten straight years. I’ve traveled the world. I’ve married the most beautiful women. I’ve loved and I’ve laughed and I’ve lost God and found God again and wondered for too many hours what the purpose is for me going to death row for something I didn’t do. And sometimes I think there is no purpose—that this is just the life I was meant to live. I’ve made a home here and a family out of some of the most terrifying men you’d ever meet. And you know what I’ve learned? We’re all the same. We’re all guilty of something, and we’re all innocent at the same time. And I’m sorry, but a man can go crazy trying to make it all fit into some plan. Maybe this is the plan. Maybe I was born to live most of my life in a five-by-seven so I could travel the world. I would have never won Wimbledon if I hadn’t gone to death row. Do you see what I’m saying, Lester? Do you understand what I’m saying?

Awoman gets on a bus holding her baby. The bus driver says, “That’s the ugliest baby I’ve ever seen.” Shocked, the woman slams her fare down and takes an aisle seat near the back of the bus. The man sitting next to her senses her agitation and asks what’s wrong. “The bus driver insulted me,” she says, fuming. “Really?” says the man sympathetically. "Why, he’s a public servant—he’s no right to insult passengers.” “Exactly!” she says. “You should do something.” “You’re right. I will,” she says, after contemplation. “I’m going to go back up there and give him a piece of my mind!” “Great idea,” the man says. “Here, let me hold your monkey.

The ubiquity of racism is an idea echoed by one of my favourite writers, Afua Hirsch, in her book Brit(ish): On Race, Identity and Belonging. Above all, I admire Hirsch’s tenacity, because even though she comes from an extremely wealthy family, was privately educated, enjoyed an idyllic childhood complete with ‘berry-stained rambles on Wimbledon Common’ and ‘walking holidays in the Alps’, she is still able to see past all that to realise that she is every bit as subjugated as those individuals who were bought and sold during the era of slavery. She is also brave enough to call out the obvious racism of anyone who gave her book a bad review.

My dad has always had this same smell - a smell I've been fond of my entire life. I always assumed it was his natural scent. Until one day as a teenager, I wandered into the fragrance section of the pharmacy and smelled English Leather. I'm embarrassed to say that, for a second, it mystified me - how could a drugstore bottle know what my father smelled of? And then I realized the answer was much more mundane. My father wore drugstore cologne. But right now, in this moment, I love this drugstore cologne more than I love the smell of Wimbledon grass or California oranges or the rubber of a freshly popped can of tennis balls. This drugstore cologne is my home.

Ravi has such nice manners--probably because he is English, and isn’t it a fact that English people have better manners than Americans? He says sorry a lot. “Sorry, can I just…” “Sorry?” His accent is charming, I keep saying pardon so he’ll speak again. For my part, I try to lighten the mood with questions about England. I ask him why English people call private school public school, if his public school was anything like Hogwarts, if he’s ever met the royal family. His answers are: because they are open to the paying public; they had head boys and head girls and prefects but no Quidditch; and he once saw Prince William at Wimbledon, but only the back of his head.

One more thing about the kind of audience that football has decided it wants: the clubs have got to make sure that they're good, that there aren't any lean years, because the new crowd won't tolerate failure. These are not the sort of people who will come to watch you play Wimbledon in March when you're eleventh in the First Division and out of all the Cup competitions. Why should they? They've got plenty of other things to do. So, Arsenal... no more seventeen-year losing streaks, like the one between 1953 and 1970, right? No flirting with relegation, like in 1975 and 1976, or the odd half-decade where you don't even get to a final, like we had between 1981 and 1987. We mug punters put up with that, and at least twenty thousand of us would turn up no matter how bad you were (and sometimes you were very, very bad indeed); but this new lot... I'm not so sure.

The cultural code of the stiff upper lip is not for her boys. She is teaching them that it is not “sissy” to show their feelings to others. When she took Prince William to watch the German tennis star Steffi Graff win the women’s singles final at Wimbledon last year they left the royal box to go backstage and congratulate her on her victory. As Graff walked off court down the dimly lit corridor to the dressing room, royal mother and son thought Steffi looked so alone and vulnerable out of the spotlight. So first Diana, then William gave her a kiss and an affectionate hug. The way the Princess introduced her boys to her dying friend, Adrian Ward-Jackson, was a practical lesson in seeing the reality of life and death. When Diana told her eldest son that Adrian had died, his instinctive response revealed his maturity. “Now he’s out of pain at last and really happy.” At the same time the Princess is acutely aware of the added burdens of rearing two boys who are popularly known as “the heir and the spare.” Self-discipline is part of the training. Every night at six o’clock the boys sit down and write thank-you notes or letters to friends and family. It is a discipline which Diana’s father instilled in her, so much so that if she returns from a dinner party at midnight she will not sleep easily unless she has penned a letter of thanks. William and Harry, now ten and nearly eight respectively, are now aware of their destiny. On one occasion the boys were discussing their futures with Diana. “When I grow up I want to be a policeman and look after you mummy,” said William lovingly. Quick as a flash Harry replied, with a note of triumph in his voice, “Oh no you can’t, you’ve got to be king.

Success is in the Context of Time, Space and Scale Pyaasa was a haunting film but unlikely to appeal to a generation that doesn’t think too much of black-and-white photography, poetry and romantic losers. Bjorn Borg could never win Wimbledon with his old wooden Donnay racket in today’s era where over-sized rackets generate such tremendous speed and power. Batsmen who were told to ‘give the first hour to the bowlers’ in a Test match would discover there are only twenty minutes left thereafter in a T20 game. Alternately, sloggers who routinely clobber the ball over cow corner may not have managed too many against the four-pronged West Indies pace bowling attack. Eventually, it is about giving the consumers what they want and those requirements may have changed.

ball that had been on a side-table stand—the ball had been used in Wimbledon—to the ceiling, and then I would catch

Nigel Farage is the leader of a small, loud group of carbon copies of himself. They’re called the United Kingdom Independence Party (UKIP). If they were a reality TV show, they’d be called Britain’s Got Bigots.

One of the best things about living in Germany is that Nigel Farage doesn’t.

Creativity is to ads as product quality is to cars, airplanes and electronic equipment – it’s absolutely necessary, and it needs to be built-in to the product, but it is not the only factor that matters, and it hardly provides sustainable differentiation from one agency to another. True, one agency will be “hot” for a given period and will grow and win business (one thinks of Crispin Porter + Bogusky or mcgarrybowen in recent years), but then the wheel turns, and the hot creative agencies of today become targets for other upstarts – like Droga5, 72andSunny, or Anomaly – and are eventually superseded in the same way that professional tennis stars are eventually vanquished at Wimbledon.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE DEED The title to 17658 Wimbledon has had four owners since it was built. From

In 2013, British tennis player Andy Murray was lauded across the media for ending Britain’s ‘77-year wait’ to win Wimbledon, when in fact Virginia Wade had won it in 1977. Three years later, Murray was informed by a sports reporter that he was ‘the first person ever to win two Olympic tennis gold medals’ (Murray correctly replied that ‘Venus and Serena have won about four each’).61 In the US it is a truth universally acknowledged that its soccer team has never won the World Cup or even reached the final – except it has. Its women’s team has won three times.

The maniacal Robot touches you in the Centre Court.

Longtemps après avoir troqué balles et bâtons contre livres et stylos, j'allais conserver la nostalgie non seulement de ce qui aurait pu être (« Tous mes scribouillages pour une heure sur la glace jadis glorieuse du Forum ou sur les verts paradis de Wimbledon ! ») mais surtout de ce qui fut peut-être mon expérience la plus totale de la passion. Je devine aisément ce que sociologues et psychanalystes pourraient tirer de cet aveu [...]. En effet, comment interpréter autrement que par une volonté de mort cette dépense effrénée d'énergie, cette pratique quasi religieuse de l'épuisement ? Le sport m'aura donné ce que d'autres demandent aux drogues ou aux amours meurtrières : la dissolution du Moi dans la violence du plaisir, la prolifération de l'être dans le temps enfin lézardé, la souveraineté de l'instant. Voilà bien le seul et véritable péché que mes confesseurs n'aient jamais entendu et à côté duquel les traditionnels écarts de la chair semblent de bien innocentes transgressions ! [...] À chacun ses extases, et je remercie le ciel de m'avoir fait naître à une époque et dans un milieu qui ne condamnaient que les frasques du samedi soir et la lecture de Zola. Ça ne fait pas des amants et des visionnaires très forts, me direz-vous. À cela je réponds bien modestement qu'« il vaut mieux périr dans sa propre loi, même imparfaite, que dans la loi d'autrui, même bien appliquée ». J'aurais bien aimé venir à la littérature par des voies plus prestigieuses (la crucifixion en rose de Miller ou le dérèglement raisonné de Rimbaud), mais, après tout, les chemins qui ne mènent nulle part ne peuvent-ils pas commencer n'importe où ?

First of all, in my day, James Cash Penney had called his hourly employees “associates,” and I guess I always had that idea in the back of my head. But the idea to try it at Wal-Mart actually occurred to me on a trip to England. HELEN WALTON: “We were on a tennis vacation to England. We were there to see Wimbledon. One day, we were walking down a street in London, and Sam, of course, stopped to look at a store—he always stopped to look in stores wherever we went—anywhere in the world, it didn’t matter. On that same trip, we lost a lot of our things in Italy when thieves broke into the car while he was looking at a big discount store. Anyway, he stopped at this one English retailing company, and I remember him saying, ‘Look at that sign. That is great. That’s what we should do.’ ” It was Lewis Company, J. M. Lewis Partnership. They had a partnership with all their associates listed up on the sign. For some reason that whole idea really excited me: a partnership with all our associates. As soon as we got home, we started calling our store workers “associates” instead of employees.

 I used to have picnics on Wimbledon Common and I never knew this place for anything else but strawberries and cream, tennis and Rachel Nickell’s murder! Now Wimbledon in my mind is tied with mysterious sexy intrigue, not just fruit, police honey traps and a wrongly accused killer! I shall visit the Village for coffee. Please say hi if you spot paparazzi moi with my cam. Allergies disclaimer: I would like to stress that this book is not exactly for the unwashed masses: I delayed showering after the last switch. I’ve created a Pavlovian response: he must associate its floral sweetness with sexual fulfilment. Adam has a “Pavlovian” reaction to Elena’s BO? Bribes her with cake to lessen the wrath when asking Elena to wash?   He frowns, seeing that I’m silent and trembling. My perfume was weak; hers much stronger. I say, my temper flaring. Now, ladies and gentlemen, the usual hoi polloi quality potential chattel chatting up yours truly in Sarf London would probably assume that a big phat slice of Marks & Spencer’s Strawberry Pavlova will get them into the lady’s knickers. Nope, she’s allergic to stupid.. A merengue dessert will hardly cause a rash but a moron makes her skin crawl. This is a cleverly written book. So some of you, keen aspiring readers, please have your Oxford fictionary handy! Just saying! In words of our hero: *‘Bloody pricey,’ Adam adds. ‘But God, it is a nice smell. Don’t you like it?’ [...] then squirts onto my wrist playfully.

I loved being with you, loved making you laugh so hard you spat coffee, making you squeal in Wimbledon Park playing frisbee with the kids over your head as you pretended to read, glancing up with that enigmatic smile and pretending to be cross, loved snatching a hug in the kitchen and laughing as the kids wiggled in between our legs, loved when you raced home to tell me about a book deal, a film option—the passion in your voice when I listened to you on the phone to an editor or author. All those extra moments I might never have had.

SHORE-LARK During the week, the shore-lark works in the City and flies home every night with its mate in Wimbledon, where it is a model husband and father. At weekends, however, it migrates briefly on Brighton, on any of one hundred pretexts, where is meets female shore-larks under the pier and seeks to recapture its lost youth.

walk away from its treaty obligations by invoking the doctrine of State sovereignty. This was settled by a decision of the Permanent Court of Justice (PCIJ)10 over 80 years ago. SS Wimbledon Case (Britain v Germany) (1923) PCIJ (Series A) No 1, 25 The court declines to see in the conclusion of any treaty by which a State undertakes to perform or refrain from performing a particular act an abandonment of sovereignty. No doubt any convention creating an obligation of this kind places a restriction upon the exercise of the sovereign rights of the State, in the sense that it requires them to be exercised in a certain way. But the right of entering into international engagements is an attribute of State sovereignty. Implementation

an obligation I had already fulfilled on Christmas day, or they were slumped, lifeless in front of their 3-d screen. I despondently checked the listings for anything that might interest me. My mobile vibrated on the table. “Hi Dave. Good to hear from somebody. Fancy a drink?” “Listen Ray. I forgot I have two tickets to the banger racing at Wimbledon Stadium. I didn’t think I would be going but now my sister’s ill and so Don thinks it’s better if I leave it a few days. So I am going. You wanna come?” “Banger racing! Ha! Ha! It’s not really my thing but what the hell! It’s better than brain-death in front of the 3-D. Okay. You pick me up?” “Sure.” The banger racing was a

forgot I have two tickets to the banger racing at Wimbledon Stadium. I didn’t think I would be going but now my sister’s ill and so Don thinks it’s better if I leave it a few days. So I am going. You wanna come?” “Banger racing! Ha! Ha! It’s not really my thing but what the hell! It’s better than brain-death

a heart attack, while in custody at Wimbledon Police

Every few years, in the world of sport, someone ascends to the most rarefied of all levels—the one at which it becomes news not when they win, but when they lose. It must have been like that in the early Fifties, when a tubby Italian called Alberto Ascari was stitching together nine Grand Prix wins in a row, a record not even Fangio, Clark or Senna could match. Or when the great Real Madrid side of Alfredo Di Stefano and Ferenc Puskas won the first five European Cup finals, between 1956 and 1960. Or when Martina Navratilova dominated Wimbledon's Centre Court, winning nine ladies' singles titles in thirteen years. The current Australian cricket team is in just such a run at present, having just completed nine consecutive victories, putting them four wins away from establishing an all-time record. And then there is Tiger Woods.

Wimbledon,

The Wombles was a hugely popular, animated children's TV series, about a family of diminutive creatures living on Wimbledon Common .... "making good use of the things that [they] find, things that the everyday folks leave behind. " it was essentially a show about recycling ... It became so popular that Merton council, which presides over the borough of Wimbledon, had to deal with a sharp increase in littering, after children desperate to catch a glimpse of these little eco-warriors began willfully discarding rubbish across the common.

rub my forehead. There are more secrets flying about this village than balls in Wimbledon.

A memo had just zoomed in through the open door and fluttered to rest on top of the hiccuping toaster. Mr. Weasley unfolded it and read aloud, “‘Third regurgitating public toilet reported in Bethnal Green, kindly investigate immediately.’ This is getting ridiculous . . .” “A regurgitating toilet?” “Anti-Muggle pranksters,” said Mr. Weasley, frowning. “We had two last week, one in Wimbledon, one in Elephant and Castle. Muggles are pulling the flush and instead of everything disappearing — well, you can imagine. The poor things keep calling in those — those pumbles, I think they’re called — you know, the ones who mend pipes and things —” “Plumbers?” “— exactly, yes, but of course they’re flummoxed. I only hope we can catch whoever’s doing it.

Wimbledon.

Stated simply, nobody had ever unearthed a work of genius with de Vere’s name stamped on it. Nor did we have an ad vivum painted portrait of Edward de Vere, only a seventeenth-century copy of a now lost circa-1575 portrait (artist unknown) that showed the earl posing beneath a wide-brimmed sugarloaf hat. A French cloak of gold braid (a proper dandy changed cloaks three times a day) was thrown over the left shoulder of a gold doublet uniquely tasseled at the wrist. Welbeck Abbey lent this portrait of de Vere to London’s National Portrait Gallery back in 1964, and for as long as I kept tabs on it, that portrait remained hidden inside an NPG storehouse in Wimbledon in spite of great public interest in de Vere. Was the NPG worried that tourists might flock like maenads to this dashing portrait of de Vere instead of ogling over the greatly unbeloved Chandos?

Bertie became a tennis ace, who played in the doubles of the 1926 Wimbledon championships. And he held a unique cricketing hat-trick, dismissing in three consecutive balls, in a game of garden cricket, three consecutive English kings: his grandfather ( Edward VII), his father (George V), and his brother (Edward VIII).

Voilà à quoi je pensais, tandis que je marchais pour rentrer chez moi, légèrement ivre, après avoir quitté L. devant le bar où nous avions bu un troisième verre. Nous avions bien ri, elle et moi, au fond de la salle, car finalement la conversation avait dévié sur nos passions adolescentes, avant Barthes et toute la clique, à l’époque où nous accrochions des posters dans notre chambre. J'avais raconté à L. les deux années durant lesquelles, vers l'âge de seize ans, j'avais contracté puis developpé une cristallisation spectaculaire sur la personne d'Ivan Lendl, un joueur de tennis tchécoslovaque au physique ingrat dont je percevais la beauté obscure et saisissante, au point que je m'étais abonnée à Tennis Magazine (moi que je n'avais jamais touché une raquette de ma vie) et avais passé des heures devant les retransmissions televisées du tournoi de Roland Garros et Wimbledon au lieu de réviser mon bac. L. étais sidérée. Elle aussi l'avait adoré! C'était bien la première fois que je rencontrais quelqu'un qui avait aimé Ivan Lendl, l'un des joueurs les plus detestés de l'histoire du tennis, sans doute à cause de son visage austère que rien ne pouvait dérider, et de son jeu de fond de court, méthodique et rébarbatif. Selon toute vraisemblance, c'est d'ailleurs pour ces raisons, parce qu'il était si grand, maigre et incompris, que je l'ai tant aimé. À la même époque, oui, exactement, L. avait suivi tous les matchs d'Ivan Lendl, elle s'en souvenait parfaitement, notamment de cette fameuse finale de Roland Garros jouée contre John McEnroe, que Lendl avait gagné à l'issue d'un combat d'une rare intensité dramatique. Les images l'avaient alors montré victorieux, défiguré pour l'épuisement, et pour la première fois le monde entier avait découvert son sourire. L. était incollable, se souvenait de tous les détails de la vie et de la carrière d'Ivan Lendl que j'avais pour ma part oubliés. C'était incroyable, plus de vingt ans après, de nous imaginer toutes les deux hypnotisées devant nos postes de télevision, elle en banlieue parisienne et mois dans un village de Normandie, souhaitant l'une et l'autre avec la même ardeur le sacre de l'homme de l'Est. L. savait auusi ce qu’Ivan Lendl était devenu, elle avait suivi tout cela de très près, sa carrière comme sa vie privée. Ivan Lendl était marié et père de quatre enfants, vivait aux Ètats-Unis, entraînait de jeunes joueurs de tennis et s’était fait refaire les dents. L. déplorait ce dernier point, la disparition du sourire tchécoslovaque (dents rangées de manière inégale dont on devinait le chevauchement) au profit d’un sourire américain (dents fausses parfaitement alignées, d’un blanc éclatant), selon elle, il y avait perdu tout son charme, je n’avais qu’à vérifier sur Internet si je ne la croyais pas. C’était un drôle de coïncidence. Un point commun parmi d’autres, qui nous rapprochait.

El signo de los verdaderos campeones es la capacidad de ganar grandes partidos. Esto puede sonar un poco arrogante, ya que acabo de ganar Wimbledon, pero es así».

Laura Bunting. Her name was garden parties, and Wimbledon, and royal weddings. It was chintzy tea rooms, Blitz spirit, and bric-a-brac for sale in bright church halls. It was coconut shies and bake sales and guess-the-weight-of-the-fucking-cake.

The label finally decided I needed media training after I did an interview with the CBS Early Show at the Arthur Ashe Kids’ Day, a concert that kicks off the U.S. Open every year in August. I have to admit that I did not know who Arthur Ashe was. Now I know he was one of the greatest tennis players in the world and the first African American man to win Wimbledon. When he came out as HIV positive in 1992, he created an impact that lasted long beyond his death a year later. But back then, I just showed up and sang where people told me to. 98 Degrees was going to perform, so I was excited to sing with Nick again. I barely knew who any of the tennis players were, even Pete Sampras and Andre Agassi. During the interview before the concert, the tennis players and us singers stood off-stage, and we were each asked what it meant to be there to celebrate Arthur Ashe’s impact. “I’m just so proud to be here and to give back,” I said, and then turned to Andre Agassi. “This is such a great event you put on.” Andre’s eyes widened in a look of “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Everyone, including the news crew, realized I thought Andre was Arthur Ashe. The late Arthur Ashe.

If our wonderful impostor had been in charge of the whole Bricky situation, then he would have wrestled that first dragon to the ground in the middle of the men’s finals at Wimbledon right in front of the royal box with the entire Royal Family in attendance, possibly with Sir Elton John playing the incidental music, and then finished it off with his sonic sodding screwdriver. As a finale he’d have magicked up strawberries and cream for the entire crowd at no extra cost, making Jesus’s feeding of the five thousand look like the act of a misanthropic miser.

Religion is not necessarily related only to what we think of as religious things or practices, like attending a rite in a temple, performing practices in order to attain certain goods, or following certain codes of conduct based on a particular set of beliefs or even ideas of the supernatural. It is just as easily identified with something like the unfailing love for FC Barcelona or Liverpool FC and the ineffable (absolutely religious) experience of living and dying together, through songs, food, and tears, in a match against their rivals from times immemorial (Real Madrid or Manchester United). Another glorious religious experience could be watching Roger Federer move on a Wimbledon court.26

It’s the same scene at Boodles, with the same crew braying about whatever it is today that they think they know better than anyone else. This time it’s the French tennis championships at the Roland Garros, and the way they talk about the players you’d think they were all ex-Wimbledon champions instead of desk-bound, money-bound public schoolboys who, if you put them in a car park in the Gorbals without a set of car keys, would be begging for mercy to the first bag lady who walked by. When you scratch the veneer you find there’s just more veneer underneath. ‘In this closed

Two days later, Michael Stich and I won the darkness-delayed doubles final against Jim Grabb and Richey Reneberg, 5–7, 7–6, 3–6, 7–6, and 19–17. It was the longest Wimbledon final ever in terms of games—eighty-three!—and the energy of the crowd, which had been let in for free on the extra day, made me forget how tired and stiff I actually was. Not too shabby for an old man.

Had Bjorn Borg really won five straight Wimbledons? Fantastic! What was a Wimbledon?

To me, “manners” meant sleeping linesmen at Wimbledon, and bowing and curtsying to rich people with hereditary titles who didn’t pay any taxes. Manners meant tennis clubs that demanded you wear white clothes, and cost too much money to join, and excluded blacks and Jews and God knows who else. Manners meant the hush-hush atmosphere at tennis matches, where excitement of any kind was frowned upon.

I wouldn’t have told this to a soul back then, but as early as my first Wimbledon in ’77, I realized I had the potential to be the very best: the best tennis player in the world. I confirmed it for myself as I rose through the rankings—but then, more and more, the problem became that almost everybody was somebody I shouldn’t lose to. The pressure became incomprehensible.

book Laughter and Ridicule: Towards a Social Critique of Humour, Professor Michael Billig

For fifteen years, I had been a presence—terrible or wonderful, but never boring—at Wimbledon, stirring conversation and controversy even when I didn’t show up. In my own inimitable way, and without even willing it, I had become part of Wimbledon’s tradition.

My dearest friends at school, and harmless nicknames then, but embarrassing when you find yourself shouting 'Pussy!' excitedly across Centre Court at Wimbledon during a quiet match point fifteen years later. Carry on…

Does the reader realise the despair that falls upon the hapless Catholic journalist at such moments; or how wild a prayer he may well send up for the intercession of St. Francis of Sales? What is he to say; or at what end of that sentence is he to begin? What is the good of his laboriously beginning to explain that a married clergy is a matter of discipline and not doctrine, that it can therefore be allowed locally without heresy--when all the time the man thinks a beard as important as a wife and more important than a false religion? What is the sense of explaining to him the peculiar historical circumstances that have led to preserving some local habits in Kiev or Warsaw, when the man at any moment may receive a mortal shock by seeing a bearded Franciscan walking through Wimbledon or Walham Green? What we want to get at is the mind of the man who can think so absurdly about us as to suppose we could have a horror of heresy, and then a weakness for heresy, and then a greater horror of hair. To what does he attribute all the inconsistent nonsense and inconsequent bathos that he associates with us? Does he think we are all joking; or all dreaming; or all out of our minds; or what does he think?