![]() ![]() His ferocious grace makes him appear to float a fraction above the famous grass, whether it’s the lush, sappy carpet of the opening day or the parched, hard savannah of the final Sunday. This year he became the only man ever to win eight titles at Wimbledon, and the oldest man in history to claim the title. Only Roger Federer seems able to stop time. Tick, tick, tick – time is racing by, time is standing still. This juxtaposition of timing devices is the perfect metaphor for Wimbledon: the speed clock showing supersonic serves, standing alongside the sober Rolex timekeeping clock verifying the present moment. A discreet golden Rolex clock face adorns the dark green hoarding on Centre Court, alongside the board that displays the speed of the ball. Rolex has performed the task of counting the seconds and the minutes, precisely marking time since 1978. Time is such a precious commodity at Wimbledon that the tournament has its own official timekeeper. As three time Wimbledon champion Boris Becker put it this year, you can only live in the present moment, and hope that the future will take care of itself. ![]() No competitor, however celebrated, comes on court at Wimbledon certain that they can write themselves into the tournament’s history. Comically, an official ran on bearing bundles of spare white underwear for them to change into before play could resume. This year, two male players were sent off court for sporting dark underpants that were judged to gleam through the snowy white of their shorts. Male guests are discreetly warned in advance that ties must be worn, ‘to avoid any embarrassment.’ The tournament rule that competitors wear all white clothing has become stricter over time, rather than less so. The Royal Box, a vast ocean going wooden raft tilting into the sea of green plastic seating, has a protocol worthy of an independent principality. ![]() No other tennis tournament has Wimbledon’s sense of timeless poise – a consequence both of its history and its refusal to bend to the jurisdiction of the future. But the drama was part of the deal, and it still is for those with tickets to the roofless courts. Years ago, before the arrival of the roof, there was always an unspoken dread that the rain would come on the same day as your prized golden ticket. Even when there’s a deluge, the fans stoically sit it out, listening to the raindrops pinging off their steamed up plastic ponchos. It’s the food of a mythical English summer, which, so often, exists only in the imagination. Even the frothy hanging baskets of flowers are colour coded.Įach summer, visitors to Wimbledon devour 34,000 kg of strawberries, 110,000 scones, 320,000 glasses of Pimm’s, and 29,000 bottles of champagne. Instead it remains a restrained, timeless enclave of purple and green. Unlike the other Grand Slams, Wimbledon would never allow such a thing. While the crowd may scream, showy advertising hoardings do not. Add the rippling roars of the fans and their clattering applause, and the soundtrack is simply thunderous. On wet days, when the roof slithers across the arena to repel the rain, the sounds are amplified even more, and become concussive rather than simply percussive. The ball, reaching speeds of close to 240 km an hour, provides the explosive percussion to the crowd’s chorus. It’s the sound of 15,000 people paying attention, and, en masse, putting on a musical performance of their own. ![]() Slip into one of the dark green seats on match day, and you’ll hear an uncanny, low level hum. Centre Court at Wimbledon has its own microclimate intense, pressurised, and high octane. ![]()
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