This is the fourth installment of my series on the 25 most compelling encounters and happenings in my 25 years of publishing Inside Tennis.

Wimbledon: Nothing but Ghosts
7 Long after Wimbledon is over I begin. Long after the screaming kids on Henman Hill depart; long after the overnight queues vanish and yet another naive British dream has been dashed; long after all those pricey strawberries and all that thick cream has been digested, I start my ritual.

Long after the new champion has expressed his ecstasy and long after the stiff duke has whispered his last congratulations, I return to my press seat - J191 - and I begin.

I meditate on my memories and reflect on the joy of Wimbledon.

There in the dusk, amidst an embracing silence, I imagine. Sure the court - bruised and battered brown - has been stripped and is exposed with no net. True, the most cherished seats in tennisdom seem lonely in solitude. Now all Centre Court has is memory and shadow. A silence shouts, stillness pervades. A singular dove glides free, but I see nothing - nothing but ghosts.

There’s the ghost of Suzanne Lenglen - arrogant and haughty, scandalizing proper society. I see America’s “Big Bill” Tilden - imposing and vain - and Fred Perry from the wrong side of Stockport, England’s tracks. I see Oakland’s Don Budge stroking his classic backhand en route to tennis’s first Grand Slam. There’s the pretty but lethal “Little Mo,” and I sense the ghost of Swede Borg racing past Gerulaitis. I can still feel McEnroe ranting, his fierce fury beyond rage.

There’s Becker leaping horizontally for a volley and Venus leaping vertically in victory. And I see those most sublime of grass-court ghosts - Sampras and Federer - triumphant and serene.

Of course, the All-England Club is a stern taskmaster, and here many a brave soul has been reduced to pain. There is Tim Henman battling expectations. There’s Jana Novotna battling nerves. There’s the ghost of Ivan Lendl - tennis’s Captain Ahab - chasing phantoms.

So Wimbledon is not for everyone. The smash ‘n’ dash grass-court points suffer from a “thou shalt not blink” brevity; all the “just for the heck of it” rules seem a silly indulgence. The English ‘tude can smother. And where is there a more wet and wacky island?

Still, in this American Idol world of ours where depth and heritage are marginalized, Wimbledon attracts with enduring appeal, an English country fair unlike any other, such a comforting green tapestry. Here the drama of sport will always sing. Here the power of heritage embraces the hunger for achievement, drawing the eager from Indian cities or Zimbabwean farms. The lawns of this place will always call.

And each year I will sit. I will reflect on Wimbledon’s quiet passion, knowing I’ve so often been blessed to relish the poignant drama of the most theatrical athletic stage on this planet.