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You walk through a narrow portal on the third deck of venerable Yankee Stadium, and the tight passageway opens up to a powerful sightline revealing the stadium’s vast expanse of possibilities. And you get it. This is America’s greatest baseball arena. Here the ghosts of Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio and Mantle linger in the shadows.
Similarly, Boston’s Fenway Park and Chicago’s Wrigley Field remain intimate temples that celebrate a timeless game. As for basketball and hockey, New York’s no-holds-barred Madison Square Garden is a singular urban haven. Golf can boast Pebble Beach, which melds oceanic power with a coast’s emerald landmass, and Augusta National, which celebrates the emergence of spring in a glorious sporting garden. And, of course, Churchill Downs and the Indy Speedway retain a certain allure.
But, for me, the greatest sports cathedral of them all is Wimbledon — hands down. Maybe it’s just because it’s been there for so darn long (since 1922). Or maybe it’s because each year, so much of tennisdom takes off on a two-week pilgrimage to an Oz of sweet strawberries and thick cream, a refuge of long queues and short points, stiff dukes and flowing emotion. For Wimbledon is a summer-green English country fair like no other; a sporting stage that showcases the sweaty, often flawed drive for achievement, while reminding us of the joy of stillness, the power of calm. Here, the game is embraced with a caring touch, a surgical precision.
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Okay, sport is not religion. Still, it’s hard to miss the spirituality of Centre Court. A certain transcendence embraces.
But this year, there’s a discomforting twist. Bowing to the pressures to do SOMETHING about the soggy rain delays that each year soak earth ‘n spirit, Wimbledon is smack in the middle of a four-year project to build a massive sliding roof. The previous modest roof, which always provided shady cover and a cozy intimacy while amplifying a delicious (thwock, thwock) sound, has callously been stripped away. So we have the Taj Mahal with gaping cracks, the pyramids without their tops, the Sistine Chapel covered with dusty scaffolding. So why did Wimbledon even consider scarring its oh-so-pretty face? Why such a radical move? After all, our sport is known for its glacial proclivities when it comes to change. (Didn’t some wise guy once say that when it comes to change in tennis, it’s like turning a battleship around in a lagoon?) But, then again, if there’s one venue that can seamlessly implement transition — large or little — it’s Wimbledon.
Sure, the fuddy-duddy image of the place is strictly old school. Isn’t Wimby the ultimate snooty club that waddles along with a self-congratulatory reverence, resisting sensible (“welcome to the 21st century”) change at every turn? Isn’t this the church that boots you out if you have a bit too much blue trim on your shirt? Wasn’t it here that the sky-is-falling concept of having equal prize money for men and women prompted the head of the place to mutter, “Hey, if we did that, we wouldn’t have enough money for the petunias”?
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Yet, truth be told, of all the confounding, ingrown (“you’re so vain, you probably think this world is about you”) sports bureaucracies — pick ‘em: Augusta National, the NCAA, IOC, MLB, ITF or USTA — none is more adept at processing visionary change than Wimbledon. After all, the thought of playing here with yellow tennis balls was once verboten. Centre Court matches used to start precisely at 2 p.m., come what may. And, of course, no woman would ever be allowed as a member of the All England Club, let alone be a chair umpire — Lord forbid. Wasn’t Wimbledon once ground zero for a certain studied Victorian ethos? Like Henley (the home of the rowing regatta) or the Lord’s Cricket Ground, was not Wimbledon the quintessential showcase for amateur sportsmanship? Here, hearty chaps of a certain class would gather ‘round the altar of deferential manners and hallowed traditions.
But now, much has shifted. These days, the place bounces with the “oh my God” squeals of giddy schoolgirls and a subtle, but unmistakable, commercialism that is careful never to intrude. Tennis historians like to note that Wimbledon was the first to use the electronic Cyclops to call the service line and, this year, Wimbledon will employ Hawk-Eye and, at last, provide equal prize money for men and women. Most of all, this supposedly stuck-in-the-mud club courageously broke out of the pack in ‘68 and insisted that players (instead of being paid a pittance under-the-table) actually be compensated with a pretty penny.
The All-England Club’s CEOs, tournament directors and star performers all come and go, but the smooth gears of Wimbledon’s change are well-oiled as one long-range plan after another is implemented with military ease and a breezy “no bother chap” efficiency. So cramped press rooms, quirky asymmetric subterranean courts and even the much celebrated tea room are replaced and reinvented. It’s hardly surprising that after a seven- or eight-year hiatus, when Jimmy Connors finally returned to Wimbledon to do commentary, he barely recognized the place, so thorough had been the makeover.
This summer, tennis’ most inspiring cathedral will stand naked with no roof and plenty of (“excuse our dust”) signs of construction. So, naturally, there won’t be quite the same pristine atmosphere that celebrates the game each year with such majestic grace. But surely, when all the dust settles in ‘09, when the new, movable roof and a brand new Court Two are properly in place, the spirit of Wimbledon will again soar. For no other sports venue on this small globe embraces and implements the art of change with such gracious ease as this grand little tournament we love so much.
To contact Bill Simons, email him at editorial@insidetennis.com
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