Fabulous Wimbledon 1989

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN WE HAVE TICKETS"

The surroundings appeared strange as my tired, bleary, Monday morning eyes swept London's Gatwick Air Terminal. It was frantic. My thoughts flashed back to the previous Wednesday evening that found me at home in Jupiter, Florida, relaxing in my favorite position, prone, while reading a feature article entitled, "So You Want to Go to Wimbledon." I turned to Marjorie Lee, my wife and said dreamily, "Honey! A trip to Wimbledon would be out of this world."

Marjorie looked up from the Danielle Steele love story and said rather quickly, "Why don't you go?"

Her tone sounded sincere. I couldn't believe my ears, but my mouth responded hastily, "Are you serious?"

"Go! You only live once," Marjorie urged.

"And when you die you stay dead a long time," I responded matter-of-factly, but it's as true as life.

Putting my wishes and dreams aside, I finished reading the article by a travel editor, who had enjoyed fabulous Wimbledon action in 1988 while spending a measly $653.54, excluding the cost of an airline ticket. His Wimbledon tour de force sparkled with amazement and excitement. Could it be true? The story was feasible and the promise was irresistible. Wide-eyed and hopeful, I sprang to my feet and went searching for my passport. Finding it, I was disappointed discovering it had expired. If Wimbledon was to be my in 1989, I had to renew my passport by Friday. Only one week of Wimbledon remained. This necessitated a hurried trip to Miami's U.S. Custom Office. I could not go Thursday. I had an important meeting to attend. Well, some thought it was important. If the world had fewer meetings something would get accomplished. The trip boiled down to Friday or forget about Wimbledon for 1989.

I assessed my chances for success, knowing I would deal with government bureaucrats. Answers that popped up in my mind were dispiriting. A child's wonder intervened, and I realized there was too much to gain not to try. The lure of Wimbledon was inescapable. Friday morning I'd head south and give it my best stroke. I prayed.

Early trips to Miami, by-way-of I-95, are terrifying. You are confronted with five lanes of late commuters jockeying for position every inch of the way. Absolute chaos! The experience is comparable to playing chicken for 90 miles. Of course, frequent stretches of construction heighten the dread. At several points, I wondered if a trip to Wimbledon was worth dying for.

Cops are everywhere, but what are they to do when everyone is driving twenty miles over the speed limit? Invariably, they stop the cars with the gorgeous chicks or handsome, young studs, depending on the gender of the cops. Yes, my risks for a speeding ticket was zero. I'm not a young stud, and I'm definitely not gorgeous, but I am an older coward.

Surprise! I arrived in one piece. The office perked with organization and the process flowed smoothly. All this efficiency offered promise, but I remained pessimistic. After completing the paperwork, I moped around most of the day worrying. Sixty other applicants shared my concern. Going to Wimbledon had become an obsession.

I had nearly given up when I heard my name called at three in the afternoon. The feminine voice echoed from the section that issued passports. My heart rate quickened. After subduing the shock, I rose and sauntered over. Pure joy embraced me when an attractive bureaucrat, wearing a radiant smile, handed me a new passport valid for ten years and ten more trips to Wimbledon. Amazingly, she appeared pleased to have been of service. This lucky break was a good omen. Wimbledon, beware, here comes Walker Joe! Yes! My prayer had been answered.

I had two serious concerns now. How much was the airline going to stiff me for a ticket and getting home safely in the afternoon rush hour traffic. The fine line of yellow running down my spine surfaced, and I decided to pay toll for the Florida Turnpike home. It's less congested and much safer. Incidentally, it's been paid off for over thirty years. Florida simply knows how to milk a cash cow.

The unusual chain of events, leading to Gatwick, slipped into my subconscious mind. The medium-sized bag weighed a ton now and was as awkward as a bale of cotton. My body was weary—real weary. Sleep had been difficult on the flight over even though three seats were available for me to stretch out on. In retrospect, the availability of three seats helped justify the $1120 I'd paid for the ticket. The pampering proffered by the flight attendants, due to the light load, was an additional justification and a real kick. Frequent flyer miles I earned added substantially to the miles I'd already saved. A happy thought occurred. My 1990 Wimbledon flight might be gratis if my business travel continued.

Ahead, a small currency exchange beckoned. I strolled over and exchanged $100 U.S. for £60 of British pound sterling. I calculated the exchange rate to be $1.667 per £ counting costs. The rate information is trivial. More significant, little money-holes located in airports and train stations are expensive to do business with. You are forced to buy some currency unless you are content on staying at the airport. But don't get carried away. Deal with banks and exchange large amounts to minimize transaction charges. Also, the rate of exchange is better at banks. Holding legal tender, I moved to a breakfast bar and spent 33 pence (1/3 of a £) for a cup of hot tea with milk and sugar. I wanted to feel like a native.

Time! The English say Americans are crazy when it comes to the way we take our tea. We heat the water to make it hot. Then, we put ice in it to make it cold. Then, we put sugar in it to make it sweet. Then, we put lemon in it to make it sour. Then, we hold it up and say, "Here's to you!" Then, drink it.

I selected a table, dumped the bag, stretched my long legs, sighed loudly, waking an older gent three tables over. The tea burned my mouth so I blew, sipped and observed. Across the nearly empty terminal, I observed a sign reading British Rail Service, where I thought and hoped I might obtain an answer to a pressing question. How do I get from Gatwick to the All England Lawn Tennis & Croquet Club (AELTC) and all that tennis? I finished the tea and headed for the Information Booth, stopping briefly at the Water Closet (toilet) as it's called in 'Jolly Olde'. I would have coffee, after obtaining directions to Wimbledon, and get my 'bloody' eyes opened.

I reached the booth and popped the question. The petite lady, with a Cockney accent, politely explained: "Luv, take the Rail to Victoria Station. At Victoria, take the Underground Line to Earl's Court where you change to the Wimbledon Line. At Southfields Station, just follow the crowd."

"Ta! Luv!" I said, forcing a Cockney accent. I did a left face and headed for the rail service not sure I'd understood her directions clearly.

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as I wheeled away. My Cockney had been laced with a southern drawl. I'd traveled a short distance when the reason why the terminal was nearly empty became apparent. Half of London stood ahead, queuing for rail tickets home.

I had visited England decades earlier. Uncle Sam sent me over in '50 for two years of air force duty. I was twenty then. The world was an adventure - all fun and games - memorable. During the visit, I cultivated a fondness for the English generally. And I remembered their customs and colloquialisms, and I was looking forward to reacquainting myself with the people and their ways.

REVIEW MY BOOKS

BUY MY BOOKS