FABULOUS WIMBLEDON

THE OLD MAN WHO QUEUED

PROLOGUE

"You queued at Wimbledon? Indubitably, old chap!"

"Not once, not twice, but four straight years, starting in 1989. And I went in 1997 and 1998, but I wasn’t hardy enough to do the party. My old tired sack of bones couldn’t take the hard pavement paralleling Somerset Road where half of London queues all night for tickets. Simply put, I couldn’t sleep all night in a ‘bloody’ queue."

... "Yes, they have tickets. But you have to sleep all night in a queue to buy one. I think I just said that."

... "Yes, I'll return! Maybe I’ll go in 2000 if the world doesn’t blow up, planes don’t fly backward, and computers function. I can’t afford a trip this year.

... "Yes, I'm crazy."

The U.S. Air Force and I separated company more than four decades ago after an association of three years, eight months, ten days, two hours, twenty minutes and ten seconds. I loved it. Lines were a way of life. There were lines for pay, chow, sick-call, mail-call, clean linen, the head and a few that are off limits. I swore a line would never come between me and anything soft after standing in line to receive my mustering out pay. I'd had enough of lines to last eons.

I lied. In '89 I fell in love with a line, or queue, the name used by the English. They have a few more queer and spicy colloquialisms I promise to mention later, so keep reading. The queue materializes late June along Somerset Road, which runs the west side of Wimbledon, the grand daddy and most prestigious of all tennis tournaments. The queue stands between you and a highly coveted ticket to view the most inspired and exciting tennis you'll enjoy on this planet. There's another queue for the same purpose. It forms on Church Road and runs the east side of Wimbledon. Both queues offer the promise of exciting tennis in an absolutely fabulous and enchanting setting. However, I'm partial to the Somerset Road queue. The reasons will become apparent soon.

These Wimbledon stories are factual experiences of a tennis aficionado (nut) who fell in love with tennis after reaching the ripe age of forty-nine. This fact bears significantly upon the creation of the essay I, Walker Joe Jackson, feel compelled to tell. If the wonderful game of tennis had not discovered me, 'The Queue' would still be a mystery, and I would have been denied the pleasures of Wimbledon. Will I go again? The question is not, will I, but when? You judge if $1,600 is too extravagant for a nine-day sojourn to the 'Big W', as I affectionately calls it.

I wish to mention here, before I forget, that occasionally some color and satire have been contrived to eliminate the banality of some of the sketches and characters. It's especially true in my case. However, all events and circumstances mentioned actually happened. If I said I did it, I did it. If I said I saw it, I saw it. However, any resemblance of persons living or dead are purely coincidental.

Let me put the story in prospective: I moved my family to Palm Beach County, Florida, from Cincinnati, Ohio, where I worked for General Electric, or Generous Electric I'd say with a grin, or was it chagrin. I spent thirteen years toiling on their behalf, and for the sweat I spilled, I receive a monthly pension check for $199.28. To spite them, I’m striving to live a century, and if I succeed, they'll have paid me $90,871.68. The pension doesn't sound so paltry when you think about it that way.

I’d acquired a job with Pratt & Whitney, a company that designs and develops jet engines the same as GE. Yes, I jumped ship and joined the competition. I’d worked for Pratt in the early sixties as an engineer, helping develop the engine for the Black Bird, the reconnaissance aircraft that holds the world record for height and speed. I was drawn back to South Florida because the temperate climate supports outdoor activities all year. I hoped to find a year-round activity that would help me improve my health. I urgently needed a lifestyle change.

My forty-ninth birthday had been celebrated in July. Physically, I was in pitiful condition, weighing a hefty 238 pounds. Oink! Oink! Gasoline had become astronomically expensive due to the oil embargo in 1979. To save money, I purchased a bicycle and biked a few miles each day to and from work. Biking was fun. Soon I added fifty miles a week to my exercise routine when I started biking to the Atlantic Ocean and the pounds commenced to disappear. I would have lost more lard had I not stopped at Portifino's, an Italian Cuisine with sidewalk tables, just across from the beach and drank two draft beers. One beer was enjoyed while watching the bikini clad femmes playing volleyball. The second was to build the courage for the five-mile trek home. My transition from lard to hard, and the improved lifestyle I so desperately wanted and needed, had begun. Another thing, I thank the Arabian Oil Cartel and 'Big-Oil' whose astronomical price increases provoked my frugal nature.

My next courageous move was to dust off my T-2000 racquet. It's the one Jimmy Conner made famous. I shelled out money for membership in the local tennis club and started playing the game. Over the next six months, my new lifestyle abetted the loss of 53 pounds of ugly lard. My physical condition and tennis skills improved, and I started playing local tournaments with a newly acquired mid-size racquet. My love affair with the game had begun. Incidentally, the new racquet cured my tennis elbow. How ‘Jimbo’ played with that metal monstrosity so long is beyond me. Maybe it was because the Wilson people were paying him big change.

Interestingly, my diet was not changed an iota. As the weight disappeared, my stomach shrank and my hunger became less insatiable. I continued drinking a few beers after playing tennis. I is certain, if I had I given up the beer, I might have dried up to nothing and blown away. Quite unbelievably beer increases the HDLs, the good cholesterol; however, I'm not recommending beer for that purpose. It’s really doubtful if you can drink yourself to good health. Strenuous exercise quickly increases the bodies HDLs. Indubitably, old chap, it's by far the best approach. Note: Before starting an exercise program, consult your doctor.

Today I think I have a world-class mind atop a sixty-nine-year-old body. How do I figure that? Well, it takes about thirteen years to put the game together and I've been playing longer than that. Unfortunately, now that I've developed the physical and mental skills to play respectably, my knobby knees have gone south of the border. This is a serious development. You know, the knees are the first parts to go and everything else follows soon after. Consequently, I've made changes.

I’m going to change to clay. It is suppose to be easier on the joints. I'll continue playing three or four times a week, but I play more doubles. However, doubles has several disadvantages, getting four players together at the same time. Another is finding a partner who can carry you. Yet another is finding four players who are equally skilled. If you fail and happen to be the stronger player, they don't hit you the ball. It's a little like playing solitaire. Of course, I don’t have that problem. For someone my age, the obstacles with singles are too numerous to mention, but I still play even though I hurt.

As the hair line grays, recedes, and the wrinkles deepen, court coverage becomes more difficult. Playing doubles becomes the sensible choice. I think playing doubles is more fun than playing golf. But you'll have a hard time convincing a golfer. However, I can say, without fear of contradiction, you get more exercise playing tennis and the green fees are cheaper. Think about it?

I’m trying to play smarter these days and enjoying some success. At sixty-eight, my mind has to make up for what my legs have forgotten. And having said that, my confidence is shaken remembering my mind is turning to mush. You know what they say? "Deception and cunning will win over youth and vigor every time." Believe it! And having said that, I'm mindful of a B-level tournament Old Fred and I teamed up to play. We lost in the first round. We ran into two young A-level players who wanted to steal a trophy. Old Fred will surface aaaagain later.

First round losers get to play in the consolation draw, so we were still alive for that. After winning two matches, we were pitted, in the trophy match, against two twin brothers who were seventeen years old. Well, they took a few looks at our gray hair, wrinkles, and were thinking where the trophies would be placed in their trophy case, but Fred and I were thinking the same thing.

The match started. At the end of two sets, they had won one and we had won as many; both were hard-fought, close sets and tempers flared often. I made a mental note that confrontation detracted from their game, and earlier, I'd noted one of the lads foot-faulted often.

The third and deciding set was a seesaw battle that went to a tiebreaker. Before the tiebreaker started, Fred and I had a powwow. "Fred, the twin with the big mouth foot-faults, but not flagrantly, so I haven't been calling it. Watch him closely. If we can catch him foot-faulting, we could win an easy point and they'll lose their heads." Well, at five points all, Fred called foot-fault on a second serve.

All hell broke loose: "No! Way! How can you see my foot from there? You're blind. You're trying to steal the match and on and on." So we relented. We allowed him another second serve. Guess what? The kid served a fault. Now we were ahead 6-5, My serve. I served a deep bullet to the kid’s backhand. The lad netted the return. Old Fred and I walked away with the consolation trophy. It sits in my bedroom covered with dust, but relished none the less.

Now you know more than you did about Walker Joe, who was a few decades late discovering this terrific game called tennis. Knowing these exciting facts, you are primed to better appreciate where the Wimbledon story comes from. My tennis loving heart.

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