FABULOUS
WIMBLEDON
Introduction
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 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 call it.
I wish to mention
here, before I forget, that
occasionally some color and
satire have been contrived to
eliminate the banality of a few
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 a
person living or dead is purely
coincidental.
WIMBLEDON -
1997
"You queued
at Wimbledon?"
"Indubitably,
old chap! Not once, not twice,
but four straight years, starting
in 1989. And I went in 1997, but
I wasn’t hardy enough to do
the party. My aging stack of
bones rebuffed the hard pavement
paralleling Somerset Road where
half of London queues (lines) all
night for tickets."
... "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
on my one-hundredth-year. I
should wish..."
... "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 anything
and me again after standing in
line to receive my mustering out
pay. I'd had enough of the lines
to last me 'til the end of time.
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 a fabulous and
enchanting setting. However, I'm
partial to the Somerset Road
queue. The reasons will become
apparent soon.
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. 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 needed a
lifestyle change urgently.
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 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 Conners 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. If I had
given up the beer, I might've
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 doubtful if
you can drink yourself to good
health. Strenuous exercise
quickly increases the body's
HDLs. Indubitably, old chap, it's
by far the best approach. Note:
Before starting an exercise
program, consult your doctor.
Today, I own a
world-class mind atop a
seventy-four-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'll continue
playing three or four times a
week, alternating between singles
and doubles. One problem with
doubles is 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 and 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
seventy-four, my mind has to make
up for what my legs have
forgotten. And having said that,
my confidence is totally shaken,
remembering my mind is slowly
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 loss in the first round. We
ran into two young A-level
players who wanted to steal a
trophy. Old Fred will surface
again 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 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 thought the same
thing.
The match started.
At the end of two sets, they had
won one set 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
noticed 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 them closely. If we can
catch them 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 admired often.
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.
A Taste of 1991
and 1997
Beware! Wimbledon!
Walker Joe is invading the green
grass of home for a fifth time.
Late March 1997, Walker Joe, with
his wife’s, Marjorie Lee,
endorsement, attended the 1997
Lawn Tennis Championships. The
piece de resistance was that
during the 1996 Championships a
femme nude streaker appeared on
Centre Court. This provocative
act pales the memory of Gorgeous
Gussie Moran who paraded on
Centre Court wearing a pair of
risqué lacy, ruffled panties
under her tennis dress. Walker
Joe did not tell Marjorie about
the streaker. Designer and tennis
aficionado Ted Tinling, who
collected ten-quid (£) for his
trouble, had designed and sewed
the outfit. The spicy caper
almost cost him permanent
alienation from Wimbledon, the
tournament he dearly loved. The
sexy panties were labeled as
'undignified' by the Club. One
might wonder what this latest
scenario was labeled.
In regards to
Gussie's fashion statement, one
Member was reputed as having
berated Tinling at lunch.
"You have put sin and
vulgarity into tennis," he
scolded. Wonder what he would
have said to the nude streaker,
and one might wonder if any of
the Members had an inclination to
give back the box office bonanza
that followed Gussie's flamboyant
appearance. Many spectators found
her originality delightful.
Mr. Tinling
ruffled feathers of the rank and
file and became persona non grata
at Wimbeldon for 33 years, which
seems a bit excessive and harsh.
Walker Joe surmises, however,
quite typical of the Wimbledon
mind-set back then. But at a
cathedral exemplary behavior is
expected. The Club lifted the
vendetta in 1982 and appointed
him The Championships' Players
Liaison Officer and an Honorary
Member. About his appointment,
fiery John McEnroe said,
"Ted who?" Wrong! He
said: "I don't think he will
do any good for Wimbledon. I
don't think the guys even know
who he is."
By April 10,
Walker Joe had paid Virgin
Atlantic $770 for two magic
carpet rides to and from
paradise. And by the end of April
Marjorie had packed his gear. As
far as Marjorie is concerned, the
word procrastination has never
been contrived. He thought his
June departure date would never
come. Time out! In 1990, Walker
Joe paid $844 to fly over on
Virgin Atlantic. You know, the
airline that passes out these
decals: do not disturb; wake me
for duty free; wake me for meals;
wake me for sex. No one woke
Walker Joe. The reasonably priced
‘97 airline ticket enabled
him to pay for the added cost of
everything else.
Why does Walker
Joe keep going back to this
modicum of rare earth, about
thirteen plus acres 3500 miles
away? Some will tell you that
it’s over priced and Members
are pompous and snobbish. He
doesn't doubt this for one
moment, but their numbers are
few. They become lost in the
colossal gathering of hoi polloi
who find the means to afford
tickets year after year. And,
yes, it's expensive, but the
entertainment the 'Big W' serves,
with class and style, justifies
the high prices. Simply stated,
you get your money's worth.
Besides, it’s the most
prestigious tournament of them
all. And London’s frightfully
exciting Old Chap.
So, plan your
London vacation around Wimbledon.
You might consider staying in
affluent Wimbledon Village.
It’s also a charming and
safe place which is inundated
with friendly pubs and places to
eat. London is only twenty
minutes away via the Underground.
Note: Traveling around London
with a day pass will save you
considerable time and money. And
I expect the cost for a Wimbledon
Area B&B might be more
reasonable than anything you
might find downtown. In 1997 I
paid £28 each night. My B&B
connection in Wimbledon is Mrs.
Jane Scoon, tel 081-946-8491. Ask
Mrs. Scoon to place you in
Wimbledon Village if she can.
Walker Joe, a few
breaths beyond seventy-four, has
backpacked to The All England
Club seven years starting in
1989. And he’s leaning in
that direction in 1998 with
backpack, but he’s planning
to queue (line) only two nights.
Unfortunately, his fifth trip in
1997 found him physically
incapable of sleeping in the all
night queue to get those great
reserved tickets they hold back
for genuine tennis fans. But in
spite of this fact, he had a
wonderful time. He met a friendly
Steward (gate keeper) who invited
him into the new No. 1 Court
where he saw theses matches: Greg
Rusedski (GBR) v Jonathan Stark
(USA) and Pete Sampras (USA) v
Hendrik Dreekmann (GER).
Actually, he was kind to Walker
Joe twice. They have a heart the
size of a watermelon.
The Greg Rusedski
showcase match was a second round
match. He played inspired tennis
to beat our man Jonathan Stark in
five, hard-fought, close sets.
Greg had lost the first two sets
and had to fight back. He won
three straight sets to claim
victory. The fifth set was a
marathon event that went to 11/9,
during which the Brits cheered
out of control for every
advantageous play their man
Rusedski executed. The atmosphere
was electrified.
Walker Joe was
sitting on the edge of his seat
when our man 'Pistol Pete' and
Dreekmann entered. After the
usual five minute warmup, three
explosive sets followed. Pete
provided most of the TNT, but the
German wasn't too shabby. Scores:
7/6 (7-2), 7/5, 7/5. It seemed
apparent to Walker Joe that Pete
was the man to beat, and it
proved true. He had watched
Pioline, the Frenchman Pete
annihilated in the final, play a
New Zealander named Brett Steven
on Court 18, a new court, proving
a cheap Ground Pass ($11) is a
ticket to excitement especially
during the early rounds.
Here’s the
other interesting matches Walker
Joe witnessed: Pete Sampras v
Petr Korda, the first two sets:
Mary Pierce v Ruano Pascual,
Richard Krajicek (1996 Champion)
v David Riki; the Woodies (five
consecutive double Championships)
v Knippschild & Tarrango
(he's the hothead who called the
umpire corrupt and was fined
£18,000 (his winnings), Hingis
(number one in the world) &
Vicario v McCarthy & Rubin,
and Miss Martina Hingis play
singles and mixed doubles.
Incidentally, installing a large
mirror on court for Mary Pierce
was a generous gesture.
Mary’s amour propre is
nonpareil.
If Walker Joe had
to choose one day to tell about,
it would be Thursday, July 4,
1991. He woke up at Mrs. Jackie
Dodd’s B&B.He gazed out
the window on this beautiful,
sunny, Independence day. He had
missed many parades and tons of
pyrotechnics over the last three
years, but the pyrotechnics
’The Big-W' sparks had
proven to be a tolerable trade
off. Then he dressed in tennis
attire and strolled downstairs
for breakfast. Good mornings were
exchanged, and he took a seat
across from Paul, Jackie’s
husband. Mrs. Dodd served him
orange juice, coffee, eggs, bacon
and toast, and he paid her £22
($37) for the B&B. After
thanking this warm-blooded Irish
duo, and he was off to the
kingdom of tennis.
A more gorgeous
day would be an impossibility for
London. Walker Joe whistled while
he walked. He was filled with
hope, joy and anticipation. He
wondered why he'd been frightened
the night before when he had
walked this way at midnight after
having Indian food for the first
time. Of course, the midnight air
and dancing shadows can stimulate
thoughts of utter horror in a
city that produced Jack the
Ripper. The dependable
double-decker bus was waiting.
The fare was still 40p (70 cents)
and there were only a few
passengers aboard. This was a
hopeful sign. When no queue
materialized along Church Road,
his insides started churning from
excitement, realizing a great
ticket might be available.
Reaching the
ticket gate, he asked the young
lady, "Got any tickets,
Luv?"
"Yes, sir. We
have No. 1 Court tickets for £18
($30)," she replied with a
warm smile.
"Who's
playing?"
"The first
match features Edberg against
Champion and then Becker plays
Forget."
Walker Joe wanted
to believe his ears. She was
offering a ticket to watch the
numbers one and two seeds play
the French connection in a
quarter-final match for a measly
$30. This quarter-final match is
normally played on Wednesday (the
rain delays had caused this) and
the price would have been $50.
Furthermore, he would have needed
to queue all night to get it.
Now, Walker Joe knew Somebody in
heaven was looking out for him.
Without any further hesitation,
he passed the price of the ticket
to the patient lady and was off
to Left Luggage to park his
backpack.
Play was scheduled
to start at 12:00 P.M. No time
remained to dilly dally about.
So, Walker Joe headed for Gangway
4 in the southwest corner. He
reached Row U, Seat 012, after an
eleven minute journey. He could
have made it in about seven
minutes had he not detoured by
the Long Bar for a pint of
bitters. He'd brought the beer
along in a tall cup being really
careful not to spill a drop. The
seat was only one tier up. It was
yet another fine seat with a
grassy view. Incredible!
A party of
middle-aged English ladies, who
played, sat to his right, and
Kaye and Roger Bacon from
Houston, Texas, sat on his left.
The English ladies played
regularly at their club. Kaye was
a player also and she was
excited. This was her first
Wimbledon. They had been very
lucky to get these seats, but
were unaware of this fact. Roger
was a golfer, and he had already
knocked himself out playing golf
in Scotland where the couple had
visited before coming to London.
Roger was so excited he napped
frequently.
The roar of the
crowd, welcoming Stefan Edberg
and Thierry Champion, woke Mr.
Bacon, and he managed to stay
alert until the five minute
warmup was over. Edberg served
and volleyed brilliantly to take
the first two sets. In the third
set, the momentum shifted to
Champion. After Champion
stretched his lead to 5-4, and
had won the first two points of
Edberg's serve, Edberg advanced
his throttle and won three games
in a row, dashing the Frenchman's
hopes. Scores were 6-3, 6-2, 7-5.
Edberg played some solid tennis.
So, what’s new? It's
Stefan's consistency, coupled
with his intense desire, that
makes him such a great player.
Boris Becker and
Guy Forget entered and were
greeted with loud applause. The
Wimbledon fans are the most
vociferous in the world. After
the warmup, Becker and Forget
squared off for the battle.
Forget had many chances to get on
top and stay there, but he kept
choking on the big points. Four
times in the tantalizing fourth
set tie-break, Forget had a
chance to take the match to a
fifth set, but could not convert
. . not once. Walker Joe believes
Becker was pulled from the jaws
of the whale many times by Divine
guidance. And Forget was a trifle
unlucky. Becker was extremely
cruel to himself both verbally
and physically. Twice he was
treated for flesh wounds on his
right knee. The match had been
stupendous. The final set scores
were 6-7, 7-6, 6-2, 7-6
The two
quarter-final matches had been
sensational and the price a real
bargain. This was a suitable
finale to another fabulous trip
to the second week of Wimbledon.
Reflecting on the events of the
week, Walker Joe’s gut feel
that the rains would alter the
destiny of Wimbledon had come
true. He was already thinking
about 1992 and the Somerset Road
queue, his spot at the end of a
rainbow. Should Wimbledon run
true to form, Walker Joe could
expect 1992 to yield many
delightful surprises. Yes,
Gump, Wimbledon is a box of
chocolate.
If you play the
game, you should treat yourself
to at least one Wimbledon. If you
think you are hardy enough to do
the party, backpack and save $60
each night you sleep in the
queue. It’s the only way to
get a regular priced reserved
ticket. Wimbledon provides
adequate facilities for the fans
who queue. If you don’t
play, treat yourself to the great
history, culture and
entertainment London offers. But
plan it during the Wimbledon
fortnight and drop out about noon
one day and buy a ticket for the
grounds ($12). The first week
would be the best time.
You’ll find some great
tennis inside and the
international flavor is quite
palatable. Then there’s the
wonderful smell of hops that
permeates the air near the Long
Bar. This year the tournament
runs from June 22 to July 5. Make
an early commitment to go and
save on air fare.
Walker Joe figured
his 1991 expenses: Airline ticket
$670 purchased several months in
advance during an airline price
war, food $140, 2 bed and
breakfast accommodations $75,
transportation $40, 1 Centre
Court ticket and 3 No. 1 Court
tickets $170, entertainment and
miscellaneous ($85). Are four
fabulous days at Wimbledon and
one lush pub crawl worth $1180?
My ten day trip in 1997 cost
$1570 but my B&B expenses
were really high. I only slept in
the queue one night. Did I say
slept? I only closed my eyes for
about two hours.
This
illustrated travel adventure is
available as a CD in HTML format.
I will mail it to any address in
the Continental US after
recieving a check for $7.49. It's
absolutely unique. If you aren't
pleased email me and I'll return
your money. Send check to:
Walker Jackson
617 Ivy Drive
Sebring, FL 33876
Persons outside
the USA can contact me at walker@walkerjackson.com and we can talk
about it.
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