Salon Wanderlust | Letter from Wimbledon

[Salon Wanderlust: Travel with a passion]

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R E C E N T L Y

The Cup runneth over and over
By Ethan Zindler
Professional scalpers and amateur partyers in Marseille
(07/07/98)
World Cup scenes
By Matthew McAllester
Passion and indifference mix in rural France
(07/07/98)
Hog heaven
By David Kohn
At the Memphis World Championship Barbecue Cooking Contest
(07/03/98)
Mondo Weirdo
Nude Beach of the Week
Readers bare all on an isolated Maui beach -- and in the heart of Munich
(07/03/98)
Yankee, go home!
By Michaela Griffin
Being an American expatriate in Beijing was great -- until the president's visit
(07/02/98)

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LETTER FROM WIMBLEDON | PAGE 1, 2
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
As I arrived at Gate 1 on my second day at the All England Club, I found myself staring at a tall, majestic-looking Jamaican man in a gray top hat. He was collecting for charity, and as the crowd shuffled past him, people would drop a coin in the tin he held out for the victims of cancer. With his crinkly, white beard, fine features and sensual mouth, he looked like one of the ancient kings of Ethiopia.
"Is that a real beard?" I asked.
"Tug it and see," said the man, with a grin. So I did. It was. We laughed. Only in England ...
What impressed me most about the man was not his beard, though, but his magnificent, scarlet "mess" jacket, an ornamental jacket that officers used to wear to dinner in Kipling's day. It had gold braid on the shoulders, and a panel of black silk lined with brass buttons at the back.
Wimbledon highlights the British love of uniforms, insignia and military regalia of all kinds. Only here will you find yourself being shown to your seat by an elderly man hung with gold braid and medals, who looks as though he has just arrived back from the Crimean War. But as well as these volunteers from the so-called Corps of Commissioners, there are dozens of uniforms, both on and off the court: from the olive green blazers of the line judges, to the dark blue jackets and trousers of the London Fire Brigade (who puts out the fires while they do crowd control?), to the purple and green shirts of the ball boys and girls. Guarding the entrance to the Clubhouse were people in four different uniforms, including that of the Royal Air Force (gray jacket and trousers) and the army (khaki jacket and trousers).
As you would expect in England, a complex web of social distinctions operates at Wimbledon as well. At the top of the tree is, of course, royalty. There has been a royal connection ever since 1895, when the Crown Princess Stephanie of Austria and her beau, Prince Batthyany Strattman, came to watch the Gentleman's Doubles Challenge Round. Today, the President of the Club is H.R.H the Duke of Kent K.G, G.C.M.G, G.C.V.O, A.D.C., on the shoulder of whose gracious wife, the Duchess of Kent, Jana Novotna wept so touchingly. Past vice presidents have included Air Chief Marshal Sir Brian K. Burnett, G.C.B, D.F.C, A.F.C., R.A.F (ret'd), and the Marquis of Zetland.
Below these acronym-heavy hitters come the 375 members of the All England Club and the 200 or so temporary members. These typically include VIPs from the world of sport, such as the chairman of the Olympic Committee, Juan Zamaranch, and icons of the British entertainment world like Sir Cliff Richard, the singer, who has become something of a Wimbledon mascot (Mick Jagger would never, ever be offered temporary membership). On days when play is rained off, Sir Cliff is wheeled out to keep the soggy fans happy.
Below them are the 2,100 Debenture Holders. Issuing debentures, which cost 9,900 pounds and entitle the holder to a reserved seat for five years, is one of the ways the All England Club generates revenue (the last debenture, for the years 1996-2000, raised 35 million pounds) for expansion and improvements.
When they are not watching tennis, Debenture Holders can use their own, exclusive lounge, on the north side of Centre Court. Opposite, on the south side of Centre Court, is the inner sanctum of the All England Club, the Members' Clubhouse, where, on the upstairs balcony, sprightly septuagenarians in Moss Bros. suits and ladies in hats savor their complimentary cream teas and a bird's-eye view of Courts 3 and 4. Below them, on the South Concourse, Joe and Joanna Public jostle their way along the South Concourse in search of Guinness or strawberries (and often both together) at what is still, quaintly, called The Tea Lawn, though there has not been a lawn here since 1985 when the grass was paved over.
The buzz on the afternoon I mingled with the crowd, pressed against the railings in front of the Clubhouse, was that either Will Smith or Prince Charles was about to come out. Korean tourists with Nikons mingled with shopgirls from Huddersfield. There were dowdy middle-aged women from the Home Counties with Marks and Spencer shopping bags, and Beautiful Young Things in Versace jeans. But there was no Will Smith, and no Prince Charlie. There was only a luxury taxi ("First Class to Wimbledon" said a sticker above the windshield), which pulled up in front of the Clubhouse. It waited for several minutes, then drove off again. The Italian girl in front of me excitedly said I had nearly seen Pete Sampras.
Later that afternoon, I made my way down to the practice courts in Aorangi Park, in the northeast corner of the complex. There are 14 of them in all, and in the morning, before play starts, the walkway along the back of the lower three courts is jammed with spectators as the likes of Monica Seles, Pete Sampras and Mark Philippoussis work out. In the afternoon the crowds thin out and you can watch from behind the fence, only a few feet behind the baseline. As I arrived, Mirjana Lucic, one of the current crop of teenage stars, was hitting with a young Hungarian girl who was getting ready for the Junior Tournament. They practiced serve and volley. Usually, they both ended up at the net, trading volleys at close range, the ball pinging back and forth at eye-popping speed.
Explaining that I was writing an article about Wimbledon, I asked Lucic, as she walked off the court, if she would mind chatting with me for a few minutes. With a chilly smile, the 15-year-old, no. 47 in the world, said, "I can't speak to anyone without asking my manager." Then she disappeared up the stairs to the Competitor's Pavilion. A few minutes later, a portly, middle-aged man with long, lank black hair and a broad, Slavic face, came down the steps in a white track suit top and shorts.
Lucic was not even born when this man played Connors and Borg on the Centre Court, and many of the brat pack would not even know his name or care who he was. But in his day he was not only one of the greatest players in the world, he was also its greatest entertainer, a man who made us weep with laughter as he cavorted about the grass, pulled faces or jumped into the stands.
"Mr. Nastase,"I said, extending my hand. "This is a great honor."
He eyed me quizzically.
"I am from the press ..."
"You're depressed ?" he said with a quick grin.
Ilye Nastase did not talk for long, but the difference between his attitude and Lucic's was like the difference between night and day. But then again, he comes from a more innocent era, a time when people played the game because that was just what they did, and loved to do: a time before entrepreneurs like Phil Knight and Rupert Murdoch began to feed off, and orchestrate, our love of sports (not because they love sports, but because they love our money). And though he was an extreme case, Ilye Nastase's happy-go-lucky attitude makes a telling contrast to the grim seriousness and obsessive image control that is squeezing the fun out of today's game. More than anything, it is the pressure of money. Soaring prizes (this year, the winner of the men's singles at Wimbledon will take home a cool 435,000 pounds) and the immense subsidiary earnings to be made from endorsements mean that there are big bucks at stake every time a player hits a ball. And that makes it hard to enjoy playing tennis.
After Nastase left, a group of young, male players came onto the practice courts. None of them was famous. All of them were amazingly good. And with no pressure on them, and, above all, no money to win or lose, they could play with happy abandon. For half an hour, they did, for real, what a bare-chested Pete Sampras, in that famous ad, is paid millions of dollars by Nike to pretend: that he is just a kid having fun bashing a ball about a court. They burped and roared. They hit balls against the fence or bounced them on their heads, like soccer players. They cussed and pulled faces. They tumbled about on the grass. As one of them missed a shot, he belted a ball 50 feet into the air. While it hung above Wimbledon, a yellow spot against a sea of clouds, they even did something you almost never see anyone do on the tour these days. They laughed.
SALON | July 8, 1998
Simon Worrall writes for a number of British and American publications, including Condé Nast Traveler, Harper's and Queens. He played in the Junior Tournament at Wimbledon in the 1960s, but never made it to Centre Court.


	T A B L E_T A L K Calling all expats! Share your tales of living abroad in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk R E C E N T L Y The Cup runneth over and over By Ethan Zindler Professional scalpers and amateur partyers in Marseille (07/07/98) World Cup scenes By Matthew McAllester Passion and indifference mix in rural France (07/07/98) Hog heaven By David Kohn At the Memphis World Championship Barbecue Cooking Contest (07/03/98) Mondo Weirdo Nude Beach of the Week Readers bare all on an isolated Maui beach -- and in the heart of Munich (07/03/98) Yankee, go home! By Michaela Griffin Being an American expatriate in Beijing was great -- until the president's visit (07/02/98) Browse the Wanderlust Postmark archives		LETTER FROM WIMBLEDON \| PAGE 1, 2 - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - As I arrived at Gate 1 on my second day at the All England Club, I found myself staring at a tall, majestic-looking Jamaican man in a gray top hat. He was collecting for charity, and as the crowd shuffled past him, people would drop a coin in the tin he held out for the victims of cancer. With his crinkly, white beard, fine features and sensual mouth, he looked like one of the ancient kings of Ethiopia. "Is that a real beard?" I asked. "Tug it and see," said the man, with a grin. So I did. It was. We laughed. Only in England ... What impressed me most about the man was not his beard, though, but his magnificent, scarlet "mess" jacket, an ornamental jacket that officers used to wear to dinner in Kipling's day. It had gold braid on the shoulders, and a panel of black silk lined with brass buttons at the back. Wimbledon highlights the British love of uniforms, insignia and military regalia of all kinds. Only here will you find yourself being shown to your seat by an elderly man hung with gold braid and medals, who looks as though he has just arrived back from the Crimean War. But as well as these volunteers from the so-called Corps of Commissioners, there are dozens of uniforms, both on and off the court: from the olive green blazers of the line judges, to the dark blue jackets and trousers of the London Fire Brigade (who puts out the fires while they do crowd control?), to the purple and green shirts of the ball boys and girls. Guarding the entrance to the Clubhouse were people in four different uniforms, including that of the Royal Air Force (gray jacket and trousers) and the army (khaki jacket and trousers). As you would expect in England, a complex web of social distinctions operates at Wimbledon as well. At the top of the tree is, of course, royalty. There has been a royal connection ever since 1895, when the Crown Princess Stephanie of Austria and her beau, Prince Batthyany Strattman, came to watch the Gentleman's Doubles Challenge Round. Today, the President of the Club is H.R.H the Duke of Kent K.G, G.C.M.G, G.C.V.O, A.D.C., on the shoulder of whose gracious wife, the Duchess of Kent, Jana Novotna wept so touchingly. Past vice presidents have included Air Chief Marshal Sir Brian K. Burnett, G.C.B, D.F.C, A.F.C., R.A.F (ret'd), and the Marquis of Zetland. Below these acronym-heavy hitters come the 375 members of the All England Club and the 200 or so temporary members. These typically include VIPs from the world of sport, such as the chairman of the Olympic Committee, Juan Zamaranch, and icons of the British entertainment world like Sir Cliff Richard, the singer, who has become something of a Wimbledon mascot (Mick Jagger would never, ever be offered temporary membership). On days when play is rained off, Sir Cliff is wheeled out to keep the soggy fans happy. Below them are the 2,100 Debenture Holders. Issuing debentures, which cost 9,900 pounds and entitle the holder to a reserved seat for five years, is one of the ways the All England Club generates revenue (the last debenture, for the years 1996-2000, raised 35 million pounds) for expansion and improvements. When they are not watching tennis, Debenture Holders can use their own, exclusive lounge, on the north side of Centre Court. Opposite, on the south side of Centre Court, is the inner sanctum of the All England Club, the Members' Clubhouse, where, on the upstairs balcony, sprightly septuagenarians in Moss Bros. suits and ladies in hats savor their complimentary cream teas and a bird's-eye view of Courts 3 and 4. Below them, on the South Concourse, Joe and Joanna Public jostle their way along the South Concourse in search of Guinness or strawberries (and often both together) at what is still, quaintly, called The Tea Lawn, though there has not been a lawn here since 1985 when the grass was paved over. The buzz on the afternoon I mingled with the crowd, pressed against the railings in front of the Clubhouse, was that either Will Smith or Prince Charles was about to come out. Korean tourists with Nikons mingled with shopgirls from Huddersfield. There were dowdy middle-aged women from the Home Counties with Marks and Spencer shopping bags, and Beautiful Young Things in Versace jeans. But there was no Will Smith, and no Prince Charlie. There was only a luxury taxi ("First Class to Wimbledon" said a sticker above the windshield), which pulled up in front of the Clubhouse. It waited for several minutes, then drove off again. The Italian girl in front of me excitedly said I had nearly seen Pete Sampras. Later that afternoon, I made my way down to the practice courts in Aorangi Park, in the northeast corner of the complex. There are 14 of them in all, and in the morning, before play starts, the walkway along the back of the lower three courts is jammed with spectators as the likes of Monica Seles, Pete Sampras and Mark Philippoussis work out. In the afternoon the crowds thin out and you can watch from behind the fence, only a few feet behind the baseline. As I arrived, Mirjana Lucic, one of the current crop of teenage stars, was hitting with a young Hungarian girl who was getting ready for the Junior Tournament. They practiced serve and volley. Usually, they both ended up at the net, trading volleys at close range, the ball pinging back and forth at eye-popping speed. Explaining that I was writing an article about Wimbledon, I asked Lucic, as she walked off the court, if she would mind chatting with me for a few minutes. With a chilly smile, the 15-year-old, no. 47 in the world, said, "I can't speak to anyone without asking my manager." Then she disappeared up the stairs to the Competitor's Pavilion. A few minutes later, a portly, middle-aged man with long, lank black hair and a broad, Slavic face, came down the steps in a white track suit top and shorts. Lucic was not even born when this man played Connors and Borg on the Centre Court, and many of the brat pack would not even know his name or care who he was. But in his day he was not only one of the greatest players in the world, he was also its greatest entertainer, a man who made us weep with laughter as he cavorted about the grass, pulled faces or jumped into the stands. "Mr. Nastase,"I said, extending my hand. "This is a great honor." He eyed me quizzically. "I am from the press ..." "You're depressed ?" he said with a quick grin. Ilye Nastase did not talk for long, but the difference between his attitude and Lucic's was like the difference between night and day. But then again, he comes from a more innocent era, a time when people played the game because that was just what they did, and loved to do: a time before entrepreneurs like Phil Knight and Rupert Murdoch began to feed off, and orchestrate, our love of sports (not because they love sports, but because they love our money). And though he was an extreme case, Ilye Nastase's happy-go-lucky attitude makes a telling contrast to the grim seriousness and obsessive image control that is squeezing the fun out of today's game. More than anything, it is the pressure of money. Soaring prizes (this year, the winner of the men's singles at Wimbledon will take home a cool 435,000 pounds) and the immense subsidiary earnings to be made from endorsements mean that there are big bucks at stake every time a player hits a ball. And that makes it hard to enjoy playing tennis. After Nastase left, a group of young, male players came onto the practice courts. None of them was famous. All of them were amazingly good. And with no pressure on them, and, above all, no money to win or lose, they could play with happy abandon. For half an hour, they did, for real, what a bare-chested Pete Sampras, in that famous ad, is paid millions of dollars by Nike to pretend: that he is just a kid having fun bashing a ball about a court. They burped and roared. They hit balls against the fence or bounced them on their heads, like soccer players. They cussed and pulled faces. They tumbled about on the grass. As one of them missed a shot, he belted a ball 50 feet into the air. While it hung above Wimbledon, a yellow spot against a sea of clouds, they even did something you almost never see anyone do on the tour these days. They laughed. SALON \| July 8, 1998 Simon Worrall writes for a number of British and American publications, including Condé Nast Traveler, Harper's and Queens. He played in the Junior Tournament at Wimbledon in the 1960s, but never made it to Centre Court.