Salon Wanderlust | Wimbledon's grand finale

[Salon Wanderlust: Travel with a passion]

A L S O _T O D A Y

Dancing in the streets
By Ethan Zindler
Dancing in the streets -- Paris celebrates the World Cup

T A B L E_T A L K
Is train travel the best way to experience Europe? Share your thoughts in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk

R E C E N T L Y

My Serengeti crapshoot
By Rajiv Rao
The safari was spectacular -- until lions took over the outhouse
(07/10/98)
Mondo Weirdo
It's a jungle out there: The naked truth about the best nude beaches
(07/10/98)
The Grand Eurotrash World Cup Bar Tour
By Gary Kamiya
To catch World Cup fever in America, you've got to find the rest of the world. That's why God invented bars
(07/09/98)
Letter from Wimbledon
By Simon Worrall
Of mice and mist and other misadventures
(07/08/98)
The Cup runneth over and over
By Ethan Zindler
Professional scalpers and amateur partyers in Marseille
(07/07/98)

Browse the
Wanderlust Postmark archives

LETTER FROM WIMBLEDON | PAGE 1, 2, 3
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
More than three decades ago, I reached the second round of Junior Wimbledon. So on the last day of the tournament, I went to see the finals of the Juniors. On the way, I stopped into the Conservatory Buffet for a cream tea. For one pound, 85 pence, the scones could have been a bit bigger (they were the size of walnuts), but the tea was good and strong, the Baxter's strawberry preserve ("from the Highlands of Scotland") was delicious and the Cornish clotted cream made by Rodda's ("cream makers since 1890") had, as promised on the plastic tub, a thick, golden crust. You could always get cream teas at Wimbledon. But up until a few years ago, that, and a glass of warm beer, was about all you could get. Today, in the Food Village below the recently revamped Court One, you can get charcoal grilled steaks, Chinese and Italian food, V2 vodka and martinis (in bottles), and the beer is chilled.
In the shopping arcades under Court One you can buy Waterford crystal, straw hats and everything to do with tennis from Shetland wool sweaters to tennis ball-shaped truffle chocolates. There are post offices and banks, souvenir shops and photo developers. At a booth opposite, you can get printouts of match statistics or, at the click of a mouse, run footage of famous matches of the past.
The upgrading, and expansion, of the facilities at Wimbledon (extensive building is currently under way in preparation for the 2000 championships) mirrors the general reinvention of England. The economy is booming. Everyone seems to be flush with money (Wimbledon was awash with cell phones, most of them carried by teenagers). The mood is upbeat and confident.
Tennis has dramatically changed, too. When I played, Junior Wimbledon was merely the climax of the English tennis calendar. These days, it draws the finest young players from all over the world. Watching Karen Srebotnik, a pixy-faced Slovenian who also played doubles in the main draw, win the Girls' Junior final, I realized that, if I were playing it today, I would not even make the first round. Of the girls' tournament.
Watching the Juniors also confirmed something that I had heard at the Bollettieri Academy recently, that the future stars of tennis are almost all from Russia and Central Europe -- above all, the Balkans. Many are the children of parents who were athletes themselves. All, like Seles before them, have a burning hunger to succeed. Tennis is a ticket to ride, an exit pass out of war and poverty. "In America, tennis players tend to be kids of rich parents who have a court in the backyard," a young headhunter from Nike told me as we watched Srebotnik battle it out with Kim Clijsters, a boxy, 15-year-old from Belgium. Both wore Nike gear.
Were they under contract? I asked the headhunter. "In a manner of speaking," he replied, evasively. "But you know, if the kid is from the Ukraine or somewhere, there is not going to be so much interest. They are just not going to generate the sales."
At least he was honest.
My week at Wimbledon ended on the Hill in Aorangi Park, behind Court One, where I watched Ivanisevic battle it out against Pete Sampras on the giant TV screen that was erected in 1990, and has since become one of Wimbledon's best-known landmarks (a favorite photo op for tourists is to stand on the Hill, with the giant screen in the background).
On the other side of London, 100,000 teenagers were packed into Hyde Park for a rock concert in aid of the Prince's Trust (the next day, Prince Charles was shown with his arm around the lead singer of Britain's latest girl band, All Saints). And it felt like a rock concert on the Hill, too. In the distance, you could see the church steeples and red roofs of London. Here, every inch of the grass was packed as about 2,000 mostly young people sat in the sun watching a Godzilla-sized Ivanisevic try to write his name into the history books.
The Hill was a good place to observe another aspect of the social revolution that has turned London into what Vanity Fair recently dubbed the coolest city on the planet: the erotic awakening of the British female. Gone are the days when we looked with envy at the Germans and Scandinavians for their liberated attitude toward sex, and English girls were demure roses who blushed at the mention of coitus. Today, they are the cheekiest, most promiscuous, most self-confident young women in Europe. On the Hill, they sat cross-legged on the grass or lay sprawled on blankets, dressed in skimpy halter tops that showed off both their breasts and the studs in their navels to the best advantage, drinking Becks or champagne and, in some cases, indulging in public displays of affection, with both male and female partners, that even 10 years ago would have been unthinkable in prim, self-conscious Britain.
There was no doubt who the kids on the Hill wanted to win. Every time Ivanisevic won a point, a great cheer went up, just as, the day before, they had cheered on another serial loser, Jana Novotna -- who, in the most emotional match of this tournament, had finally made her Wimbledon dream come true.
What Ivanisevic said as he sat, brokenhearted, muttering into the sweat-soaked towel he had draped over his head after losing to Sampras -- whether it was a Croatian curse, 10 Hail Marys or a long, rambling vow to come back next year and avenge his defeat -- we will never know. But it was all over. The covers came on for the last time. The line judges said goodbye to each other till next year. A shiny black Jaguar, escorted by three motorcycle outriders, swept up to the ivy-covered Clubhouse, collected the Duke and Duchess of Kent. And for the last time, until next year, the crowds trudged, tired but happy, back down Church Road, and into the gloaming.
SALON | July 13, 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.


	A L S O _T O D A Y Dancing in the streets By Ethan Zindler Dancing in the streets -- Paris celebrates the World Cup T A B L E_T A L K Is train travel the best way to experience Europe? Share your thoughts in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk R E C E N T L Y My Serengeti crapshoot By Rajiv Rao The safari was spectacular -- until lions took over the outhouse (07/10/98) Mondo Weirdo It's a jungle out there: The naked truth about the best nude beaches (07/10/98) The Grand Eurotrash World Cup Bar Tour By Gary Kamiya To catch World Cup fever in America, you've got to find the rest of the world. That's why God invented bars (07/09/98) Letter from Wimbledon By Simon Worrall Of mice and mist and other misadventures (07/08/98) The Cup runneth over and over By Ethan Zindler Professional scalpers and amateur partyers in Marseille (07/07/98) Browse the Wanderlust Postmark archives		LETTER FROM WIMBLEDON \| PAGE 1, 2, 3 - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - More than three decades ago, I reached the second round of Junior Wimbledon. So on the last day of the tournament, I went to see the finals of the Juniors. On the way, I stopped into the Conservatory Buffet for a cream tea. For one pound, 85 pence, the scones could have been a bit bigger (they were the size of walnuts), but the tea was good and strong, the Baxter's strawberry preserve ("from the Highlands of Scotland") was delicious and the Cornish clotted cream made by Rodda's ("cream makers since 1890") had, as promised on the plastic tub, a thick, golden crust. You could always get cream teas at Wimbledon. But up until a few years ago, that, and a glass of warm beer, was about all you could get. Today, in the Food Village below the recently revamped Court One, you can get charcoal grilled steaks, Chinese and Italian food, V2 vodka and martinis (in bottles), and the beer is chilled. In the shopping arcades under Court One you can buy Waterford crystal, straw hats and everything to do with tennis from Shetland wool sweaters to tennis ball-shaped truffle chocolates. There are post offices and banks, souvenir shops and photo developers. At a booth opposite, you can get printouts of match statistics or, at the click of a mouse, run footage of famous matches of the past. The upgrading, and expansion, of the facilities at Wimbledon (extensive building is currently under way in preparation for the 2000 championships) mirrors the general reinvention of England. The economy is booming. Everyone seems to be flush with money (Wimbledon was awash with cell phones, most of them carried by teenagers). The mood is upbeat and confident. Tennis has dramatically changed, too. When I played, Junior Wimbledon was merely the climax of the English tennis calendar. These days, it draws the finest young players from all over the world. Watching Karen Srebotnik, a pixy-faced Slovenian who also played doubles in the main draw, win the Girls' Junior final, I realized that, if I were playing it today, I would not even make the first round. Of the girls' tournament. Watching the Juniors also confirmed something that I had heard at the Bollettieri Academy recently, that the future stars of tennis are almost all from Russia and Central Europe -- above all, the Balkans. Many are the children of parents who were athletes themselves. All, like Seles before them, have a burning hunger to succeed. Tennis is a ticket to ride, an exit pass out of war and poverty. "In America, tennis players tend to be kids of rich parents who have a court in the backyard," a young headhunter from Nike told me as we watched Srebotnik battle it out with Kim Clijsters, a boxy, 15-year-old from Belgium. Both wore Nike gear. Were they under contract? I asked the headhunter. "In a manner of speaking," he replied, evasively. "But you know, if the kid is from the Ukraine or somewhere, there is not going to be so much interest. They are just not going to generate the sales." At least he was honest. My week at Wimbledon ended on the Hill in Aorangi Park, behind Court One, where I watched Ivanisevic battle it out against Pete Sampras on the giant TV screen that was erected in 1990, and has since become one of Wimbledon's best-known landmarks (a favorite photo op for tourists is to stand on the Hill, with the giant screen in the background). On the other side of London, 100,000 teenagers were packed into Hyde Park for a rock concert in aid of the Prince's Trust (the next day, Prince Charles was shown with his arm around the lead singer of Britain's latest girl band, All Saints). And it felt like a rock concert on the Hill, too. In the distance, you could see the church steeples and red roofs of London. Here, every inch of the grass was packed as about 2,000 mostly young people sat in the sun watching a Godzilla-sized Ivanisevic try to write his name into the history books. The Hill was a good place to observe another aspect of the social revolution that has turned London into what Vanity Fair recently dubbed the coolest city on the planet: the erotic awakening of the British female. Gone are the days when we looked with envy at the Germans and Scandinavians for their liberated attitude toward sex, and English girls were demure roses who blushed at the mention of coitus. Today, they are the cheekiest, most promiscuous, most self-confident young women in Europe. On the Hill, they sat cross-legged on the grass or lay sprawled on blankets, dressed in skimpy halter tops that showed off both their breasts and the studs in their navels to the best advantage, drinking Becks or champagne and, in some cases, indulging in public displays of affection, with both male and female partners, that even 10 years ago would have been unthinkable in prim, self-conscious Britain. There was no doubt who the kids on the Hill wanted to win. Every time Ivanisevic won a point, a great cheer went up, just as, the day before, they had cheered on another serial loser, Jana Novotna -- who, in the most emotional match of this tournament, had finally made her Wimbledon dream come true. What Ivanisevic said as he sat, brokenhearted, muttering into the sweat-soaked towel he had draped over his head after losing to Sampras -- whether it was a Croatian curse, 10 Hail Marys or a long, rambling vow to come back next year and avenge his defeat -- we will never know. But it was all over. The covers came on for the last time. The line judges said goodbye to each other till next year. A shiny black Jaguar, escorted by three motorcycle outriders, swept up to the ivy-covered Clubhouse, collected the Duke and Duchess of Kent. And for the last time, until next year, the crowds trudged, tired but happy, back down Church Road, and into the gloaming. SALON \| July 13, 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.