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Wimbledon - The Championships
The Festival of the Soggy Bed and Some Guy Called Our Pat
Article by: © Glenn Morrison 2012
As far as sporting festivals go they don't come much purer than the All England Lawn Tennis & Croquet Club's annual Championships, at Wimbledon.
As a youngster I'd stayed up late each year to take in all the majesty of the Championship finals.
In 1987 I witnessed a young Australian Pat Cash, later to became known as "Our Pat", climbing into the stands after winning the Wimbledon title to celebrate with his father and coach, a spontaneous act that had never been seen before at the home of tennis.
Cash took out the prize from the unfortunate Ivan Lendl, who ranked as one of the unluckiest tennis professionals to be world number 1 for a decade, yet unable to win the Wimbledon crown.
That was until a certain big Croat Goran Ivanisevic came along, losing three Championship finals between 1992 and 1998, declaring after the last one that he felt like killing himself in front of millions of people. A bit extreme? Not really. At least not for big Goran. But this just shows the pull the unofficial world championship has on players and spectators alike.
In 2001, working in London, I tuned into the live update on the internet as the unfortunately name Pat Rafter - or "Our New Pat" as he is known in Australia - won a five set semi final to advance to the final that weekend.
Rafter is loved by everyone in his home country. From nanna's to school kids, politicians to porn stars, we all find something in him we like. Oldies adore how he gives thousands of dollars from his winnings to charity. Women love him because he's a bit of a looker. Blokes just think it's fantastic that he dates models and has an enviable reputation with the lady-folk. It's not so much that we admire him; most of us just want to be him.
Now Rafter was through to play in his second Wimbledon final, and after last year's loss to all-time great Pete Sampras, we were hoping this time he might be able to take the title.
To say the gods played into our hands at this point would be an understatement, as the second semi final which Ivanisevic would go on to win experienced one of the longest rain delays in history, pushing all games and finals back until the All England club had no option but to postpone the men's final.
As we sat on a crowded train from Birmingham to London after watching Australia wrap up the first cricket test against England (yes, big sports fans are we), Doddo got a call from The Kid with the good news:
The rain hadn't stopped in London, the last Sunday was to become the last Monday, and thousands of tickets were available for the average punter...
Pack your sleeping bags boys; we're going to a Wimbledon final.
We knew that support would be huge for Our Pat and weren't surprised when we saw the queue. We were about 2000th in the line and spent the night sleeping in a park not far from centre court. They say you haven't really experienced Wimbledon unless you've queued, but I think this phrase was invented by the same person who claimed if you could remember the '60's you weren't really there. Seriously, people who invent these sayings should be shot.
Sleeping out in the open on a plastic mat and sleeping bag I froze that night and I'd hate to do it at any other time of the year in London apart from July, although Doddo said he felt a bit hot & sweaty in the tent he shared with The Kid and Leanne. I was fairly sympathetic to their complaints as I felt the cold moisture come up from the earth at around 5am and lay there suffering for the next few hours until the others woke up.
At 8:30am you could see every second person in the queue switch on their mobile phones, predictably dialling work and making some excuse for taking a sickie. They say it was a hard task getting a beer in a London pub that day, given Aussie travellers' tendencies to work in London pubs. The Princess and I simply called our boss and told him we were going to the tennis, how do you feel about that?
As we found our seats in centre court prior to the match a virtual who's who of "world everyfing" were introduced to the crowd from the royal box. There were soccer internationals, Olympic champions, but the biggest cheer was reserved for "you can't handle the foot fault" Jack Nicholson.
Finally the combatants were introduced to the masses. The crowd screamed from the first point of the match and wouldn't let up until we had our champion. The Croats and most of the locals were rooting for Goran, the working traveller Aussies were all over Our Pat.
The game was fit for a final and went down to the wire. Both players took sets from each other and found themselves at 7 games apiece in the last. The person walking out of here empty handed today could not be called the loser, but unfortunately there could only be one winner. It was like Highlander with tight white shorts.
Then inexplicably Our Pat dropped his serve. Goran could go in for the kill at 8-7, serving for the match.
We had warmed to the big Croat as he went through a rollercoaster ride from the first point to the last. He was showing signs of the qualities we admired in our own champion, and he wanted this victory like nothing he'd ever wanted before. After gaining championship points, losing them, then gaining another, Goran knelt on the grass and prayed to the heavens.
He unleashed his Big Croat serve, as only Big Croats can, and watched as Rafter tried in vain to get the ball back over the net. He couldn't. It was over. Finally, we had our champion.
"Our Goran" fell to the grass and wept. He'd just beaten the other guy, what's-his-name, and finally realised his life's ambition, his life's dream.
Taking a leaf out of "Our Real Pat's" book, Goran climbed into the crowd to hug his father, who'd suffered the past three defeats (not to mention a heart attack) with him. He stood atop the roof of the media box in front of the adoring crowd and raised his arms in triumph. He was king of the world, just like Leonardo Di Caprio in Titanic, without the fat chick girlfriend.
After four attempts, three unsuccessful, once wishing he could end his life in front of the whole world, Our Goran was now ready to walk out of centre court, the new champion of the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club...
Now for those old farts in the croquet championships...
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Wimbledon - The Championships Dates, Location and Further Information
The Tennis Championships in Wimbledon (South West London) are held each and every year and run for two weeks beginning in mid to late June with the finals (usually) held over the first weekend in July. Wimbledon is a twenty minute train journey from central London.
For further information check out the excellent Wimbledon site at www.wimbledon.org
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