9706300044
DETROIT FREE PRESS
970630
Monday, June 30, 1997
METRO FINAL
1D
Photo DAVE CAULKIN/Associated Press
It's a soccer atmosphere at Centre Court, where Brit Tim Henman did
the Union Jack proud with a five-set victory.
MITCH ALBOM
Copyright (c) 1997, Detroit Free Press
ALL ENGLAND GOES MAD AS TRADITION TAKES HOLIDAY
Once again we welcome you to our annual dispatches from Wimbledon, also known
as the World's Largest Umbrella Concession.
As you probably know, it rained quite a bit here the first week. Rain washed
out one full day of competition, then washed out another. It rained days. It
rained nights. The rain caused a flood. Then the Lord spake unto Noah, and
said take the players two by two, one male and one female....
No, wait, wrong rain story.
Anyhow, it always rains here, and it's always a problem, but the first week
was so wet that the good and proper people who run this tournament had
wrinkled fingers. Not from the water. From wringing their hands and saying,
"Dare we do it, old chap?"
The big question they were pondering -- and a good reason America can send men
into space while Brits still can't figure how to put screens in their windows
-- was simply this: Should they play tennis on the middle Sunday, which is
normally a day off?
Never mind that they were more backed up than a North Dakota drainpipe. Never
mind that they had players who started their first-round matches Monday and
didn't finish them until Saturday. Never mind that they were nearly 200
matches behind schedule and if it rained even one more day, they might as well
have started next year's tournament right now.
Never mind all that, because there is logic and there is tradition. And given
a choice, a Brit will always choose tradition, just as an American will always
choose the place with cable TV.
And tradition at Wimbledon says you don't play on the middle Sunday.
Fortunately, Mother Nature is still bigger than Mother England. So the Lord
spake unto Noah and said, "Build thee an ark.... "
Wait, sorry, I was looking out my window again.
Uncommon fun for the commoners
Anyhow, they did finally play tennis Sunday, which really bugged a lot of the
rich and snotty tournament organizers who fought against the idea, because
playing on Sunday means no pre-purchased tickets, which means they have to let
in -- ugh -- the general public.
This happened once before, six years ago. It provided the most memorable crowd
in Wimbledon history. These people cheered, chanted and acted like fans of the
game, instead of guests of the Duke.
And they were back again Sunday, many having slept all night in the streets.
They paid for tickets with cash, not favors, and they raced to their
first-come, first-served seats. There were men with T-shirts, not ascots.
There were women in ponytails, not pillbox hats. Some fans had their faces
painted and their shoulders draped in the Union Jack flag. They chanted "Let's
go Tim!" for England's Tim Henman and "Let's go Greg!" for England's Greg
Rusedski. The whole place was rocking and rolling and noisy and fun -- which
led one stuffy BBC broadcaster to remark, on the air, "There is a woman not
far from me who is leaping up after every point, so obviously she has gone
quite mad!"
I'd love to see him call a Red Wings game.
Anyhow, the only bad thing was that at the end of the day, Wimbledon was still
as far behind schedule as Congress. And we don't know how long the rain will
stay away. Hey. At least nobody bit off anyone's ear!
(By the way, to digress for a moment, how strange was that? Mike Tyson's
taking bites out of Evander Holyfield? Maybe Tyson thought they said the
"heavyweight chewpion." The only thing weirder than Tyson's appetite was
hearing the Brits discuss it on the air Sunday. "Boxing has turned to
cannibalism," sniffed one commentator. Right. Next thing you know, they'll
want to colonize it.)
Did I mention the underwear?
An undercurrent of undies
Underwear has become a subplot at Wimbledon. Women's underwear. At first, when
I heard this, I thought the rain had leaked into these people's brains.
But no, this is real. It has to do with TV cameras. The BBC announced it will
limit its rearview angles in women's matches this year, because apparently too
many British men have been watching tennis to get a glimpse as the ladies lean
over.
I am not making this up.
(By the way, this proves my theory about British TV: Men can watch only so
many documentaries about earthworms before going nuts.)
So now the BBC often shows female players from the waist up -- kind of like
Elvis Presley on his first Ed Sullivan show -- and the poor leering men will
have to go back to the tabloids, whose motto is, "Why Show Women in Their
Underwear When We Can Show Them Naked? See Page 3!"
Of course, this could all be avoided if they let women play in shorts, the way
the men do. But that would take us back to the tradition problem, and you
don't want to push your luck.
So we trudge into the second week -- or in actual tennis time, the fourth day
-- and we pray that the clouds will not burst and the bigwigs of this
tournament will not have to make any more momentous decisions, like "If the
Duke is on fire, should we put him out?"
Of course, the most logical decision would be to hold this tournament
someplace else. I'm thinking Spain. But that won't happen. Instead, if it
starts raining again, there is only one thing left for them to do.
Go upstairs, to the top of the ark, and wait for the dove to come back.
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