Anyone for tennis?

Retirement brings gifts that I had not initially considered. At this time of year they include live TV coverage of the Tour de France and Wimbledon. This is when I decide - for a couple of weeks, at least - that I am really quite interested in watching cycling and tennis. Both make for splendid summer afternoon viewing. Apart from the race itself, I find the tour is besotting as a spectacle. My wife tellls that this is an example of mindfulness, in which I become mesmerised by the wonderful French rural landscapes, the scenes of so many past family holidays, as seen from the circling helicopter as the race unfolds below.

Chris suggested that waiting for a steam special to arrive probably comes into this category, too, where one is concentrating solely on the train’s imminent arrival and all the other potential worries of the day have temporarily been suspended, in anticipation of its coming into view. I knew all along that it was good for you.

Wimbledon is another kettle of fish, altogether. Links with our local tennis club have facilitated three visits to the championships over the years. On Wednesday, I spilt coffee down my carefully chosen, clean T-shirt within minutes of leaving home, exactly what I didn’t want to do before rubbing shoulders with the home counties middle class in their lightweight suits and proper, buttoned-up shirts.

The bus journey across London to the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club took half an hour longer than the train ride from Newark to King’s Cross, but that’s London for you. Driving a bus through the city traffic is an art in itself. Apparently, the first few seconds of a red traffic light are still green in reality, and, therefore, can be safely ignored. Amber might just as well not bother showing up at all. The photo taken from the window of our bus on Chelsea Bridge shows the spans carrying the main line into Victoria station, with the former Battersea power station behind them.  

The infrastrusture at Wimbledon is quality. Everything is solid, neat, clean and tidy, just like the clientel. There is greenery in profusion, sprouting an abundance of colourful flowers. An army of alert, courteous, uniformed staff are on hand to remind you not to put your feet on the seatbacks in front and to keep you moving along the paths. They control entry to the courts in a strictly timed operation between games and direct you politely to the water fountains.

We had seen some of the big names in action on previous visits, including Sampras and Agassi. This time it was the turn of Tsonga, Cilic and the unfortunate [yet, former Ladies’ Champion] Petra Kvitova, who all appeared on the unshaded court two. It was not just the players that were feeling the heat.

I observed that the base line was much wider than all the other lines on the court. At least one American umpire called “fifteen-love” something else. At first, I thought it sounded like “thirteen” but a brief moment of research suggests that it might even have been “five.” “Thirty-love” was more clearly “three.” What is going on? Isn’t that numbering system crazy enough to begin with? The screens have also changed the way that they record an advantage after a deuce, showing it now as simply “Ad” rather than advantage against the person still stuck on forty. Well, life moves on.  

Back at KX and with plenty of time to catch the train home, I can confirm that my fast food of choice is now the burrito. If its new to you, too, give it a go.

Now it’s time for a bit more mindfulness.