TPB SPRING WRITING TOURNAMENT

The Grass of All England

My Bucket List is lighter

We followed the crowds from the Tube and flocked to the field outside the All England Club. We were given pink Wimbledon Queue cards with the numbers 08234–08237. That seemed like a lot of people ahead of us in line, but the man with the flag for 08000–08500 seemed confident we’d get to the grounds in time to see some tennis before dark.

“Are we really 8000th in line?” my husband asked.

“Looks like it,” I said. I held my breath hoping he would not change his mind about waiting.

“How long do we give it?” he asked.

“No idea. Seems like people are happy to hunker down. We’ll make the best of it and see how it goes.” I wanted to scream. I was on the grounds at Wimbledon and I was not leaving. I’d stay overnight at this point, braving the elements, but I was going to see Centre Court.

The day was bright and sunny. The grass we parked our bottoms on was dry and itchy on the backs of our legs. The atmosphere was less angry than at a North American sporting event. Everyone was entirely too chill to feel worried that we would not make it to the front of the line before the day’s end.

We checked out the food trucks and found good coffee. The toilets were clean and well-stocked. There were people setting up games to amuse kids in line, people doing makeup applications, and handing out samples of sports drinks, and sunscreen. The queue had its own vibe. As the rows of waiting tennis fans moved down from twelve to ten, to four, the queue stopped growing. The food trucks shuttered for the day and the games were put away. The toilets were the only remaining evidence of the excitement besides the patient inhabitants of the dry field holding pink cards.

Then we rounded the corner, showed our queue cards, and entered the grounds with a shock of Wimbledon’s green, purple, and white branding. In this part of the line, we were handed various items to try, but my husband disappeared and returned with champagne for the two of us. My smile served to hold the tears in their sockets.

He had talked to everyone about what we’d expect and we knew to watch from the lawn, line up for seats for the top three courts, or just plop ourselves for a game anywhere we could find.

We wandered to get a feel for the grounds when we passed the lines. We heard the grunts and rhythmic thud of balls against grass courts. Cheers and commiseration. Applause and sharp intakes of breath punctuated the announcers' voices of Duece or Quiet Please.

Beyond Centre Court was a pathway to ground-level courts where people leaned over chest-high fencing. The athletes seemed too close when we sat in the second row of the three-row bleachers. I felt like we were interfering with their game. I understood why silence was requested and it was granted. A whisper could have reached the baseline and interrupted the serve from those vantage points. When the players came to the net to return a volley, we could feel the wind of their air movement. It was equal parts thrilling and unnerving.

I expected royalty, movie stars, glitz, glamour, and feeling out of place. Instead, it felt like a lovely day out for a picnic in a park. Everyone wore smiles and their manners. We enjoyed the sunshine, the thrill of the game, and the majesty of it.

We lined up for Centre Court hand-ins and were waved away.

“Just watch any match,” the ticket seller informed us.

So we wandered down the stairs and watched an incredible doubles game on Court Two. We sat in the sun, ducking out for snacks and moving up as people moved with the shade. I didn’t need to know the players. This was Wimbledon and that meant summer.

Wimbledon takes me back to the week after school every year. My brother would be sleeping in or hanging out with his friends. Dad puttered in the backyard in his cutoff jean shorts and no shirt. I snuggled into Dad’s television chair and turned on the blue light of sports for the green grass of All England Club.

I began watching Wimbledon in the era of Martina Navratilova, John McEnroe, Björn Borg, and Steffi Graf. The heyday of tennis. I would sit on the first sunny day of my summer holiday every year transfixed to the grass, the yellow ball, and the silence of the crowd, a hot tea in my hand.

Summer was not complete without Wimbledon which is why it was on my bucket list since the 2014 movie. Wimbledon had stayed in the number three spot on my list behind 1. Go on safari and 2. Visit Finland which both hadn’t been crossed off.

We ate our lunch on the lawn and had more Veuve Cliquot. Strawberries and cream kept selling out, but we managed to find some fish and chips to wash down the bubbles and made do.

While I was on the lawn, I took a moment to breathe and close my eyes. The grass was cool and soft, the sound of the ball and the grunt of Serena on the big screen in front of us was hypnotic. It didn’t smell of stale beer and nachos like baseball does. It smelled of clean air, cut grass, and sunscreen.

The ooo’s and ahh’s, oow’s and applause, started in the courts but the lawn was part of the excitement and knew when to participate with cheers. From where we sat, I saw the outside wall of Centre Court. I just wanted to see it. To stand in that hallowed place and drink in the nostalgia.

As we were about to go home, I asked the security guard, “Can I just go in and see Centre Court?” I used as flirty a voice as I could muster.

“Sure. There are lots of seats, stay as long as you like,” he responded with a smile and an open palm indicating the upper level.

We ran the concrete halls to the top. We all laughed and didn’t feel the exhaustion of the day.

There we were. Watching a doubles match on Centre Court at Wimbledon. We’d been on the grounds for nearly ten hours, but hadn’t bored of the adventure. But now that I was there, I couldn’t stand another match. Lucky, the umpire decided to take a break between sets to close the roof. We took a family photo with the help of another spectator in front of the court, and with a big yawn, headed back to the train.

I was on the verge of tears all day but it was the moment I passed the concrete archway leaving the grounds and left the majesty of the day that made them fall.

“We can stay if you like,” my husband said, seeing my reaction.

“No. I’m crying because I just spent the day at Wimbledon with my family. I’m overwhelmed.”

“Would a glass of wine and an early bedtime help?”

“You know it would.” I leaned into him on the train. Our kids were engaged in animated conversation standing among the travelers. I pulled out the piece of paper and pen I’d put in my backpack at the beginning of the day. My Bucket List. I crossed off number three before carefully folding the paper, and falling asleep to the gentle rocking of the train and the voices of my family recounting the day.

Game. Set. Match.

Good luck to my fellow competitors!

Craig Tyson Adams LOVES baseball!

Stephanie Wilson draws cartoons and draws on memories.

Gasp! 39 Years Old… I’ll let Phoenix Mōsher explain.