You cannot be serious

P1020908Our texts were gobbledegook, such was the state of excitement between us. ‘Just put of that match think you need Gate 1 I’m wondering so txt when you near I will come’ beeped my phone.

Wimbledon!  For the first time in years for me and as many for Foxy.

I hurried down the time honoured route from Southfields Underground Station passing a lengthy queue and the greenery of the height of summer: Horse chestnut trees hanging, deep green in a sultry fashion verging on languorous; Buddleia, full purple with that sweet scent that reminds you of honey…and Red Admiral butterflies.

A few obligatory snaps and an outside court game later, we were in watching the match of the day. ‘It doesn’t look that busy in here, that’s for sure” I said to Foxy, already talking like McEnroe and looking towards the commentary box in Centre Court.

A warm breeze drifted through carrying the odd conversation with it – magnified within this oval shaped ‘vessel’ that, despite its size, creates intimacy and strangeness at the same time. From some rows back came: “Come on Radek! Have a banana! That’s what Tim used to do.”

I looked up to see a summer scudding sky encircled by the architectural roof – so surreal that I wondered if I was really there.

Eventually the light started to fade and it was time to leave this most unique place.

I walked past lush hedges and hanging baskets of purple and white blooms – on a final mission now to get a photo of the star commentator.  Memories of watching him and his counterparts play back in the day always flood back at this time of year; meeting him was the only thing I could think of that would be the icing on today’s cake.

Terry at the Press Centre gave me a cola and a tip: “He’s into the football – comes out here after the broadcast and checks the scores on the screen.  Keep looking up at the balcony – if he decides to come down, I’ll take the photo.”

My hopes were high but it was not to be. No sooner was his stint with Ms Austin finished on TV than I discovered he’d left through another exit.  “You may not have recognised him anyway – he usually wears a hat and dark glasses” I was told.

Never mind.  I sent him a tweet, contenting myself with the thought that just maybe somewhere, he was sitting with a glass of lemonade, checking his phone, and reading it.  It’s a possibility – let’s be honest.

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