Day 7: June 28th, 2009

Middle Sunday y'all! The perfect time to raise some strawberries and cream to the players who not only blew our minds the first week, but probably blew their own with their bang on performances. Bully to them!

OLD FOLK: Let's hear it for the boys (of 2001). LLEYTON HEWITT not only dismissed #5 seed Juan Martin del Potro, but he did it in straight sets. In fact, he hasn't dropped a set yet. JUAN CARLOS FERRERO has had to fight a little harder, surviving a five setter against Fernando Gonzalez to book his place in the second week (capping fellow geezer Fabrice Santoro's Wimbledon career in the process). And what about TOMMY HAAS, who went 10-8 in the fifth over two days against #11 Marin Cilic? The ITF Doping committee needs to check their Metamucil, STAT.

MELANIE OUDIN: A lot less sand in her hourglass, the 17-year-old American was the top seeded junior here last year, famously losing in the first round to eventual champion Brit Laura Robson (at least famously here in the UK). This year she tore through qualifying, Sybille Bammer and, in the first real upset of the tournament, Jelena Jankovic. Jelena said she had "woman problems." She did. She was blonde, 5'6" and loves to say Come on!

DUDI SELA: The unlikeliest player still in the men's draw, the Israeli who may be just an apple or two taller than Oudin knocked out last year's semifinalist Rainer Schuettler in straight sets, then drove Tommy Robredo all kinds of loco to advance to the fourth round. You think Andy Murray might be popular here, try being Sela back home.

IVO KARLOVIC: Dr. Ivo has been bruised and bloodied by Dunlop's shame stick, especially at Wimbledon, where he's bottomed out first round after first round after first round. So imagine how giddy I am that I can give him some props! He's into the second week, acing his way past Jo-Willy to do it. With a 2-0 head-to-head against Fernando Gonzalez, could we be seeing the Croat in his first Slam QF?

DANIELA HANTUCHOVA: Another one battered by Dunlop. But she's found her game again on the grass, breaking the heart of Laura Robson (and a nation), last year's semifinalist Jie Zheng and her own best friend and doubles partner Ai Sugiyama in the process. Daniela, how could you be so heartless? Welcome back.

AMELIE MAURESMO: She was being kept alive on machines, and thank God as she's come out of her coma this season to take her rightful place in the second week of the Championships. The crowd loves her here, chanting Amelie! Amelie! And so do I.

TOMAS BERDYCH: Inconsistency, thy name is Berdych! But this time he done good, notching his first win in eight tries against Nikolay Davydenko. If you can beat Andy Roddick, you'll for sure get the Main Interview Room this time.

SABINE LISICKI: She already had wins over Venus Williams, Lindsay Davenport and Dinara Safina to her credit. And now Lisicki has French Open champ Svetlana Kuznetsova, keeping her very much alive in a draw that sees her next facing Caroline Wozniacki. She beat Wozniacki to win her first title in Charleston. Should lighting strike again, she could then face...Dinara Safina. All this to say, there could be more than a few surprises left for the white hot German. Not too shabby for someone who'd never won a match on grass.

GISELA DULKO: Ya kept it together, girl. Unfortunately you couldn't follow it up so this is all the ink you get. I'll toss you a pic though.

Ah, what a lovely way to spend Middle Sunday. Sadly, there's no rest for the wicked. Dunlop's been busy pumping iron so he can put some weight into his whacks.

Tomorrow, the Shame Stick.

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Day 6: June 27th, 2009

Which came first, the chicken or the egg? Or in today's case, the adversarial press or the players who do battle with them?

I spend the day in the trenches. But, like, the press trenches. Which is prime stadium seating and air conditioned interview rooms with comfy padded seats and water coolers. I got sunburned being one of the common folk, now I want to be one of the elite.

I start the day in the press seats for Jelena Jankovic/Melanie Oudin. A tag team of the overwhelming sun and the underwhelming play makes this a grumpy bunch (and a gamey one, but that's neither here nor there). Jelena is not bringing it, so the reporters do, tossing around pithy bon mots to the delight of all. Melanie's Come On!s are so sweet. Bud Collins (who, I should point out, is taking the higher ground – love you Bud!) thinks it's too much Lleyton influence. I say not enough. Let's see some finger pointing up in here!

They say a champion knows how to slow down the pace. JJ is a huge champion as she's taking so much time I temporarily forget where I am. So does Melanie, who coughs up the first set in a tiebreak. Now I know why my Cockroach Award is named after Jelena.

The crowd is evenly split between Jelena and Melanie. It all boils down to those who root for the top dog and those who love the drama of an upset. I'm torn. I don't like upsets for upsets sake because most of the time that person is just going to lose in the next round, and that drives me bonkers. I'd much rather have top player in the second week where they can remember themselves and play like they're capable. But I'm not a fan of their winning if they don't deserve it either, so really I want the one who deserves it more, not the one who doesn't deserve it least. Am I making sense?

Today Melanie deserves it more, and she rides the Jelena train through time out land straight through to the second week. The Cockroach is squashed.

Jelena's countrywoman Ana Ivanovic had a better go of it against Sam Stosur and gets to make a victory lap around the main interview room. She is happy. So happy. So very very happy. A reporter asks her about Aussie golfer Adam Scott, who's been in her box the last two matches (Aussie Stosur must've loved that). Ana would much rather talk about her tennis but is happy to have his support. Well done Ana, you were clearly paying attention to the media training in Junior Tennis School. How to politely deflect a question, A+.

I've got to say this about Ivanovic. When she's not busy being so so happy, she's a fairly solid interview. If she could cut down on the monotone and put some air between sentences she'd be an even bigger star.

Ana leaves, but I don't. Maybe it's my anthropology experiment, studying The Reporter/Player Mating Dance. Maybe it's my love of psychology. Maybe it's the air conditioning. But I'm camping out. Jelena's next, and the press is thrilled. Not because she's such a great interview (and is she), but because, in one reporter's words, "we finally have a story." The headline of the first week was a lack of headlines, and that's what The Reporter sells. (I should take this moment to point out that I too am a reporter, and I'm guilty of pretty much everything I've said, saying and am about to say.)

Ever the champion, Jelena keeps not only her opponent waiting but the press as well. Strike that, she's bumped it a whole other half hour. A reporter comments that she must be having another medical time out. He jokes because he loves.

Venus is on her way. The reporters prefer Serena. She's much more open (read: good for a headline). Venus is more of a politician. She's wily, they say. They asked her about her leg wrap earlier and, clearly not wanting to admit to any kind of injury, answered their questions without answering their questions at all. How will they cage the wily Venus when she comes in?

She arrives. It's true, Venus only gives what she wants to give, and not an ounce more. There are times she could elaborate when she just throws a quick period on her sentence instead. They continue to lead her with their questions and I realize, all of this is really just like a tennis match. It's a test of wills, the press playing the role of opponent, measuring the player, sneaking in some drop shots to bring her in, pulling her wide, driving their questions with power in the hopes she'll throw up a byte they can put away. Wasn't Oudin's win just great for American tennis? Wasn't today sweet revenge on Carla Suarez Navarro? That leg, still attached? Venus is a master at defense, and she leaves victorious. The wily Williams will not be caged today.

Tomas Berdych is bumped to the smaller Room 2 for Melanie Oudin. She's less media savvy than Venus, and because she's an easier opponent, they love her. Okay, she's pretty lovable in general. She's too young to be jaded so she gives them energetic quote after energetic quote. They don't want to let her leave. And because of that, it's now Jelena who's being kept waiting.

When Jelena does make her way in, it's not a pretty sight. She talks about having "woman problems" and nearly passing out on the court. She's genuinely upset, her eyes watering, and it's bumming me out. This is not the Jelena I'm used to seeing, or want to see. They want her to say something awesome about Oudin. She won't. Now they want her to slam her. She won't do that either. I guess the woman problems thing is going to have to do, and sure enough it's the lead story on the internet ten minutes later.

This dance between press and players is riveting and sort of ruthless at the same time. All I know is, today anyway, I've had enough. Sunstroke be damned, I head back out to the stands to be with the common folk. All they care about is care about is the tennis on the court.

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Day 5: June 26th, 2009

I need to get to Court 2. Not the old Court 2, the Graveyard of Champions that's now Court 3 (and don't think for a second the players are fooled). I need the new Court 2, which is on the complete and total other side from where I am right now. I want to see Serena Williams, she's due on court in minutes and there are 20,000 people in my way. I'm panicked, until I hear "Please make room, player coming through!" It's Serena, surrounded by security. They whisk her past, and I ride her like a wave straight to my seat. Keep the change, Serena.

It's been suggested to me that everyone being forced to wear white limits the fashion talk. Normally I'd disagree, what with Fed and Maria's outfits last go-round (her sadly short-lived tuxedo top was the year's best), but the '09 runway is rather boring. Except for Serena. The trench coat is fierce (oh yeah, I dropped the F bomb). She looks like she stepped right out of a film noir. I'm fairly certain she has the Maltese Falcon in her purse. She even warms up in it! It's stylish and functional.

The photo pit is packed, and each and every camera without exception is pointed at Serena, even on the return games. How must her opponents feel when they see that? (I haven't even mentioned the name of the poor girl she's playing. I'm just as bad as they are!) However the Williams sisters are regarded in Paris, in London they are superstars. Why Serena's on Court 2 today I have no idea. The court assignments have been wacky all week.

It's a straightforward drubbing, but there is a great moment when Serena and Roberta Vinci (finally I say her name!) are both at the net and Serena, who could go anywhere with the ball including right at her, loops it just over her. Vinci smiles at her gratefully. Good thing she's not Mary Jose Martinez Sanchez.

I find myself at the Stringers' Office, where all the players send their babies to get restrung. Or take them personally, as Nikolay Davydenko pops past to put in an order. He's perhaps the only male player I've stood next to who makes me feel tall (I'm 6'3" but they're all amazons here). To be fair I haven't been around any Rochuses. Rochi? I digress. Nikolay wants them the same as last time, no logo please. He insists on paying cash. (Oh, they pay.)

The gentleman who runs the place (which looks remarkably like a drycleaners) is a Mr. Holt, who explains that most players' specifications, like tension, string type, etc., are in the system. So they know just how to make the players' racquets purr to their satisfaction. There are anywhere from 9-12 stringers on duty, and they each generally work for the same players for the whole two weeks.

I speak to one stringer who strung all of Rafael Nadal's racquets here last year, including 3-4 of them during the actual final itself. I ask him how it feels knowing he strung the racquets that won the tournament, and in such epic fashion. As soon as I ask it, I feel like such a nerd. Until he tells me that it's the pinnacle of his career. I want to hold him, and I think he'll let me.

My brush with greatness over, I hit the practice courts looking for some more. It's always fun to see players without their game faces on. Or their censors. Yeah yeah, picking up tips from the pros to improve your game is all well and good, but listening to them curse? Priceless.

Andy Roddick and Jesse Levine are hitting together over here. Sam Querrey and Robert Kendrick swing away over there. Lleyton Hewitt and Jelena Jankovic are flying solo. Philipp Petzschner, who Hewitt plays tomorrow, must not have a very big serve because Lleyton is practicing returning against an old man. I'm not sure what they're asking Jelena to do with her serve but she's convinced her arm will fall off if she does it for two sets. She's convinced of a lot of things, chatting almost constantly. Of course Snezana is nearby, enjoying every moment. Another brush with greatness.

My buddies braved the queue for grounds passes again and I meet up with them during the Elena Vesnina/Dominika Cibulkova match. A cell phone ring pierces the silence, and hand to God would you believe it's my friends again? And they take the call! I haven't been this embarrassed since I was at a stoplight and my iPod shuffled onto the Little Mermaid soundtrack. At least there I could hit stop. This call went from 3-all in the second through the changeover and back into play. I still love them, just a little less.

Next up, mixed doubles! Well, Fabrice Santoro and everyone else. Fabrice's partner Anabel Medina Garrigues announces her presence with jingle bells on her ankles. Seriously. Each split step, jingle jingle. Where's Martina to rail against this? It's cheating! Fabrice is just so lovely at the net (jingle), both with his volleys (jingle jingle) and his handshake (jingle) as he nearly single-handedly sends the other team packing.

(jingle)

Which leads me, at the end of the day, to the garden on top of the Broadcast Centre. This is where they do all those rooftop interviews you see. I picked this place to type away for two reasons. One, it's gorgeous out. But more importantly, I wanted to see just how much light there is at 9:16 at night. That's when Roger and Rafa (complete with the finest strung racquets the other side of the Mississippi!) finished their historic tussle, and while I've heard all the back and forth questioning if the conditions were playable at the end, I wanted to see for myself.

As I wait, nearby Centre Court roars at 5-all in the fifth between Tommy Haas and Marin Cilic. I've got a sort of real-time test here. It's about where Fed and Rafa were at in their match at this time. The sun is long gone and, at 6-all in the fifth, I can barely see my laptop, and it's lit. I've got my answer. With a Championship on the line, that must've been a tough call to make. Tonight is easier, as Tommy and Marin's match is suspended.

I'd be pretty pissed if I sat through 5 sets of tennis and at 6-all I was told, thanks for coming. Can you imagine what the crowd's response would've been if it were a final? And that final? Sadly, I have to fight with this crowd to get out of here. Where's a Serena wave when you need one?

(jingle)

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Day 4: June 25th, 2009

While Lleyton Hewitt is having his way with Juan Martin Del Potro on Centre Court, I'm not inside. I'm out wandering, searching for some meaning to all this. You see, Lleyton was supposed to be the scalp today. Rafa's scalp. But the defending champion had to go and withdraw, and now everything just seems...off. The draw is off, the flow is off. It's like a birthday party with no guest of honor. You'll still eat the cake, you might even light the candles, but it just seems so wrong.

RAFA!

I search for Rafa, and I don't have to look too far. He's on banners, posters, souvenirs. He's on replays, commemorative DVD's (one that comes with a Daily Telegraph for 50 pence, which seems like a good deal). He's on Court 7 playing Ekaterina Makarova. Actually, that's Carla Suarez Navarro, but she's reminding me of him hardcore right now. Maybe it's that Spanish style she plays with. That no problemo attitude. That topspin forehand. Whatever it is, I'm feeling you Carla. Don't let me down, I'm fragile today. Thankfully, she doesn't. But I'm still lost.

I perk up. Squirrel sighting! He's working Gilles Simon's match. There are hundreds of ballkids spread over 19 courts, so clearly he's stalking me. But as my mama used to say, even negative attention is attention so I smile and wave. He pretends he doesn't see me. Oh Squirrel, these games we play.

Venus is playing no games on Court 1, dismantling one of the Bondarenkos. Two things about Venus in person on the grass: 1) trying to play her is like throwing a ball into a tornado and hitting whatever comes back and 2) when she comes to net even the people in the stands clench, she's just that scary coming at you. Better than that, at her press conference, someone asks her (drawing on a comment from Dulko about being both an athlete and a woman) if she feels there's a place for grace and femininity in the sport (seriously). Her reply, on court all she wants is the point, simple as that. I didn't hear the slap but I certainly felt it.

DIRK!

I hear plenty of Adjes! from Court 18, where Ana Ivanovic is looking almost like her old self again in her match against Sara Errani. The fist pumping is out of control y'all. Nearby, I spot 11 foot tall Dallas Maverick Dirk Nowitzki. I hope he's not picking up any bad habits. We'll see if he starts fist pumping on every basket.

The only fist pumping on Court 3 is mine because I have found nirvana. And her name is Amelie Mauresmo. For my money, Amelie has by far the most gorgeous game on the women's tour. I saw her win the '05 Year End Championship in Los Angeles and it's to this day the best women's match I've ever seen live. What she does out there is like ballet. It's what won her Wimbledon in '06. And seeing her on the grass just inspires me, that it all doesn't have to be baseline bashing. Hopefully she's inspired some juniors who'll want to emulate her style. Because there is no one on the pro tour who does what she does. I really hope she goes far here.

Maybe I can convince her to come with me to Junior Tennis School tonight and speak. I've been invited to sit in as the ITF assembles all the juniors who'll be playing the Wimbledon junior tournament and gives them a crash course in life on the pro tour. Oh you know you want to take this class.

I arrive to a gaggle of youngins from around the world, all with one thing in common. The propensity to put away ridiculous amounts of pizza. The proverbial bell rings, and as we all scramble for seats I'm shocked and horrified to find no one wants to sit with the 6'3" nerd with the three-ring binder. It IS like high school all over again. Whatever, they're all losers.

The ITF's speakers run through a whole host of topics, from how to choose agents and coaches and dealing with the media to doping procedures and the dangers of tennis gambling. I take copious notes, if not for me then for Dunlop, who Nick Bollettieri will NOT leave alone. The good news is these kids are given very real information that can truly protect them. The bad news is there's a lot to protect them from. With all the fame and fortune up for grabs, there are also potential predators in the forms of overzealous fans, creepy coaches and shyster businessmen. And you thought all you had to worry about was keeping the ball in.

Class is dismissed and I chat up a few of my fellow students. Where's everyone going after this? Wanna head over to my house and spin some records? I could order more pizza... Having just learned to spot a predator, they want none of me.

I'm left to wander the streets alone. To think about Rafa and what could have been.



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Day 3: June 24th, 2009

I said yesterday the silence was the scariest thing at Wimbledon. Make that the crowds.

I'm one of the first people in when they open the gates, and you'd think they were opening the gates to Wonka's Factory the way everyone is rushing inside, pushing, shoving, stampeding over infants and the elderly, all for a seat at a tennis match.

But it had to be done.

I'm in the third row of Daniela Hantuchova/Jie Zheng. This also had to be done if I were to have any hope of getting a seat for the Verdasco and Tsonga matches immediately following. You've got to stake your claim early at Wimbledon. Like, an hour and a half before play starts.

Waiting for Hantuchova

Either Daniela and Jie are bigger than the Williams sisters or everyone else had the same idea we did. We being myself and a friend. (No, not Dunlop. I do dabble in flesh and blood from time to time.) It's his first time at a Grand Slam period, so together we're just about the biggest idiots on the planet.

We may have gotten here an hour and a half early but Daniela is late. Like, Jie picking her nails, chair umpire Alison Lang checking her watch late. If I was this late to my local league I'd be docked games. For a tournament with so many rules behind the scenes (there are more badges than jobs and more restrictions than at a Catholic girls school), I can't believe she'll get away with it. But she does, finally arriving with a busted smirk.

She's queen of making people wait, especially when they're trying to serve. Jie gets the full Hantuchova treatment today. It's during one of these long back-to-the-court, talking to herself sessions a few feet away (it's like watching someone have a stroke) that we first notice Squirrel. Squirrel is a hyper-anxious ball boy in a constant state of cat-like readiness. He makes me nervous yet fills me with such joy at the same time.

It's here I realize I might be having a stroke myself. I've been sitting in the sun for two and a half hours and it's taking its toll. To the point where I'm actually rooting for Daniela to win. Nothing against her, but I was going for the '08 semifinalist. Until there was no food, no water and no end in sight (yup, we showed up without so much as a box of Tic Tacs We're definitely the biggest idiots on the planet.) I suddenly understand why so many people pass out in the stands. They don't want to give up prime real estate. Daniela doesn't make us wait anymore and wins it in two hateful sets. Good-bye Squirrel. I'll miss you most of all.

Fernando Verdasco takes the court (on tim!). He's ditched the faux-hawk and is now rocking nerd chic. He's also rocking the deepest tan I've ever seen. It's stunning, and will surely give way to leather handbag face at 35. But today he is mas macho. He's taking on Kristof Vliegen, a Belgian with a mug that looks tailor-made for pub brawls. They play an amazing first set filled with booming serves and actual rallies (!) that Fernando takes in a tiebreak. Suddenly, Kristof and Fernando flip their racquets around to the handles and duet on "Love Will Keep Us Together," then they hop on rainbows and surf them to the heavens.

It's full-blown sunstroke. It kills us but sitting here any longer will kill us deader. And Vliegen on a rainbow is blowing

SQUIRREL!

my mind.

We rebound for Guillermo Canas/Albert Montanes, which is equally entertaining stuff (made more entertaining by other friends we meet up with, one of whom pulls off a five minute call from her mother during a game. From the second row.) I've never been a big fan of Guillermo, but today he had me at hola. Something about his vibe, his personality, just reminds me…well, it reminds me of Squirrel. I wonder what he's doing right now. Is he eating a sandwich? Does me miss me? Montanes is just too good (that slice!) and he wins it in four. Philipp Kohlschreiber needs five to take out Ivo Minar, another one who I was really rooting for until hunger got in the way. (I have needs.) Minar did manage to slip and fall right in front of us, which is A) rather disturbing in real life and B) exciting to think we're on TV in Germany right now.

My friend wants to go to Court 7 to see a Kleybanova backhand, but it's way less impressive when the ball doesn't go in. We could all hit Kleybanova backhands if that were the case. She collapses in the third set for no other reason but petulance, which stirs up a debate about equal prize money. I'm too much of a feminist to ever argue for anything but equality but damn there's a totally different package for sale with the mens and womens tennis we've seen today. If you're paying for thrills, there was no comparison. And no, Gisela Dulko taking out a rusty Maria Sharapova doth not high drama make. Neither doth the second double bagel in three days on the women's side (Victoria Azarenka loves handing those out). I'll continue to argue for the cause, but please ladies, help me help you.

Armed with a nasty case of sunglass tan, there's still one more thing I've got to do before I shove off, and I'll fight the crowds for it to the death. Strawberries and cream. After some more pushing and shoving (shoulda put some more pep in that step, Grandma), I finally (finally!) have it in my grasp. And here's a little secret: it's not whipped cream but, like, cream you'd put in your coffee, so it's basically wet strawberries. And it's heavenly.

But not as heavenly as Squirrel.


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Day 2: June 23rd, 2009

Yesterday I mentioned Wimbledon feeling like a throwback to days of yore. Lest I confuse you and you think there really are barbershop quartets roaming the grounds, allow me to wax.

At the US Open, each and every square inch is crackling. Literally, it's flowing with a million volts of electricity, many used to light up/rotate/levitate billboards demanding you buy buy buy. Power drinks, insurance, AK-47s, whatever the players happen to be endorsing that week. You've got performers on stilts, bands, beer gardens, cars up for raffle parked on courts, and if you don't like the match you're at, here, have a portable TV to watch the action on a dozen other courts at the same time. It's a 2-week long spectacle. A circus. You love it.

Wimbledon is totally different. Very little signage, no real proof there's any electricity pumping through at all. No real noise to tickle your A.D.H.D. It's just court after court of tennis, score card after score card flipped by hand, and as a result the vibe is really so much closer to your local club than you could even imagine. Except your local club isn't 123 years old. As a result of this singular focus, the loudest thing at Wimbledon is the deafening silence during a point.

This morning's teaching aid, Jelena Jankovic v. Julia Goerges. Their balls make no noise as they butterfly kiss the grass. Their feet might as well have pillows duct taped to them. Which allows plenty of opportunity to hear exactly what the crowd is thinking. And it's groans a poppin' as Goerges botches one easy put away after another. It's quiet enough where you can also hear each and every word going back and forth between Jelena and her box when the Serb manages to make things difficult for herself. (Incidentally, Snezana Jankovic is five seats away. I'm in love.)

Over at Court 6, screeching is distracting everyone during the Na Li/Galina Voskoboeva match. But it's not coming from the players, it's coming from two female fans on the other side of the wall, who are having just the time of their lives weighing in on the grunting debate (uncle). Galina is so bothered she holds up serving.

Back on Court 3, Snezana is cheering her daughter on. "Let's go, JJ, let's go!" My middle name is Joseph so I imagine she's cheering for me. She's a big Sweet Spot fan. Jelena pulls it out, but it was a struggle.

Someone looking sharper on the green stuff, Venus Williams. She's shown year after year here that no one can ride the kind of pressure Wimbledon heaps by the spades better than she can. It swallowed Brit Anne Keothavong whole, reducing her to tears in her press conference in one of the day's more sobering moments. The most sobering coming from Nicole Vaidisova, who's sunk like a stone ever since making that Citizen Echo Drive commercial (Unstoppable: Nicole Vaidisova's Ranking Dive Is...).

What is stoppable is the queue for tickets. Each day there's a monster line for used tickets (the AELTC resells them for charity and people wait all night and all day for them), but by 2 p.m. we're at capacity. No one's going anywhere. I'm too dense to figure out why until Andy Murray takes the court. He's like Posh and Becks all rolled into one. (Quick observation about said crowd as I bake in the sun: it's nothing but hats hats and more hats here. Corina you lied to me! Oh, and the Kate Gosselin haircut has positively swept Europe.)

Much like Kate, Andy's got a fight on his hands as Robert Kendrick plays an unbelievable second set tiebreak, punctuating it with a wicked forehand return winner that manages to hit everyone there in the throat. But the Brit earns his Fred Perry laurel and makes it through. England exhales.

A totally different queue makes my day. For tennis balls! And not just any balls, official Wimbledon-used balls! A pound a pop. Two cans for 5 pounds! That's cheaper than a key chain, and I tell ya, when I drop these in the laps of my tennis loving friends, they're going to name a day of the week after me. Who played with this one, Roger Federer or Francesca Schiavone? Guessing makes for hours of entertainment!

I need to take a new picture because the grimacing guy in this blog banner looks like a stranger. I'm nothing but peaches and sunshine today. This day couldn't get any better.

Until I bump into The Man. The Myth. The Legend. Nick Bollettieri. I actually took a lesson with him once in Florida, but he totally blows me off for someone who really catches his eye. A brand new student, one he could give the forehand of Serena, the backhand of Agassi, and the drama of Jankovic. Look out world, there's a new player on the block. And he comes armed with Milk Duds.


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DAY 1: June 22nd, 2009

I am high.

Not the same kind of high I was yesterday when I landed at Heathrow, soaring on a mix of Ativan and Ambien to combat a nine hour flight (the flight won). I'm high on Wimbledon. Which is pretty good considering I haven't met it in person. It's like an eHarmony date. We've been perfectly matched up through 29 dimensions of compatibility, but now I have to show up in my Monday best and hope like hell I don't say something stupid ("Oh my God I've loved you forever. You're so manicured and sexy. Hold me!") and scare it away.

I've been preparing for this date for a lifetime, so when I arrive I want to bust through the gates Six Million Dollar Man-style. But instead I just flash my credential. (Play it cool, baby.) Cool goes right out the window the minute I step inside.

They say when you have a panic attack you should focus on your immediate physical surroundings. My immediate physical surroundings are: nothing but purple and green as far as the eye can see; grounds like a portal to a hundred years ago (I'm half-expecting to be called guvnah and asked if I want my chimney swept for a haypenny); and massive. You know when you see someone famous in real life and go, wow, they're so much bigger on TV? Oh no no no. This is the Slam that ate Cleveland.

It's just court after court after court, and they're so awesomely laid out in rows like sardines. Some courts only have a couple of rows of seats between them. So for a Slam you could see from space, it's fantastically intimate. And the grass! I used to mow lawns for a living, this really shouldn't be so special. But it is. Court 3 is so beautiful! No, Court 4. I could roll around on Court 4. I could roll around on the concession stand. Marry me!

I'm overwhelmed. And not just Day 1 at a Slam overwhelmed. I need to see and do everything. And I will, or die trying.

First thing's first, I want to experience tennis, Wimbledon-style. Just watch a match, that's all. Simple. I have a dozen and a half to choose from. I have no idea why I opt for Alisa Kleybanova v. Sesil Karatantcheva. Okay I do. I just like Alisa. She hits the skin off the ball. And she's playing someone who, after returning from a two-year drug ban, proudly proclaimed, hey, at least I hold the record for a drug suspension. You sure do. I'm rewarded for my bravery with a sweet first set. One Alisa pulls out. Suddenly I can't take sitting there any longer. Who just plays with the first present they open?

I'm curious how James Blake is faring. Instead, I wind up taking a wrong turn at Albuquerque and am suddenly facing Henman Hill. Or Murray Mountain. Whatever it's called, one thing I do know. It actually is smaller than it appears on TV. It seems almost fitting. Until Murray wins the whole tournament, then maybe they'll truck in some more mountain.

Still no Blake. I wind up in the guts of Court 1 instead, nestled in a photo pit with a perfect view of Maria Sharapova starting her '09 campaign against Viktoriya Kutuzova. Lots of shrieking. I know there's going to be a lot of talk about grunting this tournament, and while I am firmly in the pro-grunting camp (fun for the whole family!), I will say Maria sure manages to fill an entire stadium with it. It doesn't seem to be helping her as twice she's down 0-40 on her serve. I decide I'm bad luck. I'm also starving, so it's off to the Broadcast Centre.

One failed short cut later and I'm watching Brit Laura Robson double fault her match away against Daniela Hantuchova. Off to the press room, where I hear a BBC reporter phrase it as "an impressive debut for the youngster." Look for Robson Ravine, coming soon.

I find the Broadcast Centre which, besides housing Tennis Channel, ESPN, BBC, etc., also houses a cafeteria in the basement. It's at the end of a multi-floor labyrinth filled with on-air talent who barge from doors like cardboard perps in a Police Academy training session. John McEnroe, Darren Cahill, Brad Gilbert, Pam Shriver. Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Uh-oh, I hit Patty Schnyder. Somehow en route to the basement I wind up on the roof. And it is Mecca. I'm overlooking Courts 14, 18 and 19. Just below on 18, there's a barn burner between Fernando Lopez and Karol Beck that's so intense Anastasia Myskina needs to stop by and watch it. I consider jumping on her back and letting her walk around with me there all day but I think she'd notice.

After finally finding the cafeteria and wolfing down just enough to keep from passing out, I'm back with Maria. She manages to turn things around and is now a game away from the second round. Before she seals the deal, she slips and falls, setting off a wave of clicks from the photo pit. Ka-ching ka-ching ka-ching!

Roger Federer avoids face-planting by clearing his first round, much to the crowd's delight (I may have heard actual squeals). Thanks to Rafa's absence, it's looking like Rog will breeze straight through to the end. See ya on Championship Sunday, Pete!

On the way back, I get lost again, only to find there's a whole other half to the grounds I haven't even been (maps are for losers, tell your kids). I see Israelis Shahar Peer and Dudi Sela battle nearly side by side. I see Nicolas Almagro cheat death against fellow grass-court specialist Juan Monaco. I see Michelle Larcher de Brito cheat a BBC audio guy holding his Mic over a high wall desperate to record her wild shrieks (nope! gotcha!).

I was so overwhelmed this morning, so worried I wouldn't find my footing on the grass that I'd slip and miss the point (pun overload!). I can't lie and say I have the place down. It basically kicked my butt. But never has getting lost been so much fun. At the end of the day, like a coy lover, Wimbledon showed me what it wanted me to see. I missed James Blake completely. So it even knows what's best for me.

D'oh! But I didn't get my strawberries and cream!

That's it, I have to go back. Wimbledon, you're such a tease!