Food and Grog

1999: It's about 10:30am. The Q waits for the ticket gates to open. The Stewards have passed out the wristbands (colored bands you have to have to buy a ticket). I chose Court 1. Pistol Pete was playing. These folks uncorked a bottle of a champaign and celebrated. What I don't know.

The Grid Inn. I ate here often. The food is wholesome and comparatively inexpensive. It's also tasty.

I discovered this place in 1999. I think it had always been here. The food was good and reasonable. I partook three times. It's near Southsfields Station and Gird Inn is only two doors away. It's within walking distance of Wimbledon. So, I leave the Grounds and walk here.

1998: Let the good times roll. This is at The Dog and Fox. These 'Brit' relish their pub time. During Wimbledon, the pubs of Wimbledon Village are mad houses.

1998: This Chinese Restuarant is next to The Dog and Fox. I had one meal here. It cost $37. Fortunately, the food was fantabulous. Did I say the help was friendly?

Wingfield Restuarnt - This fancy dining spot is at Wimbledon. You make reservations. I didn't eat here. Some of the aristocratic do more of this sort of thing than watching the tennis. To each their own.

This Dinning room is for members only. Maybe someday I'll get an invite.

I think the pub-crawl was too much. Actually, I walked from Wimbledon to eat in this pub. It is the only pub I was ever in that had a no smoking section.

Wimbledon's Conservatory Buffet

Few of the 'genuine' tennis fans can afford this stop.

Pimms and Champaign Garden - The hooch is so dear they're hiding it.

YOU HAVE TO BE HARDY TO DO THE PARTY -1990

AMTRAK...Virgin Atlantic...British Rail...Wimbledon 1990

What a fabulous Wimbledon Centre Court seat my goose pimpled posterior occupied while observing royalty, rich folks, famous people, the young, and several handsome seniors, resembling me, entering this historic stadium, where so many exciting matches have been staged. I had breathed another year to spite a few, during which, the thoughts of my '89 Wimbledon experiences were savored repeatedly, and now I was back. Yes! The anxious crowd awaited the start of the opening match between Boris 'Boom-Boom' Becker and Pat 'Down-Under' Cash. Electricity filled the air and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Why is it I want to call Boris, Red? Hell! Red was the reason for the high vibes on Centre Court this day...

When you near, leave the Underground and have a look. You should find several pubs near at hand. Always! Choose one and go have a half-pint for a buck. With half-pints, you'll see more of London.

I managed to pass this one without seeing inside.

Scout's honor

Now crawl on. Go back to the station and catch a train going somewhere. After passing several stations, leave the train and go find another pub to your liking...

And riding the Underground is an inexpensive way to see points of interest in London. You will need a free Underground Planner and a tolerance for shoving and walking. It's for the hardy.

At the END OF THE WORLD PUB,

Bill, please don't send the FBI

a grizzly old pensioner picked up his pint and smiled. "Cheers!" He proceeded to tell me a yarn: "Once upon a time ...

On the courts, there were ball girls, ball boys, line persons, umpires and others to thank: all true professionals. All these friendly, cheerful people contribute significantly to the fabulous Wimbledon fortnight. And I'll never forget the kindhearted lady who invited me into Centre Court where empty seats were abundant.

I thought about the players, whose inspired play really puts the 'W' in the 'Big-W'. Some year I plan to attend the entire fortnight and take more interest in some of the outside courts where careers are just starting or winding down. I'm HOOKED ON WIMBLEDON FOR LIFE.

In 1997, endless rain necessitated the second first Sunday play. I know I was there. I got in this line at about 11am. The line ahead is about two miles long. The queue is unreal. I was also there for the first Sunday, which happened in 1991.

The flight originated at Palm Beach International this Saturday afternoon, June 29, 1991, and headed for Delta's hub in Atlanta. I was happy as a meadowlark. I was headed to the Mecca of tennis, Wimbledon, a third time. Yes! The price of the airline ticket this year was the cheapest yet. I used a gun. Wrong! I'd purchased it during a price war several months earlier. My good fortune was a question of excellent timing and commitment.

Attired in Reeboks, tennis shirt and shorts, with eight pockets, I felt cool, natural and reasonably secure. Four of my pants pockets had zippers, two buttoned, and two were so deep I could reach way past the family jewels... .

Ah! Yes! Dad and Lawrence have talked about a three or four weeks backpacking and cycling sojourn over Europe. My son digs this kind of adventure. He has incurable wanderlust. My interest is mediocre at best. Marjorie would go along knowing her 28-year-old baby would be along for protection. Together, we make a rugged looking pair, both standing six feet tall. Update: In October 1991, Lawrence and I went to Europe. We didn't backpack or cycle. Instead, we rode the trains at night and viewed the sites in the daytime. We stayed in hostels.

I remember too well, that several days before we departed the two of us lay across the bed looking at maps and train schedules. Suddenly, he asked, "Dad, are you going to be able to keep up?" I didn't answer. The night before we left, he stayed out 'til the wee hours of the morning. I have a photo of him sleeping soundly at Palm Beach International, and I was constantly on his butt everywhere we went to get a move on.

We're at Palm Beach International Airport - First day out

Several establishments around the square served coffee. I choose the closet because of my laziness, explained by this simple philosophy; never perform standing that which can be done sitting, or sitting that which can be done lying down. A look at my watch revealed the time to be 9:50am. Approximately six hours had to be passed before heading to Wimbledon. After purchasing a coffee, I took a seat. No beds were available. After several sips, I produced a bus guide, called The Shoppers' Bus Wheel. You're going to love this.

The wheel has two-sides. A smaller diameter wheel turns independently, and it has a bus route selection window, where bus numbers appear. Aligned with the bus numbers are twelve shopping locations, six on each side of the small wheel. The same twelve shopping locations circle the periphery of the big wheel, both sides. At the end of the bus route selector window, there is a black arrowhead with a 'to' over it. Line this up with the red arrowhead located in the middle of the shopping destinations on the big wheel and check the bus route selection window for the number of your bus. If it says 13, you've screwed up. Say what? It's clear as mud, right!

Okay, it goes like this. "Small wheel keeps on turning. Proud Mary keeps on burning. Turning! Turning! Turning to the big wheel destination."

"Proud Mary." It's a great old rock standard the band performed that I once played with, and the only tune they'd let me sing, and I was the leader. Of course, you know Proud Mary is a marijuana cigarette.

Now you know why a picture is worth a thousand words.

Actually, the Wheel is quite simple. You're at Victoria. Turn the Shoppers' Wheel to the side that has Victoria Station aligned with the bus route selection window. Then turn the small wheel, placing the black arrowhead on the Piccadilly Circus red arrowhead and the bus number 37 appears in the window.

Buy a pass and save. Call 01 222 1234 (This could be changed). Happy shopping.

The first, first Sunday ever - The Church Road Queue

Rain striking the rain cover woke me. My eyes had been closed for only minutes it seemed. The time was five in the morning and pessimistic thoughts dominated me. I wondered if the incessant rains of the first week might continue and the tournament yield to lawn croquet and a third week. Sleeping on Church Road had been a horrendous mistake in retrospect...

Shortly a young man arrived and took a position next to me. He introduced himself. I was surprised he was an American. Shawn was in the U. S. Air Force. He was from LA, and he said he expected three others soon.

Shawn                          Paul                                 Marie

After some small talk, I asked him to hold my place in line so I could march up the steep hill to Wimbledon Village for a pint and some grub. This is permitted on the queue. Once you have established yourself, you can leave for several hours and no one complains. However, you are expected to sleep overnight...

The brisk hike up Marryat Road took about seven minutes. The road is a stairway to the stars, and I was breathless at the summit. I recuperated by the time I neared Volleys, a modern pub, four squares away. The expectation of a cool pint has a way of stimulating one’s senses and minimizing the fatigue. Music from a bygone era flowed from inside. It was my kind of sound. A saxophone sounded off on a great old jazz standard named ‘Honey Suckle Rose’, and I hurried inside to dig the scene smiling, having remembered the hip name for the tune: ‘Honey Suck My Nose’.

Nasty! Reaching the bar, I ordered a pint from an attractive blond barmaid and moved to an unoccupied table near the bandstand. She reminded me of Mae West...well, only in one respect. The joint was doing a rousing business for a Monday night. I might have gotten caught up in the scene, but I'd come for food at Frost's Delicatessen, which would be closing shortly. I swigged down the beer hungrily and departed reluctantly.

In a few seconds, I entered Frost's

At the cookie racks, I found many kinds to choose from and a decision was difficult. Everything looked delicious. Suddenly, I noticed an irresistible package on a bottom shelf. I reached down for them. Next to me, a young lady was bent over selcting cookies and we rose together. "Good Lord, it's Steffi!" I said flabbergasted. I did a retake and said somewhat shyly, "You're, Steffi, aren't you?" I stood next to one of the greatest female player of all times.

She nodded, yes, apprehensively. She hadn't been recognized and didn't want to be. She joined her mother at the cash register and was soon gone. Wimbledon experiences are so happenstance. I'd seen Martina earlier, walking briskly up the road.

Edberg on Old Court One

Next year the note pad will be left behind. The World will not be tolerant of a fourth queuing story. Anyway, the queue I have come to love has to be experienced in person. If you play the game, you should treat yourself to one Wimbledon. Yesss! I figured my expenses: Airline ticket $670 purchased several months in advance during an airline price war, food $140, 2 bed and breakfast accommodations $75, transportation $40, 1 Centre Court ticket and 3 No. 1 Court tickets $170, entertainment and miscellaneous. ($85). Are four fabulous days at Wimbledon worth $1180? Yesss!

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