They also relaxed the all-white dress code here, which they should’ve announced more often. Of all the days to show up in your Bill Tilden Sunday best — white polo pullover, white trousers, white tennies, and white undies, today was not that day. (“You’ve kind of taken this Chariots of Fire thing a little too far, haven’t ya mate?”)
Did we mention there was a flash mob of 50 kids performing yesterday on Henman Hill, followed by the Pet Shop Middle Aged Men doing three songs? Somewhere, the Queen winced and Wimbledon was desecrated again.
On the bright side, Maria Sharapova played well and so did Murray. They were among the few fortunate players whom the competition committee thought enough of to let them play under Wimbledon’s one retractable roof.
Ovechkin’s girlfriend, Maria Kirilenko, never got to rally. Her match was called at about 7 p.m.
Memo to Wimbledon board of trustees, quorum, council, whoever: Build more roofs, preferably 18. Construct them over every court at the club. This will automatically lead to two improved measures: (1) you can get rid of the ugly tarps, and (2) your tournament will conclude before Rio 2016.
Disappointing. Very disappointing. For such a hyped-up maiden voyage to the place where Bjorn Borg and John McEnroe made history, where Chrissie and Martina battled each other, groundstroke for groundstroke, where Roger and Rafa traded lasers until one dropped to his knees in utter euphoria, where Arthur Ashe gracefully ruled and Ilie Nastase was so damn irascible . . . I have to say: not impressed.
The one savior, the one shining light amid the gray and clouds: strawberries and cream. The berries were so red, candy apple in color. And succulent. Not too firm or mushy. The cream was so thick it stuck to my lips after I devoured that little bowl of sweetness that cost but 2 pounds and 50 pence. Which after the conversion rate cost about $400.
Whoever those dairy farmers and growers were, well, they made me want to come back someday, preferably on something that will float.