SHOTS FROM LONDON (Part 6): Strawberries & Cream at Wimbledon

 

Today was a big day. Newman and i were watching Wimbledon again, but unlike yesterday [refer to previous post] wherein we queued for hours in the morning, today was going to be easy-peasy. Why? We had tickets, that's why. Reserved seats! At Court No. 3! [fist pump ala Lleyton]

So, how to score tickets for Wimbledon? Well, if you live outside the United Kingdom, basically your only chance is to join the Wimbledon Overseas Public Ticket Ballot, through its official website. It usually opens sometime November, and closes on December 31st. 

All you need to do is type in (or more accurately, all the AELTC requests for are) your name, address, contact no. and email address. Lucky winners are chosen by a random computer process, so it is not possible to choose when you want to watch, which court, how many persons, and/or how many days.  Given the massive demand vs. the severely limited supply of tickets. the AELTC can afford to be snooty. Hehe!

When i received this email from the AELTC sometime in February, i nearly fell off my chair in surprise:

     We are pleased to offer you the following tickets for The Championships, 2016:

A PAIR OF SEATS ON WEDNESDAY 29 JUNE FOR No.3 COURT

The amount due is 96.00 GBP

Payment must be made by THURSDAY 25 FEBRUARY

After i made my payment by credit card, i got this email reminder from them:

You will be required to collect the tickets in person from the AELTC via Gate 4 on the day of play. You will need to show photographic identification which shows your name (e.g. passport or driving licence) as well as a current proof of address (issued within the last 3 months of tickets collection) which matches the name and address with which you applied (e.g. utility bill, bank statement etc) in order to collect your tickets. Tickets will not be released to a third party.

Yesterday, our efforts to queue were rewarded by good weather most of the day. At the outside courts with no reserved seats, one could really see the action up close:

Daria Gavrilova in action.

Check out the nattily-attired linesmen:

One of my favorites, the rising Frenchwoman Caroline Garcia:

Today was unfortunately a bit different. The infamous London weather was rearing its ugly head, and forecast for the day was rain, rain and more rain. True enough, the order of play kept on getting delayed, and finally started around 1 PM. 

Check out the old-fashioned board showing the order of play:

Here's our vantage point from our reserved seats on Court No. 3. Unfortunately, play kept on getting suspended as rain showers came and went and came back. 

Here's how the ballboys and grounds crew unfurl the tarp, to cheers and whistles from the crowd: 

With play suspended for the most part of the day, there wasn't really much to do except wait. And do some retail therapy, courtesy of the Wimbledon shops: 

The queues were horrendous at the cashier (or "till", as the Brits call it), and there was much jostling around. There was a dizzying array of official Wimbledon branded merchandise, from the usual tennis apparel to the high-end Polo Ralph Lauren line; oversized tennis balls, stuffed toys, keychains, mugs and tumblers and the like; even a nifty-looking Powerbank that Newman bought. 

And you have never been to Wimbledon if you haven't tried the famed strawberries and cream:

Not a bad deal for GBP2.50. 

The programmes are overpriced at GBP10.00. Resist the urge! 

After yet another rain delay, there was hope of play resuming around 5PM. But just when all the covers were unfurled off the courts, and the official having put his palm on the grass and affirmed it was suitable for play, and the ballboys having folded the players' towels, raindrops started falling hard again (argghhhh).

 

I was at the nearly empty Court No. 17, with only another tennis fan and some officials nearby. Ten feet away from us was the veteran pro Feliciano Lopez. Upon seeing the raindrops, he glanced at our direction and shrugged, "Guess we are done for today." His words proved prophetic, and play was suspended for the rest of the day. 

SHOTS FROM LONDON (Part 5): The Queue at Wimbledon

When Newman suggested before the trip that we queue to watch Wimbledon, i very nearly blanched and didn't really find his suggestion appetizing.  What i had heard was that one had to queue overnight on open grounds (i.e. pitch a tent, cook one's food, etc.) just to be able to score a ticket for the next day's tennis matches. Tough luck if it's raining cats and dogs.

Newman forwarded to me an article from The Telegraph, which explained the All-England Lawn Tennis & Croquet (AELTC) Club's set-up: Every day, they make available a limited number of tickets for the "show courts" (i.e. Centre Court, Court No. 1 and Court No. 2) - rumoured, but not confirmed,  to be five hundred in total; and several thousand "grounds passes", which entitles one to watch the action (unreserved seats) on the smaller, outside courts No. 3 - 19. 

So, if you are a tennis fanatic and/or want to see the top stars play, then you will have to camp overnight for the 'show court' tickets. But if you are content to see lesser lights in action on the outside courts, then just drop by 7AM on the day and join the queue; and more likely than not, you will be able to obtain a grounds pass. 

So, on a balmy Tuesday morning, Newman and i alighted from the Southfields underground station (Important tip: Get off at Southfields, not at Wimbledon station) and hurried off to find the queue.

Check out the subway station seats decked out in the traditional Wimbledon colours, dark green and purple, with "In Pursuit of Greatness" printed. Puts one right in the mood to watch some tennis! 

We followed the direction where everyone else was walking to, and pretty soon saw this sign:

We came upon an open grassy parking lot. Lo and behold! Thousands and thousands of people already lined up! [gasp]

The important thing is to get one's Queue Card, being handed out to everyone by the stewards. DO NOT LOSE THIS.  It is numbered and date-stamped (see below). No, you cannot get queue cards for "five of my friends, who are coming in a bit"; strictly one per person.  Newman and i were the 3,498th and 3,499th people on the queue for this day, so i silently hoped they'd let at least 3,500 in!

As it was just 7:30AM, and the AELTC gates open at 10:30AM, there was nothing to do but wait. (and wait and keep on waiting, whether patiently or not) So here are some guidelines to make the wait more bearable: 

Bring a book or a tablet for entertainment. Make sure your attire (especially your shoes) is suitable for inclement weather (the British lady behind us stated that, even if it was stormy and pouring hard, people simply unfurl their umbrellas and raincoats, and continued to be in line). Bring some snacks and drinks, although fortunately, there were some food stalls and portable toilets.

It had rained the night before, so the grass was slightly damp with some muddy patches. One enterprising newspaper, The Telegraph, offered an appetizing promotion: Just buy a copy of the newspaper, and one gets a 'special' gift.

 It composed of a textile cloth (in checkered colours very similar to dark green and purple, to boot!) with wet-proof backing, perfectly suitable for laying on the ground; as well as a transparent rain poncho. So one could lie on the ground in comfort:

The Japanese guy in front of us had bought the paper, and very kindly offered us to sit with him, much to my eternal gratitude. He was taking a week-long holiday, and visiting London and Prague. 

Another reminder: Please do not try to jump the queue. The stewards do their rounds and check from time to time. It is simply unsporting behaviour to do so.

Slowly, but surely, the queue lurched forward in increments; and we could feel a bit of nervous excitement as the prospect of finally entering the gates (and having our queue cards converted to actual grounds passes) neared. 

As for those people camped out in tents (they were on the queue for tomorrow's show court tickets), here was one way they passed the time:

As we keep on walking towards the gates, we passed by this sign. No selfie sticks, please. 

Once inside the gate, we passed the very strict security checks, akin to airport standards. There are restrictions on what items one can bring, as well as the size of one's bag/backpack, so it is imperative to check the official Wimbledon site beforehand. 

When you see this sign below, you feel like "yes, we've made it!!" :D

Finally, Newman and i reached the ticket turnstiles. Which brings me to another tip: Bring cash. The grounds pass costs GBP25.00, strictly on cash basis only. Don't tell me you lined up for hours, and your wallet lacked cold cash? Not very smart. 

Success!!!
 

And once you entered the hallowed grounds, all the hassle and inconvenience experienced from the queue just evaporates the very moment you see the famed grass courts:

(Stay tuned for the next Wimbledon post!)

PARIS SANS EIFFEL
(Part Three)


ROLAND GARROS




Finally, the main reason for taking the long flight to Paris was here!

First, a brief background for non-tennis fanatics. Roland Garros is one of professional tennis' most prestigious tournaments, which comprise the "Grand Slams", the others being the Australian Open (Melbourne), Wimbledon (London), and US Open (New York).

It is played on this red clay surface (crushed brick, actually), which has a slow bounce; therefore, matches tend to be full of long baseline rallies, as players try to pound each other into submission. For mens' singles, which are best-of-five sets, it is not uncommon for matches to last beyond 3 hours each.

The tournament itself runs for two weeks, but we were watching only the first 3 days.

The French, being the French, named their home Slam after a real person, the World War I aviator and war hero Roland Garros. Click here for a brief account of his career.

Of course, no one except tennis purists cares about this; and everyone refers to the tournament as simply the "French Open". Click here for Newman's vivid account of how he got our tix, through the French Tennis Federation's website.

It was an unexpectedly smooth and easy journey via the Metro, from our hotel going to the Roland Garros complex. As we entered the tennis facility during the first day of the tournament, Newman remarked that compared to the US Open, the grounds of Roland Garros are quite compact, making it very easy to walk from the big stadiums to the smaller, outside courts.

And the prices being charged at the food concession stands were expensive, but not quite exhorbitant; unlike the US Open, which he described as shameless [with matching shake of the head].

The merchandise store was another matter, though. Imagine, 30 EURO for a cotton T-shirt with the Roland Garros logo?!

For me, it was quite an experience being able to see all these world-class tennis players live. Watching tennis on TV can be very misleading, as the ball travels so slowly on screen. But in real life, all the pros (even the willow-thin, teenage girls) hit the ball quite hard and flat and with great consistency.

Check out below photos of the grounds crew as they prepared the courts in between practices and matches:




This beefy guy looks like he could be a bouncer at the Moulin Rouge during evenings, no?





Sweeping with Gallic flair makes all the difference.



We were a bit unlucky though, as during our 3rd and last day, there was a continuous drizzle and play was mostly washed out for the entire day. Yeah, quite a bummer, with nothing to do but wait and wait for the rains to stop. . .and eat Haagen-Daz ice cream while at it. Haha....



Again, thanks to Newman for the pics. Click here to see his post regarding the crazy tennis action at Roland Garros.

MY BALLS HAVE B.O.


I don't know about you, but i like to keep my balls clean and nice-smelling, with no fluffy hairs about, just in case someone would like to touch them, juggle them about, smell them, and play with them.

Of course, what i'm talking about are my tennis balls.


While browsing for fencing gear, i chanced upon the "Gold Dacos" brand of tennis balls, being sold in cans of two (instead of the normal 3 balls per can). Turns out its a Chinese brand fairly new to the market. Priced at PHP130.00 (vs. around PHP250 - 270 for a 3-ball can), they seemed a good bargain.

So i bought one, being curious how these balls would hold up in actual play, compared to the established brands like Prince, Penn, Wilson, Dunlop, etc.
I'm a bit anal about the tennis balls i use, preferring the Slazenger brand because of their 'feel' and durability. The worst ball i ever used was Penn, which felt like a rock upon impact to my racquet.





A few hours later, i was at the tennis court, about to start playing a set vs. my friend Peaches.

I duly opened the Gold Dacos can. As i pulled on the aluminum tab, a Psst! sound ensued as air pressure was released. Then i took the bright-yellow balls with markings intact and absent of any fluff into my hand, juggled them a bit and smelled them.
Pooey!! They smelled really terrible! Like, like. . .words fail me. . .normally, i love smelling brand-new balls, as i find the solvent/rugby smell oddly sweet and mildly intoxicating.

But this was way, way different. This was more like rotten eggs oven-baked in cow manure for a week, and then blasted with fart and petrol.

What's worse, after we finished our set, the smell lingered on my hands. Yuck! Peaches even commented that she could smell the foul odor as the ball flew towards her during our match. Yeah, it was that bad.

I showed the balls to my friends at the club, asking "Want to smell something really terrible?" Uniformly, they all took a sniff and recoiled backwards.


In fairness, the balls felt okay. They seemed a bit harder on impact compared to my preferred Slazengers, but nothing like those Penn balls.

And their cheap price makes them attractive for players on a tight budget, who are not particular about the brand they use.

But i've decided they're not for me. Ang bantot talaga eh!

FOR LOVE OF THE GAME


(This was something i wrote for our Creative Writing class a few years ago. The teacher assigned us to write about the topic "Memorable Experience of Acquiantanceship Graduating into Something Deeper" [quite a mouthful, eh?], and i really didn't want to write about something deep and mushy so this was what i came up with. I guess it's also my rather haphazard effort to explain how i got into tennis and why i continue to play, despite wrecking my racquets [4 or 5, at last count] periodically.)


It was the summer of 1998.

A memorable summer for me, as it was quite an eventful one. I had just come back from a church retreat. I also went to Banaue to see the terraces (and accidentally did some spelunking in Sagada). I was about to enter graduate business school.

And it was my first time to pick up a tennis racquet.

Our coach, the Butch Bacani, was this stern-looking, in-your-face, no-nonsense kind of guy on the court, but off the court, he had a carload of green jokes and hearty guffaws. When it came to teaching us clueless souls on the basic points of tennis, he was a virtual slavedriver. In fact, he could easily be a Marine sergeant had he put on fatigues instead of tennis whites.

He barked at me, "Look at the ball!"

I looked at the ball as he released it gently, softly, from his grip; looked at it as it floated lackadaisically through the air, rotating like it didn't feel the urgency to land any time soon; and looked at it as it bounced and made a slight imprint on the soft shell court.

Throughout this time, i was mentally rehearsing Butch's (oops, make that Coach Butch's) litany of instructions through my mind. "Hmm. . .quarter turn. . .knees bent. . .early backswing. . .plant your left foot. . ." Then i swung my racquet as hard as i could.

Whiff!

Nothing but air. Clean as a whistle. I had missed completely. The ball might as well have travelled to Saturn.

He barked, "What are you doing? One more time, look at the ball!"

Again, i did as told. I swung. Swoosh!

Alas! Nothing but pure, arid, sweaty air.

Coach Butch had gone bonkers at this point. "Gaddemit!! Are you blind? Look at the #@$*&#+ ball!!!"

I repressed the urge to shout at him, "What do you think i'm doing, you idiot?" Instead, i gave a barely audible mumble, "That's what i'm doing."

Things did NOT get much better after. In no time at all, he was calling me "Jack", i.e. the title character of the movie starring Robin Williams as an adult with a fifth-grade IQ.

Yet, i did not get discouraged. I pressed on, and before long, tennis had taken a firm grip on my attention. I was on the courts as often as i could, and i raved about the sport to my friends.

Many years have passed, and thankfully i have improved since that unpromising start. But i am in no way saying that i am already adept at the sport. Au contraire. The tennis trainer i work with cringes at my backhand stroke, just like the way one would cringe if one drank a bowl of coconut water only to realize it was Datu Puti vinegar instead.

I remember one particularly frustrating session. The burning heat of the sun was bearing down on us, and my sunblock (which smelled like synthetic butter, for some strange reason) was melting off. Hands on my knees, gasping for air, grinding my teeth, i felt like a greasy marinated porkchop. I told Valeng, the trainer, "This game looks so easy, but it is damnably difficult to play!" I found myself empathizing with Sisyphus. Poor dude, pushing that boulder up the mountain for nothing! Poor me, swinging away like mad and nothing much to show for it!

Friends have asked me what i loved most about tennis; and frankly, i am at a loss what to reply.

It certainly is not the social aspect (i hate playing doubles). None of my closest friends play the sport. And it is horribly expensive.

Then, it came to me.

NO TEAMMATES.

When i'm out there playing, it's just me, my opponent and the ball. No coach to tell me what to do, no teammates to demand passes (like in basketball). I'm in full control of my destiny. I have no one else to blame for my miscues and my defeats. To win, i have to out-think, outsmart and out-manuever my opponent all by myself.

This reminds me of the saying, "If it is to be, it is up to me." So be it then.