Those storm clouds that have been following your every move on the East Coast? They don't end at the country's border. I found that out the hard way on Saturday, on a plane that was jumpy enough to send flight attendants flying into people's seats and one woman staggering back to the bathroom with her hand over her mouth. No one else, other than a panicked 6-year-old and I, seemed to blink an eye; either that, or Confessions of a Shopaholic was just too riveting for anyone to notice. At these moments, I usually swear that this will be the last time I set foot in a metal tube filled with gas and sent 35,000 feet in the air—next year I'm coming by ocean liner. Then the air smooths out and the $15 worth of red wine kick in and I stop paying attention. As the plane touched down yesterday I looked out the window at the same bland tarmac and grey boxy buildings that greet you everywhere. And like everywhere else I touch down, my first thought was one of amazement: "I'm in London." One small benefit of not liking to fly is that I doubt I'll ever do it often enough to lose that feeling.
While I've been to Wimbledon a few times, I doubt I'll ever lose the very similar feeling I get when I walk down narrow, windy Church Road and the brick walls that line it. This is the path, of course, to the All England Club, which fans out in a triangle below Wimbledon village. On the grounds today, the annual calm before the storm was in effect. The courts were left empty so that various nets—their straps somehow especially white—could be tested and the grass measured one final time. Inside Centre Court, the 550 security guards who will work the tournament were given a military-style pep talk about pride and duty. It was more organized and official than anything you'd see at a sporting event, or almost any kind of event, in America, and it probably works. But I could see myself longing for the casual style of the U.S.A. pretty quickly.
There was unnatural calm in the pressroom. Sunday is traditionally when the defending champions give their pressers, but alas, one of those champions was no longer there, and he wouldn't have had much new to say anyway ("Uh, Rafa, so what did you do yesterday?"). The action was reserved for the practice courts, a hive of activity packed into one hidden, multi-tiered zone on the other side of Henman Hill. As always, the scene there—tan, mostly rich young people greeting each with loud hand slaps and hugs—reminded me of a country boarding school. A country boarding school with the best tennis team in the world.
Who was seen and being seen out there? Fernando Verdasco, sans faux-hawk, struggled to catch up with hard-hit balls to his forehand. Novak Djokovic impressed with the bite on his topspin and looked comfortable. Andy Roddick and Sam Querrey struggled a bit with their footing, but played a vigorous set. Marat Safin stayed on court for two sessions; his best shot, naturally, came on a serve from Paul-Henri Mathieu that had hit the tape and already bounced twice. Barely glancing at the ball, Safin slapped it perfectly into the corner for what would have been a winner. As for the women, the word was that Venus looked much sharper than Serena.
A little later Roger Federer came strolling in by himself. His hat would have made him inconspicuous if he hadn't also been wearing a white-and-gold high-collared Nike jacket with his personal insignia on it. He played in it for while, and while his range was obviously limited, it hardly mattered. Most Federer practices begin with half-hearted trick shots, a slice lob straight up in the air, an overhead on a ball that would normally be a volley, a bounce overhead hit with reverse underspin at the last second, etc. You see all of his unique skills, but they're used scattershot, unrelated to each other, with no purpose in mind. Sill, it's not exactly fun time, either; Federer doesn't smile all that often, even when he flips a ball for a winner from behind his back. If his matches are play made into work, his practices are work made into play. Either way, the two always coexist in his game.
The talk of the town right now, aside from Federer's Sampras-breaking 15th Slam ("Federer Ready for a Pistol Whippin'" was the headline of the day) and Andy Murray's chances—the guy's chest has basically taken over the papers—is a tale of two 15-year-olds that will be told tomorrow. The U.K.'s Laura Robson takes the new Court 2 at noon. It was revealed in the Sunday Times today that her mom has been trying to get "Shy Laura" to improve her wave to the audience when she wins. "She has this little embarrassed wave, and we're trying to get her to wave more enthusiastically," Robson's mom said. "But she just rolled her eyes and said, 'Mum, no way I'm doing that!' What can you do?"
Meanwhile her contemporary and seeming polar opposite, Portugal's Michelle Larcher de Brito—no problems emoting there—has been sent off to an outer court later in the afternoon.
It should be a fun day. There's Rog, Serena, Maria, Novak, Laura, Jo Willie, James Blake, Mahut, Cirstea, a blast from the clay past between Almagro and Monaco, and Michelle. Maybe by the end of the day we'll know a little better whether she is, as the Sunday Express has dubbed her, "The Squeal Thing."
See you Monday.