Let’s All Give Wimbledon a Standing Ovation

Wow, this is incredible! I can’t believe it. Tickets for 50-yard-line seats right here at Centre Court! You English folks have a heck of a system, pal.

To get anything like this in America, you’d have to own the stadium. I mean, one-third of the Centre Court tickets, right near the front, go to slobs like you and me who pay five pounds--nine bucks--and just walk in off the street. Nutty.

Hey, my legs are killing me. When do they bring our seats? I hope they’re padded. What? They don’t bring seats? This is “standing room”? Did I get caught in the filming of a Bob Uecker beer commercial, or what?

Let me get this straight. I got in the line--the “queue”--this morning at 6, stood there until the gates opened at 11, sprinted across the grounds to get in the Centre Court queue, getting my Gucci loafers trampled in the process. Now, it’s still two hours before tipoff, the tennis matches will last until 9 tonight, and we have to stand up the whole time?

I should have known there was a catch. You folks are dedicated fans, I’ll say that. Well, hey, I’ll stick it out; I’m in good shape. Can they pack us in here any tighter? They’ll try? Hey, how we gonna do the wave if we’re already standing? Did you say, “What’s a wave?” Be serious.

Listen, save my seat--uh, my footprints--while I make a quick trip to the men’s room, amigo . What? If I leave, I can’t come back in? Smashing. What is this, a spectator section or a chain gang?

Well, as we say at the health club, no gain without pain.

And this is Wimbledon, after all. The shrine of tennis. What a place! Fenway Park with a tennis court.

What time do the hot dog vendors come around? I think I’ll start the day off with a couple Wimby dogs and a frosty magnum of champagne. What? No vendors? Luckily, I have half a bag of peanuts left over from the Super Bowl.

You’ll share your lunch with me? What a sport! What ya got? Kidney pie, boiled leg o’ mutton and some bitters? Uh, thanks, but I’m trying to cut back on foods that contain vowels. Bring on the tennis, eh? Wow, look who just came in--Princess Diana and a few dozen friends. And they get to sit down. Where did they get those seats? Ticketron? Just kidding. I know that’s the Royal Box.

I’ve even got the Royal Box box score they hand out in the press area every day, telling who’s who, with a seating chart. In today’s lineup you’ve got five Ladies, three princesses, three Sirs, one Honorable Sir, one countess, one lord, one prince and assorted lesser deities. Gee, Di’s really cute. Or Disco Di, as they refer to her in the tabloids. I know, you can’t believe everything you read in the tabs, unless they have pictures, like the guy who got his nose bit off in a pub fight. The Marquess of Queensberry must be turning over in his grave.

Look, I know it’s probably not true what they say, that Di is a big flirt, and that she sneaks out of the castle at night and drives around town. But I swear I saw her late last night coming out of the McDonald’s on Victoria Street, with a guy that looked like Chris Evert’s boyfriend.

You know, we’ve got royalty in America, too. Sure. Count Basie, the Duke of Snider, the Marques of Johnson, the Sultan of Swat, Prince.

Actually, there is some American royalty here, pal. Look, up in the stands, there’s Johnny Carson, the king of late-night TV, and Lady Carson IV or V. There’s Sugar Ray Leonard. I didn’t know he was a tennis fan. The man is everywhere. There must be several of him. I think he’s a franchise.

And there’s Steve Garvey, and Stefanie Powers, and Mike Warren, and Mitch Kupchak. Hey, this is better than the Fabulous Forum. If Jack Nicholson sits next to Princess Di, I’ll know you guys have gone Hollywood.

There’s Sidney Poitier. Hey Sid! Sid, Babe! I guess he doesn’t remember me from the time we shopped in the same supermarket in L.A.

Let’s check out the “friends’ box,” where friends and family of the players sit. That’s Martina’s group filing in now, or at least the first string of her entourage. She has advisers, coaches, consultants, friends, lovers. That black guy is Joe Breedlove, one of Martina’s conditioning coaches. After the match against Evert Thursday, I understand Breedlove turned and gave Chrissie’s mom a soul handshake, which was probably a first for her.

Gee, what a spectacle. What say? The umpire is asking me to please be quiet so they can play tennis? We have to be absolutely quiet when they play? What is this, tennis or brain surgery? I guess the air horn I brought won’t be cool.

Look, I just remembered I’m supposed to be having lunch right now with the Earl of Weaver. Would you be so kind as to hand me out over your heads?

I had a swell time, folks. Look me up if you’re ever in L.A. We’ll all go stand in a phone booth together.

Cheers. Very soft ones, though, or you’ll wake the net judge.