As if in slow motion, people roared – they cheered – celebrating with mad delight; glasses raised, eyes ablaze with passion, smiles wide and teeth minty white; with sun-kissed skin and bronze tinted summer tans, magnificent navy blue skies were soaring across the horizon. Not a single white fluffy cloud to be seen in all the cheerful atmosphere. Flags waved in the stands. The grass was trimmed with expert precision. Jugs of icy Pims were placed upon unfolding tabletops with style and there they stood still with a fine form of elegance and British beauty:
Juicy raspberries – and sweet strawberries – both soaked in chilled lemonade, alongside slices of: ripe red apple, plump blueberries, plums, bursting with organic sugars and fibre, bulging green apples all bloated and beautiful, picked locally from a bucolic orchard, glazed cherries that shone like glittering gloss on a bright summer’s day and scintillatingly sweet blackberries sprinkled in the extravagant cocktail like bursts of organic syrup. Pale frozen ice cubes were floating in the honey sweet mixture, like icebergs in the Atlantic, decorated with earthy sprigs of fresh mint leaves and thin kiwi slices, with finely chopped fresh orange cubes sprinkled all over the surface of the lavish drink.
Nearby champagne bottles popped their canvas-coloured corks, with a splash of foamy sparkling wine whooshing from the bottle neck; like fragrant soapy bath water swooshes over the sides of an opulent marble bathing tub, in an ultra-luxury private hotel. Easy laughter danced through the crowd like a rippling Mexican wave in a giant futuristic sports stadium. Yet calm and cool civility stood firm as the foundation of the event, like a deep sea anchor. In the royal box were an almost absurdly theatrical audience. One of modern aristocrats – with charming eccentricities – alongside celebrities – adorned with white linen shirts – or: a handful of charismatic bon vivants, a wholesome family, simply beaming with youthful passion for life, official members of the club, around whose neck were draped Wimbledon club ties, and members too of royal families.
There were myriad shiny silver cufflinks dazzling in the hot sunlight that beamed down upon the eager onlookers. One could not fail to notice the cream coloured cotton blend three piece suits or the red corduroy ties with official tiepins and luxurious fine silk handkerchiefs of purple and green, poking out from within their lapel suit pockets. There were fashionable, pretty ladies in white flowing sundresses that billowed in the breeze and handsome young men in technicolour sunglasses, shading their eyes from the sensual sunlight, striking a pose reminiscent of professional models in the quintessentially British, summer-sport scene. Children gasped with surprise, they jumped up and down from their seats with excitement, they shrieked with joy and giggled to themselves, whispering childish jokes to their neighbouring friends and smiling big wide smiles of innocent exuberance. Truly, such a box is deserving of the title: Royal.
Fresh fuzzy yellow tennis balls zoomed and went thwacking back and forth between the players as they warmed up. Exhibiting powerful forehands shots; with spiralling topspin manoeuvring the curvature of the ball, as it whizzes over the tightly strung net. And masterful backhand slices that seem to cut through the air – like a blade through cotton candy – and draw the force from the ball, like a cannon ball sloshing into a net. Further still there were reverent booming volleys, with effervescing energy exploding from them, joltingly awaking into reality the spectators in the nearby stalls; who find themselves standing from their seats instinctively. Then beautifully weighted and delicate drop shots or rapid fire aces thumping into the back wall with a boom and a thud.
Tall slim ball boys in beautiful navy blue uniform of shorts and polo shirts with fitted caps to match, passed by – like silky smooth barrel waves, gliding like a futuristic hover board over the curving, curling streams of water – the ball boys bounding across the court to retrieve the discarded balls and standing tall and still as if to salute; it was a wholesome scene and filled the audience with a festive warmth of spirit. Like fondly watching a litter of playful Labrador puppies, in an idyllic English parkland, at dawn: hurrying around excitedly and beaming joy from their eyes.
The iconic umpire sat suavely in her elevated high chair, like a queen on a throne; gently tugging the microphone closer to her face, as she prepares for the historic match about to unfold. Her breathing was deep, long and slow – as if in a meditative trance – preparing herself for the action packed collision of awe-inspiring athleticism about to take place; her fiancé sitting nearby, in the front row of the private stands, beaming his warm smile upon her with admiration and respect for her craft. He venerated her perfect poise in his mind with great gushing pride.
Cameramen – with an impressive lineage of experience and masterful technical expertise – were fine tuning their camera’s configurations: altering the aperture to align congruently with the level of UV upon the court and calmly changing the shutter speed to accomplish the perfect level of focus and detail in every shot. Magically achieving such high resolution shots that casual viewers and hardcore fans alike, even watching half way across the globe via satellite, could view the heroic players in ultra-high definition and super-high clarity, as if they themselves were sitting mere meters from centre court, utterly enthralled by the magnificent display of triumphant sportsmanship taking place.
Upon the world-renowned Henman Hill large crowds lay upon the soft leaves of dry grass or sat leisurely upon coarse-fabric rugs and blankets with delicious picnics by their side, chomping on cucumber sandwiches and licking frozen ice lollies, sipping sugar free cola drinks through long bendy straws with slices of lemon and lime floating in the cold pint glasses. It was a Romantic-inspired and Impressionistic-styled scene of beauty and community, of innocent enjoyment in sharing a social environment. The grace of its existential flow such that onlookers gazed with awe and wonder at the passing reality, as if in slow motion.
Short Story by Stamos Mardou