The Tennis Player from Bermuda (23 page)

This is England, right?

In 1967, the Club purchased 11 additional acres to the north of the original ground and eventually on that land built the new Court 1, the new Courts 14 to 19, and the new Aorangi Park practice courts. So now Centre Court is closer to the actual centre of the ground.

When I played at Wimbledon, the roof over the stands around Centre Court was lower by a meter (and the stands smaller by 1,000 seats) than it became after an expansion in 1979. Centre Court in 1962 was so small and enveloping that, when you played there, to see the sky you had to look basically straight up. The writer John McPhee once compared Centre Court in the 1960s to ‘an Elizabethan theater,’ like Shakespeare’s Globe, and that’s exactly how it felt. A player on court could speak to the chair umpire in a normal tone of voice and still be heard by most of the spectators. The sound of a ball hit hard by a racket –
THOCK!
– would echo under the low roof.

Margaret Smith, who was accustomed to the open, expansive stadium at Kooyong, which had space for two grass courts side by side, and no roof, said that Centre Court was like playing “on a postage stamp” (although maybe she was simply repeating something Tony Trabert had said years before).

The outside of Centre Court was draped in Boston ivy so thick you could barely see the building itself, and, once inside, you were in a labyrinth of dark, narrow corridors, some of which seemingly led nowhere, but one of which led, through a small waiting room and two swinging glass doors, onto Centre Court.

Even the grass was different in 1962. Back then, the Club’s courts were planted with red fescue, mixed with a little Oregon browntop, which made for a soft, slippery, and unpredictable surface. In 2001, the All England Club re-turfed all the courts with pure rye grass, and a much firmer soil, which made the courts slower. The most noticeable effect of the new turf is on the bounce. The ball comes up much higher, partly because the soil is harder, and partly because rye grass, unlike fescue, grows in tufts and is stiffer than fescue. The ball is now about one tenth of a second slower over the 23.8 meters from one baseline to the other compared to when I played at Wimbledon in 1962.

The All England Club insists the 2001 change in the grass was made only to make the courts more durable. Maybe so. Some people say it was because American television wanted longer rallies. But it’s interesting that Jack Kramer back in the 1970s predicted that the different court surfaces at the major tournaments would be changed to be more uniform in terms of speed. And the speed of the grass courts at the All England Club today seems similar to the composition courts at the Australian Open and the U.S. Open.

But if you ever want to play a set on the old, unpredictable, and fun Wimbledon grass, you can. Just pack your tennis whites and take the rail from Wimbledon station to Eastbourne – the trip is about an hour and a half. You can walk from the station to Devonshire Park. Ask the staff if you might play on Court 1. Why Court 1? Because early in 1997, the All England Club demolished its old Court 1, which since 1924 had been pushed up against Centre Court like a shed. Eastbourne asked – politely – if they might have the turf from old Court 1. And so 730 square meters of turf was carefully taken by lorry to Eastbourne and reverently planted on Eastbourne’s Court 1 – it’s still there!

I don’t mean to sound so nostalgic for 1962. Professional ‘open’ tennis should have come to Wimbledon decades earlier than it did. The retractable roof over Centre Court, the new show courts 1, 2, and 3, and the practice courts in Aorangi Park, are welcome improvements. If American television needs longer rallies, and a longer time on the changeover for a commercial advertisement, so be it.

Still. Wimbledon in 1962 was a thrilling place for me. When I walked past the Doherty Memorial Gates, I would brush a fingertip lightly over the wrought iron. Maybe Laurie and Reggie would bring me good luck. The British military officer standing guard would say, “Good morning, Miss Hodgkin. Lovely weather today for a bit of tennis.”

One morning, I was walking down Church Road in my tennis dress with its tiny Bermuda flag, with my pocketbook in my right hand and my rackets clutched under my left arm. When I excused myself and cut through The Queue of people standing in line since before dawn to buy tickets, I overheard one of them whisper to another, “She’s the tennis player from Bermuda.”

For an 18-year-old tennis player from Bermuda, life doesn’t get better than that.

W
EDNESDAY
A
FTERNOON
, 27 J
UNE
1962
C
OURT
2 (‘T
HE
G
RAVEYARD
’) L
ADIES
’ S
ECOND
R
OUND
A
LL
E
NGLAND
C
LUB
W
IMBLEDON

I was moving up in the world; my second round match would take place, not on one of the outer courts, but on Court 2, a show court nicknamed ‘the Graveyard’ – it was considered bad luck for a seeded player to have a match on Court 2 because over the years so many top players had been upset there. The BBC covered matches on Court 2 on television.

My opponent was an American, Mary Ann House, who was seeded eighth. Although she was just a year older than me, House had been on the tennis circuit for two years and had made a serious run at Kooyong that winter until Margaret eliminated her in the fifth round. Claire had never played House but had watched her match with Margaret at Kooyong. “It wasn’t a walk in the park for Margaret,” was Claire’s assessment. House’s play at Kooyong is probably what had gotten her such a high seeding at Wimbledon.

House and I sat together in the upper dressing room while the men played their match in the Graveyard. To be honest, I didn’t care for House. She ignored me and gave me the impression that I had no business being in the upper dressing room. I tried once or twice to make conversation on some neutral topic, the food in the buffet, for example, with no success.

The men took forever. It was almost six o’clock before a callboy summoned House and me to Court 2.

I decided I would blow House off the court, and that’s exactly what I did. It took 44 minutes. 6-4, 6-2.

I played so totally by instinct that I don’t even recall much of the match. On House’s serve at one game apiece in the second set, she hit a beautiful, sharply angled crosscourt passing shot that bounced exactly on my deuce court sideline. As usual, I was camped out at the net, and it certainly looked as though House had successfully passed me.

Still, I gave it a try. I
ran
. The ball was already way off the court when I managed to catch it with my racket. At full speed, I hit the ball with my forehand. I didn’t have time to aim – I just hit the ball on the run as hard as I could and hoped for the best. I was so far off the court that, at the instant my racket struck the ball, my right foot tripped on the tarp that was rolled up at the edge of the grass, just along the first row of spectators, ready to be unrolled over the court in case of rain. My racket flew out of my hand, and I pinwheeled over the tarp and slammed into the spectators’ barrier with my legs in the air.

I heard a collective gasp from the crowd and then cheers and applause. I landed in a position that was not modest for a young lady, and the BBC and several photographers captured it all on film. I rolled over, got up on all fours, reached back, and pulled my tennis dress down over my backside. I found myself looking straight at an older couple in the first row of spectators. The man leaned over. “Are you all right?”

I replied, “Did you see if my shot went in?” The spectators who heard me all laughed loudly.

There’s no rule in tennis that the ball has to go
over
the net; the ball is still in play if it is hit
around
the net – provided it lands within the opponent’s court. The point was replayed on television over and over, and I could see that the ball went wide of the net but then bounced just in the corner of House’s ad court. The newspapers the next morning all ran an almost indecent photograph of me on my back with my legs splayed above me.

When I walked off the court, there were so many people crowded around me waiting for an autograph or a photograph that finally a Coldstream Guardsman led me back to the upper dressing room.

Claire was there, having just finished the demolition of another hapless, unseeded player on Centre Court. She asked, “How was Mary Ann?”

“Not a problem. Straight sets.”

“I’m impressed. I was worried she might be a handful.” Then Claire said, “Well, we have two days off.” The Committee hadn’t yet posted the Intended Order of Play for Thursday, but probably we wouldn’t play our next matches until Saturday. “Let’s bathe, find Richard and go out for dinner. Don’t worry, I won’t attack him until he and I are back home in our flat.”

“I can’t. I have to go to a party.”

“I forgot! It’s the season, and you’re a young, unmarried lady looking for a husband!”

I laughed. “My current state of mind is to spend my life as a celibate spinster. No, this is a purely social obligation.”

“Meaning?”

“This is the party for Mark’s younger sister, Catherine. Her party is the reason I’m here in London for the season. Lady Thakeham invited me to come to Catherine’s party. All the other invitations followed. Mother would – well, I don’t know what she’d do if I skipped Catherine’s party, but it wouldn’t be good. She might make me withdraw from Wimbledon. Now I have to run because I need to get dressed.”

“You’ll be careful at the party, and after?”

“Yes, older sister, I’ll be careful.” I leaned over and kissed Claire’s cheek. “Can we practice tomorrow morning?”

“I have Court 12 at 11.” Another perquisite of being the holder: Claire decided when and where she would practice, as opposed to being told by the stewards whether she would be granted any practice time on a particular day. “Too early after a party for the season?”

“No, I’ll be asleep in bed, alone, by midnight. See you at 11.” I ran off to Albert House.

W
EDNESDAY EVENING
, 27 J
UNE
1962
P
ARTY FOR
L
ADY
C
ATHERINE
T
HAKEHAM
G
ROSVENOR
H
OUSE
M
AYFAIR

I took the Tube from Wimbledon Park to Marble Arch, changing at Notting Hill Gate. I tell myself that I dazzled my fellow riders on the Tube that evening; I was wearing my new Tinling gown, and a small diamond necklace, which Mother had loaned me, and which reached down just to my décolletage – not that I had much décolletage to work with.

I had been eating so many meals with Claire, who was convinced that I should double my intake of food, that I had put on an extra kilo in weight. I worried I might not fit into the gown, but actually it fit better now than when Teddy had finished it.

I felt elegant and sophisticated, and I loved it. Several people on the Tube recognized me from the BBC’s television coverage of my match and congratulated me.

Catherine’s party was in the ballroom at Grosvenor House and breakfast was to be served at two o’clock in the morning. I planned, though, to stay just long enough to be polite, for which I thought about an hour would be sufficient. I would be civil to Mark and avoid hitting him again. I walked into the ballroom just before 10 o’clock. The dancing hadn’t started yet, and the guests were standing around in groups, drinking.

A young man I didn’t know turned to me as I entered the room, put his drink down on a table and began to applaud. He cheered, “Well Done!” Then others began applauding and cheering. They crowded around me, and someone called out, “Are you going to win Wimbledon?” Claire had told me how to answer
that
question, and I replied, “I’m only thinking about the next round.”

One of the men in the crowd wore a formal Royal Marine uniform. He was tall, with blond hair, and I guessed he was about 30 years old. He walked toward me. “May I introduce myself? I’m John Fitzwilliam. I saw you play today.”

“I’m Fiona Hodgkin. You saw the match on the telly?”

“No, I was there. My family has debentures for the first Wednesday. I was watching Claire Kershaw’s match on Centre Court, but from the cheering your match on the Graveyard sounded exciting. So I went over to Court 2. Were you injured in your fall in the second set?”

I laughed. “No, not at all, except for my dignity.” I reached out and tapped my finger on a small medal on his chest. It was a silver cross bearing the Royal Cypher – ‘EIIR,’ for Elizabeth II Regina. “What an interesting medal.”

He looked at me quizzically. “Do you know the DSC?” He meant the Distinguished Service Cross, which Britain awards for gallantry in combat at sea.

“My father has one. He was a ship’s surgeon in the Royal Navy in the war. I’ve only seen him wear the medal once or twice. He wore it when the Queen came to Bermuda in 1953. The Queen walked down Front Street, and we saw her. Father wears the ribbon sometimes. On Christmas Eve, usually.”

“That’s right, I’ve heard you’re from Bermuda. Why was your father awarded the DSC?”

“I don’t know. I asked him, and he told me he couldn’t recall. But I don’t think he was being truthful. For what service were you awarded the DSC?”

“I can’t recall.”

We both laughed.

“Are you on a ship?”

“No, usually not.”

“Shore duty, then.”

“No, not that, either. I’m a Captain in the Special Boat Section.” This was, and is, Britain’s elite, small, and secretive naval commando group.

I put my hand on his arm. “Captain Fitzwilliam,” I started, but he stopped me.

“Please call me John.”

“I will, if you will call me Fiona. But, John, I need to find the guest of honor and pay my respects.”

“I do as well, but I don’t know her. Will you introduce me?” He offered me his arm. I put my hand in the crook of his elbow, and we set off across the room. “How do you come to know the Thakehams?” he asked.

“My father and Catherine’s father served together in the war, and they’re friends. Lady Thakeham was kind enough to invite me to London for Catherine’s party and for the whole season.”