Roger and Me (Wimbledon 2008)

Don’t look for me in the above picture because I aint’ there. This was a shot I took of THE Royal Box from my seat not too far away on Wimbledon’s center court. Just below us, Roger Federer was elegantly kicking some chump’s ass in a most routine manner. Roger was only moderately sublime because that was all the sublimeness he needed to beat one Robin Soderling. This being me second day on center court, it was all so damn routine, even a tad boring. Glancing around the joint I couldn’t help but notice the legion of sartorially bedecked sycophants in THE Royal Box, where one MUST wear a tie and jacket.

Well, you know I live for people, and moments, like this. There was Lord-what’s-his-name in his straw hat nodding off whilst his wife, Lady Chattering, was leaning over him and flapping up a storm with some pearled-out-Duchess-wannabe. Two seats over, another striped shirt sycophant had half his finger up his nose. When he withdrew it to inspect the contents, I quickly reached again for my trusty camera. But before I could get off a few snaps, Sir-Striped-Shirt thought twice about the royal booger and simply shooed it off his finger. Drat, another shot missed.

Even Lord-what’s-his-name had aroused from his stupor and was now nodding his head on cue at Lady Chattering’s endlessly inane banter. “Oh yes, my dear. Well of course, yes. Quite, quite, yes – aha, aha, jolly good love.”

It was all so civilized and rarefied, truly a thrill for someone like me who possesses an abiding respect for the inherent elegance of the landed gentry populating THE Royal Box.

Still, as riveting as it was, once again I focused me gaze towards the tennis but soon found meself unable to parry this enormously pregnant woman a few rows below who had stood up and effectively blocked out most of center court. Before I get into that, let me back up the manure truck and digress an hour or so here…

… There are moments when I wish me sister Kerry and her encyclopedic knowledge of trashy pop culture was nearby and one of those occurred during me time in the Rolex suite at Wimbledon. There was a crew of us journalists on assignment from “China”, nine to be exact, who were graciously afforded the opportunity to eat drink and be merry in Rolex’s suite just off center court with a great perch of the entire Wimbledon complex.

Trying to be the best possible guests we could, we decided it would be rude to turn down all that delicious champagne and Pimms on offer and even though we were working we started every day the way one should: with a claret or two of superbly chilled champers. We would troop off to center court for a bit, do a stroll around the lovely grounds and then come back for another delicious lunch. The great thing about the Rolex suite, at least according to one of the official Wimbledon photographers stationed nearby, was that they intentionally keep their numbers low. Instead of having 50 or 60 visitors, there is never no more than 20 or so.

Well after a couple of laps around the grounds I decided to head back to Rolexville and throw meself into a pile of refreshing Pimms. Sitting on the terrace all by me lonesome, I could not help but notice the woman who had come out and settled in two tables away from me. Even I could recognize that it was Roger Federer’s long-time girlfriend Mirka Vavinec. Federer, of course, is not only Swiss but he is a huge Rolex guy and features prominently in all their marketing. She nodded and smiled ever so slightly and then within minutes Federer’s American agent, perpetuating every stereotype you ever had about sports agents, was swooping about. He grabbed the Rolex guy and then disappeared before reappearing minutes later with some big old pregnant blond woman hiding behind a huge pair of designer sunglasses and some guy wearing a black t-shirt and blue jeans. And to think that I was feeling a tad under dressed in the Rolex suite.

They seemed to be friends of Mirka and after exchanging French air-kisses settled down for an afternoon tea. A friend from Hong Kong sat next to me, nodding toward their table he murmured, “Gwen Stefani.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Gwen Stefani,” He said, “You know, the singer.”

“Oh yeah, of course , sure, sure,” I replied half embarrassingly and immediately I thought of my sister Kerry with her face in a copy of Hello or People magazine while watching the E! Channel. She would have been all over this like a hobo on a ham sandwich and would have instinctively told me not only how many months pregnant Gwen was (a whole bunch by the look of things), but that the dude in the black t-shirt is her husband Gavin Rossdale, lead singer and guitarist of the band Bush and a huge tennis fan. I knew none of this of course…

… Now about that enormously pregnant woman in the family and friends box who was blocking my view of center court. When she turned around, I couldn’t help meself and said to no one in particular: “Isn’t that Gwen Stefani? Damn, it is. And I think that’s her husband, Gavin Rossdale, you know the guy from Bush?” And of course everybody within earshot nodded and ooohed and aaahed and got out their cameras to take a picture of the celebrity couple thanks to my ultra-perceptive peepers.

I didn’t bother to mention that I had overheard them talking in the Rolex suite and that it was the same kind of inane banter that you or I might indulge in. Gav was saying how tired he was from carrying all of Gwen’s shopping bags on her most recent bout of retail therapy. Sounds awful familiar, doesn’t it men?

After the match, we (Gwen Gav, Mirka, moi) all adjourned back to Rolexville for some scones with clotted cream. Rumors were rapidly circulating that the man himself was on his way to the suite after barely breaking a sweat against Soderling. And sure enough, no more than 30 minutes after his match the Swiss maestro appeared looking incredibly refreshed in his stylish Wimbledon limited edition cardigan.

There could not have been more than 15 or 20 of us in the suite and try as we might, we kind of knew that out of respect to our host Rolex, we could not make a big deal of Fed being there. No pictures, no fawning, no contact. I knew instinctively it was best to leave him be as he went over and snuggled up next to his girl while exchanging hugs and air kisses with Gwen and Gav. This was the Rolex suite, a refuge from the madness for Fed. But you just knew that certain members of the Chinese media would (unknowingly) breach protocol and sure enough a couple started unabashedly snapping off shots of Fed and his celebrity laced coterie. Well the Rolex folks quickly popped up and clamped down on the offending mainland shutterbugs and while this semi-commotion was going on my camera, exhibiting a mind of its own, snapped off a contraband shot or two.

Now I have to explain that I just, and I mean JUST, got this camera before leaving for London. I have no idea what it can and cannot do. I am really learning all of this on the fly, often with embarrassing consequences. The very first time I used the camera was when I met up with Senator Gleyze who was on a brief stop over in Hong Kong from his fortified compound in the Philippines. The Senator and I spent a brilliantly sunny afternoon at one of the more obscure and hidden beaches in Hong Kong. Between the copious Corona’s and the Senator’s endless babble, I was still trying to figure out how to turn the power switch on the camera. When I finally got it under control I just pointed the damn things and let it shoot. Suddenly this woman walks in the way of my camera. Uhm, uhm, excuse me…

Before I could yell “Cover up woman!” it was too late. The shutter went off and I am still trying to figure out how to erase the picture, this being a new camera and all. If any of you are also using a Sony Cybershot DSC-H9, can you help me here? Can you do that for a brother? Because technophobia strikes deep in the heartland and I clearly cannot be held responsible for what this mutant camera is doing.

Now where was I? Oh yeah. SW19. All England Lawn and Tennis Club. Wimbledon. Strawberries and Cream. You know the routine.