Breakfast at Wimbledon

 

One annual tradition in the Sidekick's family is watching the Men's Finals broadcast from the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club in Wimbledon.

Mum and Dad used to revel in Wimbledon. In India we would listen on the radio when we could. Later, after the kids were gone and they got a miniature TV, they would watch whatever the feed would provide. When they retired to Canada, often schedules were adjusted to account for the broadcast times over the two weeks of the tournament. 

In remote ranch country, however, it's pretty tough to garner support for getting up later than usual to watch two people hitting balls at each other on pasture that looks a little the worse for wear at the baselines. Did someone let the horses graze at Centre Court to achieve this shoddy grass? Nothing that a couple of tenths of rain overnight couldn't set to rights, however …

I can see how Wimbledon on the 855 is going to look. I recruit the faithful: the invitation is extended to my family and a few friends, and several of them kindly humour me by showing up. 

Those of us who stayed overnight make our sleepy way to the living room between 5:30 and 6:00 a.m. Someone gropes for the remote in the light of the breaking dawn and shuffles through the channels until we find the correct station. Someone else puts the kettle on for tea and measures coffee as carefully as possible with only one eye and half a brain in gear, then feeds the brewer approximately the right amount of water.

Remembering the greatness!

We slump in chairs and on couches and watch John McEnroe and "Chrissie" - Chris Evert, my grandpa's perennial favourite - discuss noteworthy moments of both the current season as well as of championships past. 

We talk about all the men we've loved: Ashe, Borg, McEnroe, Becker, Lendl, Edberg, Agassi, Hewitt, Stich, Chan, Ivanisevic, Henman, Murray, Roddick, Raonic, Anderson, Djokovic.

Nadal.

Federer.

The Final match of our dreams was not meant to be this year. Congratulations duly went out to Djokovic, whom my Dad liked so much.

And then we turned our attention to the other part of Breakfast at Wimbledon.

The Breakfast part.

This year, because the awe-inspiring Serena Williams made it through the rounds to the Women's finals EIGHT MONTHS after giving birth to her daughter, including labour and delivery complications and unexpected health issues, we started early on Saturday instead of Sunday.

Though the runner up, truly a magnificent champion:

"... for all the moms out there …"

Pictures say far more than words, so here are a couple of shots.

Thank you, one and all, for a wonderful weekend.

And if there is anyone on the 855 or beyond who would like to join us next year for "Breakfast at Wimmy," as The Good Rancher has dubbed it, just say the word: there's always room at the table, for either the Wimbledon or the Breakfast part!

Just like there's always hope in my heart for the ultimate final with Rafa and Rog …

Saturday morning brunch

"This is The Greatest Outdoor

Show on Earth?!

Strawberry shortcake served on an

eponymous Wimbledon

Sunday morning began with tea, English scones and 

our take on Devon cream and homemade strawberry jam ...

… followed by buttery scrambled eggs, breakfast sausage links and coffee.

I received my own trophy: my friend Rhonda

gave me this treasure from Bud's family -

imagine living in a flat overlooking

the courts back in the day!