Wimbledon is not a one-hit wonder. It’s a busy, breathing estate. The grass sleeps, the club parties, the museum teaches, and the car park becomes a cinema. It’s like a grand old mansion where the party only happens two weeks a year, but the ghosts of tennis are always hanging around.
So next time you see that empty stadium in November, don’t feel sad. There’s a groundsman somewhere, whispering to a blade of grass, “You’re gonna be famous again soon.” And maybe a croquet player is having the time of their life on the lawn. You just don’t see it on telly.
