by Mitch Albom | Jul 16, 1987 | Detroit Free Press
MUIRFIELD, Scotland — “Maybe you can help me with directions,” I said, unfolding a map as I stepped to the counter. “I’m trying to get to the golf, the British Open, and I can’t seem to . . . “
I looked up.
I was talking to a 12-year-old.
“You . . . don’t drive, I take it?”
“Afreeed noot,” he said.
I have this problem whenever I go to Scotland. Actually, I have three problems whenever I go to Scotland. I keep getting in the wrong side of the car. I keep driving on the wrong side of the road. And I can’t understand a thing they say.
by Mitch Albom | Jul 6, 1987 | Detroit Free Press
WIMBLEDON, England — He had just won Wimbledon, no worries, mate, and now he jumped into the stands and started running up the steps. Never mind that the Duke and Duchess of Kent were waiting at midcourt, that all the pomp and circumstance of this tournament was...
by Mitch Albom | Jul 5, 1987 | Detroit Free Press
WIMBLEDON, England — Youth will be served.
Youth will be volleyed.
Youth will be backhanded and forehanded and slammed and cross-courted and finally, on this early summer day, youth, in the form of 18-year-old Steffi Graf, would be defeated. At Wimbledon. In the final. By Martina Navratilova, 30, who, following the winning point, leaped in the air not once, not twice, but three times, screaming, “YEAH! YEAH! YEAH!”
Not bad for an old lady, huh?
by Mitch Albom | Jul 4, 1987 | Detroit Free Press
WIMBLEDON, England — He went out holding his racket, not his crotch, which is a sign of maturity, I suppose. Jimmy Connors hasn’t always been a grown-up. But when he exited Wimbledon Friday, a semifinal loser to a young and overpowering Pat Cash, he was given an ovation not only for today but for a lot of yesterdays. He got the old man’s cheer.
by Mitch Albom | Jul 4, 1987 | Detroit Free Press
WIMBLEDON, England — He went out holding his racket, not his crotch, which is a sign of maturity, I suppose. Jimmy Connors hasn’t always been a grown-up. But when he exited Wimbledon Friday, a semifinal loser to a young and overpowering Pat Cash, he was...
by Mitch Albom | Jul 3, 1987 | Detroit Free Press
WIMBLEDON, England — What you noticed most was the laughter. How often do you hear that during a Wimbledon semifinal? Chris Evert would hit a great shot, and Martina Navratilova would shake her head and chuckle. Then Martina would scoop a volley out of the grass and Chris would drop her racket. And smile. It was not loud. It was not even often. But it was there. Quiet, gentle, familiar.
Laughter.
“Wasn’t that a little strange?” someone asked Evert afterward. “For such an intense match? To smile and even laugh at certain moments?”
by Mitch Albom | Jul 2, 1987 | Detroit Free Press
WIMBLEDON, England — In another world, they might be late for gym class, ditching the cigarets as they sneaked inside.
“SABATINI?” the teacher would yell.
“Here!”
“GRAF?”
“Here!”
In another world they might streak their hair and wear Reebok sneakers that nobody paid them to endorse. They might jump in the car and crank up the radio, and Sabatini, 17, would beg Graf, 18, to let her drive.
“Don’t tell my dad,” Graf would say.
“No way,” Sabatini would answer.
by Mitch Albom | Jul 1, 1987 | Detroit Free Press
WIMBLEDON, England — The last American tennis man was getting the hell beat out of him. His racket was bleeding. He looked weary, overmatched — he looked old, and that was the worst thing, because Jimmy Connors is old, he’s 34, and by tennis standards that’s ancient, at least to be center court at Wimbledon, taking on a guy more than a decade younger. Clunk! He put a shot into the net. Clunk! He hit long and out. The tennis fans who had been watching him here since 1971 shook their heads grimly, like loved ones on the edge of a hospital bed.
by Mitch Albom | Jul 1, 1987 | Detroit Free Press
WIMBLEDON, England — The last American tennis man was getting the hell beat out of him. His racket was bleeding. He looked weary, overmatched — he looked old, and that was the worst thing, because Jimmy Connors is old, he’s 34, and by tennis standards that’s ancient, at least to be Centre Court at Wimbledon, taking on a guy more than a decade younger. Clunk! He put a shot into the net. Clunk! He hit long and out. The tennis fans who had been watching him here since 1971 shook their heads grimly, like loved ones on the edge of a hospital bed.
by Mitch Albom | Jun 30, 1987 | Detroit Free Press
WIMBLEDON, England — Don’t tell ME about strawberries and cream. I loaded the things. On a truck. At 4 in the morning. That’s right. Wimbledon strawberries. And I ripped open a box and munched a few juicy ones, too, right there, on the dock, with the...
