Wimbledon = summer!

When I was 12 or 13 years old, some hot and humid summer days sent me inside to the welcoming coolness of my parent's den--where the curtains darkened the room and I wrapped myself in a blanket and watched tennis.  I honestly don't remember who dominated the sport then, or if the first matches I watched were of the French Open or Wimbledon.  But I do know that it sparked an interest in the sport--which sent my younger brother and I, along with many of the other neighborhood kids, to make the short trek to the neighborhood high school tennis courts and try our hand at the net.  

As is common with me, I quickly understood the concept of the sport and its rules.  However, I never became very good at actually PLAYING the sport.  My brother, on the other hand, continued to play, joining the tennis team in high school and eventually being named "most valuable player" his senior year.  He also played quite a bit during his first years in college.

My affair with tennis, however, is primarily perpetuated by its association with carefree summer days.  As I write this today, I am a vacationing English instructor in a rented townhouse on the Gulf of Mexico.  From my chair, I can hear the ripple of water in the bay, and if I glance to my right, the water is so close I can imagine I am on a cruise ship rather than on land.  But straight ahead of me is a 36-inch   television screen.  And I am observing my yearly ritual of "breakfast at Wimbledon."

Yes, there are strawberries.  No, there is no cream (I prefer a little agave syrup).  And although I've always like Roger Federer (no reason not to like the guy), I'm firmly in Andy Murray's camp.

The first British gentleman in the finals since 1938?  Love it.  His hometown fans in Scotland squeezed into the pubs to watch?  Priceless.  Princess Catherine and Pippa in the stands?  And the Beckham "royalty," as well?  What could be better?  And Murray's making us proud so far.

Today, I'm feeling as British as my great, great, great, great. . . . grandparents.  I feel the tea coursing through my veins and my puppy (who is at least 50% Yorkshire terrier) doesn't seem to mind my occasional outbursts.  He's sidled up beside me, wearing his plaid Hamish McBeth harness I bought at Harrod's two years ago, and enjoying the show.

Looks like it may be a bit overcast and gloomy at the beach today.  In my mind, God is giving me a bit of London weather.  Many thanks!