Love All

By sheer will,she wedges in through the fast-slamming doors. Flushed from the sprint and still breathless,she asks: Wimbeel-dawn? We,her co-passengers,nod back approvingly. Ja, says the German banker. Da, confirms the Croatian hippie. Yep, agrees the priest from Scotland. Our happy international conglomeration chugs along towards Southfieldsthe station closest to the All England Lawn Tennis Clubblissfully unaware that we have heard the last of the yes-es for the day.

Mrs Egwu is from Abuja,Nigeria,and works as a receptionist for an orthodontist in London. Since September last year,she has kept aside a portion of her pay to watch her favourite sportsman,Roger Federer,play. The Swiss greatwho celebrated the 10th anniversary of his first Wimbledon win the previous dayis not scheduled to begin his second-round match before 4 pm.

With well over three hours to go,there is enough time to harbour dreams of a Centre Court ticket. Or surely watching him from the famous mound below the arenas large screen,known as Henman Hill.

That hope is killed a fraction of a second after Mrs Egwu and we disembark the train.

The Wimbledon groundstaff strongly advises all passengers heading towards the tennis to turn back at the station itself, a young steward says into her megaphone at the edge of the platform. I repeat, she goes on,even as the thousands around her sigh in agony. There are over 5,000 queuers waiting for on-day tickets,who may or may not gain entry into the grounds. This is a waste of your time.

For Mrs Egwu and a few hundred others,the days journey is over. The closest they come to the immaculately manicured green lawns and purple court walls of SW19 is the temporary decor of the Southfields station floor. But many others march ahead,looking to chance their luck.

It doesnt take us long to realise that theres a far better chance of winning the national lottery. Or even two.

If you ever want to see grown men in expensive suits break into a knee-twisting,breathlessly full-tilt run,then the mile-long road leading to Wimbledon Park from the Southfields tube station is the place to be. Superintendent Franklin,who drops by daily during this fortnight to oversee his staff manning this street,has witnessed plenty of it.

There is absolutely no point in running when you are already several hours late. I cannot begin to count the number of injuries I have seen in my time, says the man who has been on tennis duty since 1984,a year before Boris Becker turned 17 and Wimbledon legend.

Twins Susan and Avery Clanrice,19,live a couple of blocks away from the main Wimbledon gate. For 14 days,including the first Sunday when no play is held,the front patio of their house transforms into a mini cafe. Their speciality is the meatball that looks rather like one of the 54,000 tennis balls used in play during the course of this Grand Slam.

We make and sell everything from croissants to German sausages. But despite an army of hungry folk crossing past us in the afternoons,business is usually slow at this time, says Avery. Why? Because theyre all late and theyre all running, she explains. Susan interrupts. We want to tell them to stop,for there isnt a hope in hell to enter then. But we always get to say Hah,told you so when they return disappointed, she says,before adding,The Queue never disappoints us.

Here in the holy grail of all sporting events,the queue to get in is simply known as The Queue. The prize is a championship known simply as The Championships. Its all very backslapping in a British sort of way,but one look at The Queue and you understand why. It is long. Very long.

At the gate to the queuing area,a man wearing a jacket with the tag Honorary Steward warns: Gentlemen,this is an exercise in futility. But if youre ready to brave it out,then please join the end of The Queue. Most trudge on,having come this far,only to be singed as they notice that The Queue is parked on a field the size of an entire golf course. At 1 pm on Wednesday,The Queue coils around this freshly mowed grass bed for four lengths. We find the very back of it signalled by another steward,holding a green flag with a large Q emblazoned on it.

A fellow latecomer estimates there must be at least 4,000 fans waiting to get in. Close. 4,738, says Alexis,the flag-bearing steward,who hands over to the fresh arrivals a piece of paper with the days date and several other larger numbers printed on it.

These are your Queue Cards. Your number is 9,738. The first 5,000 to queue up gain entry for the start of play. The remaining,which is now 4,738,wait indefinitely.

And what exactly is indefinitely? Alexis smiles. The last entry time is at 8 pm. And the number of entrants is directly proportional to the number of exits, she says. This is Wimbledon. Once you get in,you dont leave.

We do. Seven hours later,with The Queue having hardly budged a dozen feet,the only way forward is back.

Did you see that? Roger just lost in the second round to an unseeded Ukrainian named Serhiy Stakhovsky, the Clanrice twins yelp,making many choke on meatballs. But look at the bright side, says Susan. With both Federer and Rafael Nadal out,theres a far better chance of getting into the courts from tomorrow onwards. Adds Avery: The key is to join The Queue before 7 am. That will ensure a spot amongst the first 5,000.

The alarm rings at 5 am. I catch the first tube from Canary Wharf and for the second time in as many days,jog towards Wimbledon. It is 6.45 am and I am not alone. Nor is the flag-bearing steward at the end of The Queue. Three deceivingly docile-looking greyhounds tug at their leashes as he hands out the days Queue Cards. The first hound wears a bib that reads: Serener than Serena. The next claims it barks louder than McEnroe. The third hound,the most playful of the lot,is named Fasterer than Federer.

McEnroe junior barks as we unravel our Queue Cards with the same zeal as Charlie peeling his chocolate wrapper in the pages of the Roald Dahl classic. The ticket seems pretty glittery as it declares I am the 3,829th person to join the Queue on Thursday,or the fourth day of The Championships. Well within the first 5,000.

Suddenly,the three greyhounds from the Wimbledon Canine Welfare Society turn to the far end of the field,from where a waft of fresh bacon rises. Meat is being roasted over a barbecue placed beside what seems to be a tent. Make that a thousand tents. For the first time,I notice the full-blown camp site nearby,with two neat,parallel rows of tents along the south wall of the park. The wall that fences us from our dream.

They camped overnight for todays tickets, chips in the steward. They joined The Queue ahead of you folks. The first 500 of them will be assured tickets for Centre Court. The next 500 for Court 1. And the 500 after that for Court 2.

And what about us,we ask. You are queuing for ground passes,for courts from three to 19, he says with a chuckle. And for Henman Hill,of course.

So heres the deal. Wimbledon is the only Grand Slam that sells on-day passes for its show courts,but demand far outstrips supply. Centre Court,the holy ground,contains 15,000 seats. Of these,14,500 are sold in an oversubscribed public ballot the year before or to Debenture ticket holders,as part of a complex system. This leaves 500 tickets for the on-day sale. And why bother with this minuscule number? Because its tradition. Just like camping at SW19,which first started in 1924.

The Queue crawls ahead through the gate,past the Wimbledon golf course,beyond the security check and into the turnstiles below the main entrance by 10.30 am. 20 for your ground pass,please, says the man in the ticket booth. An entry,at last. And with both Federer and Nadal men who have won nine out of the last 10 crowns here at Wimbledonout and Andy Murray scheduled to play only the next day,the outside courts are expected to be rather empty for start of play. Only,they arent.

Swiss and Spanish flags are few,but the blue and white furls of Scotland are everywhere. Men with kilts,bagpipes and unfamiliar accents have swarmed the court to pledge their support for Murray,looking to end the jinx of a Briton never having won The Championships since Fred Perry,who is now more famous amongst the youngsters as an apparel brand in the UK,in 1936.

Having given up on getting entry into even the outside courts,we elbow for standing room on Henman Hill,which now looks more like Murray Mound.

I think I need a drink or two. And lest we forget,a tent.

The Queue is a 24-hour animal that never sleeps. During the day,and at the back of the line,Wimbledon can seem like a rather bitter place to be even for the most ardent fan. The Pimms is too expensive,the strawberries too stale,the cream too sour. On the court,the grass is too slow,the balls are too heavy and the age-old art of touch-play,serve-and-volley tennis is dead. But when you are armed with a 30-pound tent at 4.30 am on Friday,to camp for Peoples Saturday,the warm glow of hope washes over even the remorseless,cold and forever wet British weather.

Come on lads,follow me to The Queue for the camp site, says Albert Wharf,a veteran steward whose nose bends much like the beak of Rufusthe trained Wimbledon hawk that keeps pigeons at bay,and from excreting over the courts. Its time to pitch tents today to pay big money tomorrow 74 for Centre Court,62 for Court 1. We have another roof to build, Wharf adds. Another of those age-old Wimbledon traditions.

Why cant they just get sponsors to increase the capacity of all courts and slap roofs on most of them? screams Pranav Ullal,a microbiologist from Lausanne,Switzerland. But today,well in line in the shortest but most strenuous of all Queues,it is endearing that SW19 depends on just us,the paying public,to run every aspect of its show.

This day,my Queue Card number is 274. Centre Court is a surety,just over 24 hours from Friday morning to Saturday morning away. With the last of the iron pegs nailed into the soft grass,I look around with fondness at the 273 tents in front of me and the others behind. At 9.30 am,Brandt and Ola,a father and daughter from Poland,occupants of tents 275 and 276,respectively,open a bottle of vodka.

This is to celebrate our first successful camping trip, says Brandt. The last time we were here,it was raining like today and we arrived with two sleeping bags and an umbrella. It wasnt pleasant. We polish off the vodka,alternating between the less leaky of the three tents,by 10 am. The rest of the day is a breeze.

The player owes the gallery as much as an actor owes the audience, the effervescent Bill Tilden once said,who apart from winning three Wimbledon titles and a total of 10 Grand Slams,was also an actor in self-produced Broadway plays. Big Bill,as he was called here,knew what he was talking about. For here at The Championships,the players owe the gallery the most.

The men,women and children of all races and creed that constitute the Wimbledon gallery are nothing but pilgrims,who arrive from the far corners of the globe to pay obeisance to their gods; to take a box seat in the spectacle of life; to take part in the meeting of guts and balls,on and off the court.

Camping stories of the pilgrims struggle and success resonate across the park. These make the deeply spiritual ones happy. All around the tarpaulin roofs,the camp is now buzzing. The Scots are huddled around a radio,tuning into Murrays third-round match. The Australians and the South Africans,on the other hand,are huddled over an ellipsoidal ballboth sides equally confused over just which style of rugby they agreed to play.

Dont play too hard,lads. There are no showers here, bellows Wharf,words falling on deaf,wet and perspiring ears. And the trenches are not to be bathed in.

The trenches are the camps portable toilets,balanced delicately over a couple of strong wooden stumps. The queues to use the trenches are civil and long,longest usually just after sunset and before sunrise.

In between dusk and dawn,darkness blankets over south London. Now,the site is a snoring celebration of human triumph.

Triumph with a T.