Not Quite 30-Love

#TheMusicMan, #PreCrisis

#TheMusicMan, #PreCrisis

My soon-to-be New Haven boss, James, was like the music man walking through the Wimbledon players’ restaurant, saying ‘hello’ to everyone. They all wanted to talk to him too. That’s what happens when you own a tournament with a multi-million-dollar prize pool. This was the first time I had had access to the player areas. In Sydney, Rome and with the Lawn Tennis Association, it was economy-class access only. Now I was in first class.

As James’ shadow, I stared at the famous faces that were coming in and out of view. It was like being invited to the Academy Awards, except they were all wearing branded tracksuits. The girls accessorised with diamonds the size of my fist, the men accessorised with girls wearing diamonds the size of my fist. My fake Prada sunglasses stayed on my head as James introduced me around. There were lots of other tournament directors, reporters and operational people. It was fascinating.

Federer, his wife and their two sets of twins hung out in the restaurant waiting for his next match. They looked like an internet meme. An advertising agency could not have created a more enticing family image. Perfection personified. Venus Williams sashayed past. She was at least seven inches taller than me. Taller than any guy I had dated. But she moved effortlessly. Her head high in the clouds, there was no chance of eye-contact.

Nobody was alone. They all had entourages. Most of them sat in silence on their phones, while their entourages did the same. Typical modern-day relationships, where online presence trumped physical realities. Despite the lack of interaction, it was still important to have people around you, even if you ignored them.

I was careful not to breach trust by taking photos in the players’ restaurant, but a sly selfie in front of the entrance with the ‘Players Only’ sign was a must – @NQ30Love now had over 1,000 followers. My sister Lou posted #LivingTheDream with a huge smilie emoji on my f*******: page. Jen posted #ShowUsTheMensLockerroom with a wink.

**

On the last day James was in town, we were sitting in the players’ restaurant when Peter Fallon was walked through the player lounge, flanked by his token diamond-crusted female. I stood. He stopped, raised his hand to acknowledge James, and attempted to walk on.

‘Peter, come on, don’t be shy. Come meet my new assistant, Katie.’

Peter looked around for a saviour, visibly shrank when he realised none would appear, swivelled on the spot and came over.

‘Do you two know each other? All Aussies know each other, right?’ said James.

‘Yes,’ I said, simultaneous with Peter’s ‘No’. Blushing, I added. ‘I mean, of course I know of Peter. He’s a legend.’

At James’ behest, Peter shook my hand without making eye contact, patted James on the back and left.

‘Well, that was nice, wasn’t it, Katie?’

I nodded.

‘I bet he was one of your childhood heroes.’

At least James understood the age relationship.

‘Did you enjoy taking my seat in the president’s box yesterday?’

‘Yes sir. Oh my God, I sure did.’

‘Well, I’m leaving tomorrow, but I know you’ll probably be in London for a couple of weeks until they sort that visa out for you.’

‘Yes, Mr Peterson.’

‘I’ve got a suggestion on how you can pass some of that time. How about you take my pass and watch some tennis while you’re here? Sound good to you?’

‘Are you sure that’s okay? It sounds fantastic to me, but I don’t want to get you into any trouble.’

‘Don’t you worry about that, Katie. I’ve cleared it with the tournament. You can take my place in the president’s box right up until the semifinals. After that, the seats have all been allocated.’

‘Thank you.’ OMG, I could kiss you.

‘Don’t worry about it, Katie. You’ll pay me back in hard work during our event this summer.’

‘Yes sir, I will, sir.’