I admit it; I am not a fan of professional athletics. My idea of a perfect sports-related evening is when my wife finds somebody else to go to a baseball game with her, so that I can stay home and watch a Busby Berkely musical. (By the way, if anybody ever holds a contest to construct the least heterosexual sentence possible that contains the phrase “my wife,” I plan on entering the one you have just read.)
But Lauren has always thought it would be fun to go to Wimbledon, and since going to Wimbledon will never require a smaller investment of time than it does now, I agree to come along.
And thus it is that, on a beautifully sunny day that would be absolutely perfect for sitting inside watching a movie, I find myself having to endure fresh air and world-class athletics.

After wandering a bit among the various courts, we make our way to Court 3, where Andy Ram and Anastassia Rodionova are about to take on Scott Humphries and Elena Bovina in a quarterfinal mixed doubles match. Since Humphries is the only American of the four players–and since it is, after all, the fourth of July–I decide to root for him and his partner.
Needless to say, having chosen my favored player somewhat arbitrarily, I find it hard to summon up true passion in my cheering. But sitting just behind me in the bleachers is a uniformed British schoolboy whose passion is undeniably genuine. Every time Andy Ram interacts with the ball in any way, the schoolboy calls out one of three things. “Well done, Ram!” if the interaction turns out well; “Bad luck, Ram!” if it goes poorly; and “You can do it, Ram!” if the outcome is still in doubt. At first, Ram accepts this attention graciously. But as the match goes on, Ram begins to look a bit doubtful, as if he can’t quite imagine somebody being so enthusiastic about him, and is therefore beginning to wonder if he is being made fun of.
While Ram is growing doubtful, I am beginning to see the schoolboy’s point. Despite my best patriotic efforts, I find it hard to maintain my enthusiasm for Humphries and Bovina. Ram and Rodonov are simply more fun to watch; as they play, they go through a gamut of human emotions–frustration, excitement, suspense–and all they while, they have a faint air of amusement, as if they realize just how silly it is for two adults to be making a living playing games. Humphries and Bovina, meanwhile, maintain an unyielding air of grim intensity, as if they were watching an epileptic attempt to disarm a nuclear warhead.
In the end, I’m delighted when Ram and Rodonov win. They will win the semifinals match, too, and go on to face Martina Navratilova and Leander Paes in the finals, which we watch on TV. Ram and Rodonov lose this match–and as Navratilova joyously celebrates her record-equalling 20th Wimbledon trophy, I think I can hear, faintly over the din of the crowd, a voice calling out, “Bad luck, Ram!”
Events described occurred on July 4, 2003.