A couple of weeks ago, this column lamented how predictable Wimbledon had become as a spectacle and how slow the All England Club had been to embrace change - by, for instance, introducing retractable roofs to the show courts or replacing those cherished grass courts with a surface more conducive to balanced tennis. So it was something of a surprise when, following the publication of that column, I received an invitation to spend the day at Wimbledon as a guest of BBC Resources, which has overall responsibility for the outside broadcast coverage of this year's event.
I chose a good day to be there - ladies' quarter-final day. As a spectacle, women's tennis as played on grass is preferable to the men's game. Although many of the leading female players of today have the bulk and strength of men, their game is not entirely dominated by power and heavy hitting. They offer touch, guile, grace - and, in certain instances, other more attractive feminine qualities.
The first quarter-final on Centre Court, however, between Venus Williams and Lindsay Davenport, confirmed most of my anti-Wimbledon prejudices, because here were two giantesses attempting to bludgeon each other into submission. I mean no disrespect to either woman when I say that it was like watching two men. Tedious. But it was a thrill, by contrast, to watch Serena Williams take on Jennifer Capriati in what was surely one of the matches of the tournament. With both women operating from the baseline, the game passed in a rapture of striving, with each player throwing their whole being into every shot. The pace was frantic; the rallies were often long and mesmerising.
The royal box that afternoon was full not of Windsors but of minor celebrities - the new royalty of our age. Among them were good old Cliff Richard, Cilla Black, Elaine Page and the former England cricket captain Graham Gooch, turned out in a rather natty, lightweight, cream-coloured suit. Capriati was being cheered on by the American actor Matthew Perry (from Friends), whom, it is often reported, she first met in rehab, while Serena's devoted father, Richard, whom I later met outside Centre Court, was watching his daughter.
Williams pere has himself become something of a Wimbledon celebrity - dressed in shorts and a red polo shirt, he moved through the throngs with regal authority, pausing only to receive applause and sign autographs. He deserves the applause for his singularity of purpose of vision, and for the way he inspired his young daughters to break the oppressive white hegemony of American tennis.
There will, one hopes, come a time when black players are so commonplace that their presence on a tennis court will be unworthy of comment. For now, however, the Williams sisters should be celebrated not only for who they are but also for what they represent. As Serena told the Observer Sport Monthly: "I'm a black player 100 per cent. I'm playing for those little girls who never watched tennis, who never had a chance to play tennis." Would that we could produce her like in this country.
Having spent the day at Wimbledon, I accept that I was wrong about the All England Club. Yes, it remains - along with the army and the Jockey Club - one of the most reactionary institutions in Britain, but it is far more modern in outlook and approach than I ever imagined. The grass courts, the retired wing commanders in their blazers and ties, the presence of young army officers at the various entrances to the Centre Court, the Pimm's and champagne, the strawberries and cream, even the rain - all this is part of the image that Wimbledon wishes to project of itself and to sell to the world. All this is part of its brand.
Behind the charm and old-world civility is a ruthlessly efficient machine wired for profit. Tennis played on grass - certainly the men's game - may be as dull and predictable as Tim Henman himself, but who cares about the subtleties of the game when there's serious money to be made?
Jason Cowley is the editor of the Observer Sport Monthly
