When I was pregnant with Elle, Dave and I went to England to pick up my brother from his mission (along with my whole family).
And I have a giant confession to make about our trip: we snuck into Wimbledon.
Dave, sick of standing in line with the masses to see if we may possibly be able to get in, and being the master of getting into where he wants, found a way in through a maze of workers’ quarters. It was a total labyrinth and I have no idea to this day how he figured it out, but he miraculously found himself right in the practice court with all the bigwigs.
Samprus was there. Martina Hingis. Stefi Graf.
He acted like he was supposed to be there, shot a few gun-fingers at his fav. players, and promptly figured out a way to get not only pregnant me along with baby Max in a stroller in through the maze, he got my whole family in.
And as you know, we are no small crowd.
As we sat there basking in the perfect weather and soaking in one of our favorite sports to watch, Dave and I made a pact: some day we were going to get to all the grand slams.
**note: My Dad, being the honest guy that he is, and in a little bit of guilty retrospect, did end up writing a really nice note to the good gentlemen at Wimbledon to let them know that indeed, their security may have a few glitches along with a check to cover the amount we would have had to pay had we stood in that long line for long enough.
Mostly because of our pact.
But also because Dave found these cheap tickets on the internet.
And really, is there a better way to spend the day than to go hang out watching tennis? Seriously? I don’t think so.
Plus it was much more “American.” Waffle fries and the works. At Wimbledon it seemed like they just had crumpets and tea cakes. And American announcers just don’t sound quite as proper as they do at Wimbledon.
We watched the women’s quarterfinals.
We watched some old-timers like Billy Jean King play on another court.