Q. Who suffered a crushing defeat at the hands of Billie Jean King in the ‘Battle of the Sexes’ in 1973?

A: Bobby Riggs

Q. Which champ left his £200,000 cheque for winning the 1989 Wimbledon title in his tracksuit bottoms, only for his mother to wash them and destroy it?

A: Boris Becker

At age eight, that’s the kind of trivia that intrigued me. Growing up, I was a tennis buff, glued to the Grand Slams, devouring stats by the dozen and going into semi-depression every time my favourite players slipped in the rankings. I have no idea what started my love for the game — I did attempt to learn it, but quickly discovered that my talent didn’t match up to my interest — but like almost every tennis fan, it was Wimbledon that fuelled my passion.

There’s always been something special about Wimbledon. Maybe it’s the stark whites against the verdant courts, maybe it’s the presence of royalty, maybe because it’s the oldest and the most prestigious, or maybe because strawberries and cream seem like a match made in gastronomic heaven. For me, like it is for other tennis buffs, no other tournament — be it Flushing Meadows or Roland Garros — comes close to Wimbledon.

As a tennis fan, I have always been a bit of an anomaly. My scrapbook as a teen had more pictures of Gabriela Sabatini than Steffi Graf and I was a bigger admirer of Stefan Edberg’s elegant serve-and-volley game than Boris Becker’s “boom-boom” serves. During the 1992 Men’s Singles Final, I was the only one silently praying for Goran Ivanisevic to win in a class of 50-odd girls screaming their lungs out for Andre Agassi. Ivanisevic lost — only to win nine years later — but I never really became an Agassi fan. Even today,

I acknowledge Roger Federer as the G.O.A.T., but my heart always, but always, beats for Rafael Nadal.

CENTRE COURT MAGIC

Totally unrelated to my passion for tennis is my penchant for drawing up travel-centric bucket lists. And along with seeing the spectacular Northern Lights some day, I have always wanted to walk the hallowed grounds of Wimbledon. I did manage to tick off the latter — albeit not in game season — on a vacation to London this winter. So how did it feel, is something I have been asked by friends and family ever since I came back from Wimbledon. Well, it isn’t an experience that one can put into words (though I am attempting to do just that here!)

A bitterly cold February afternoon saw me emerge out of the Southfields tube station, and after a brisk — and pretty picturesque —

15-minute walk, I found myself standing in front of a completely deserted stadium gate. To be honest, I wasn’t impressed at first glance — even the regular club members were missing — but a friendly guard let me in and before long, I found myself standing in front of a statue of the legendary Fred Perry, even as the words ‘Centre Court’ loomed large behind him. “Will I be allowed just a glimpse of Centre Court?” I wondered. “You can walk on to Centre Court and also sign up for a tour of the museum,” boomed a friendly voice behind me, almost reading my mind. So I paid a fee of £13 (yes, that little!) and joined in for what was a very personalised tour— there were only four of us — of Centre Court.

So what did I feel walking into something I had always dreamt of? Well, part of it may have been covered by a tarpaulin sheet, but Centre Court was gleaming under the light of the setting rays of what was a rare sunny day. Just standing there among the seats, walking down the aisle, touching a part of the turf, and imagining Federer lobbing one straight into Djokovic’s body… it all felt so magical. Did I mention Fedex and Djoko? Well, it did seem pretty serendipitous that right at that point of time my eyes fell on the scoreboard at the side of the court, partly covered by a blue tarpaulin sheet.

It highlighted the score — 13 versus 12 — of the 2019 Wimbledon final between the two players, a mammoth four-hour, 57-minute final that saw Djokovic just edge past Federer. We had watched that duel on TV… now imagine how I felt standing at Centre Court and seeing that score still etched on the board? A few metres ahead was a board that offered a glimpse of the score of the Ladies Singles Final in which Simona Halep had virtually bulldozed Serena Williams in straight sets. Goosebumps!

Walking around, I craned my neck to catch a glimpse of the Royal Box, and I must say I was a wee bit disappointed. It was just a row of seats, separated from the rest by a wooden plank. Well!

About 20 minutes at Centre Court later, I found myself in the Wimbledon Lawn Tennis Museum. If you are a fan of the game — and even if you aren’t — this one is an absolute delight. An audio-guided tour takes you through several rooms and exhibits. On display was one of the earliest tennis racquets, a late 18th-century one (that looked more like a lacrosse racquet), made of wood and calf skin and held together by nails. As I walked around admiring the exhibits — one of the earliest whites, a glass case with an array of Slazenger tennis balls from the 1920s (and then one with Slazenger balls from last year) — quirky Big W facts leapt out at me — 290 million balls could fit into Centre Court with the roof closed to the fact that there can be 2,000 spectators in the grounds at any one time. There was so much to feast my eyes on… Serena’s Nike ‘statement baseline dress’ that she wore and won the 2012 title to Djokovic’s winning whites in 2015, the shirt partially torn after he attempted to rip it open, ecstatic with his win.

The highlight of the museum sojourn was a virtual-reality experience, which affords a 360-degree feel of the game, plonking me right in the middle of the spectators at Centre Court, giving me a chance to ‘lob’ back a few at an opponent and in a clearly surreal moment, even shake hands with Federer! That’s something I am not forgetting in a hurry.

It’s easy to get lost for a whole day at the museum — what you musn’t miss is a glimpse of the Men’s and Women’s Singles trophies — but I had to get back to London. So some Big W memorabilia shopping later, I headed to the cafeteria — overlooking the greens — for a quick sip and bite. The downside? It doesn’t serve strawberries and cream if it isn’t match season.

Disappointed, I dragged myself out, but not before Ivanisevic’s words — etched at the exit of the cafeteria — made me smile: “If I never win another match, I don’t care whatever

I do, wherever I go, I’m always going to be a Wimbledon champion.” Yes, magical.

Next on the bucket list: To go back and watch a match... on Centre Court!

Leading up to Centre Court is this back-lit board of the 2019 champions, in every category. Priyanka Roy