WIMBLEDON, England - The rain continues. The water rises slowly, dangerously. Soon it may be over my head.
The sky is darkening. It looks threatening, cloying, carnivorous. Soon it may choke off all light.
There is another rain delay at Wimbledon.
I fear I may be losing it.
A few minutes ago, with perfect clarity, a thought hit me. If it always rains at Wimbledon this time of year, why hold Wimbledon this time of year? Why not pack up all the sneakers, ship the rackets ahead and load everyone on a plane? We could have this event at Tropicana Field.
After all, we're very much like the British. Our home team rarely wins.
And the rain falls.
I'll be honest. For a journalist Wimbledon isn't exactly the most difficult event to cover. The seats are great, the play is early and there is a cafe mocha machine in the media room that has, like, 40 times the caffeine needed to kill a lab rat.
But the rain drives you crazy. It's like watching a sporting event held in a bathtub. I'm not quite sure how the world's most renowned tennis tournament happened to be held in England this time of year, but it's very much like holding the Henley Regatta in the middle of the Kalahari.
Consider Wednesday, when Wimbledon accomplished absolutely nothing. They attempted to play for 61/2 hours, and nothing was accomplished by anyone other than the umbrella salesmen. Tim Henman tried to gag, again, but the rain prevented it. Mark Philippoussis tried to rally, again, but the rain stopped that, too.
Final box score: Six and a half hours, four rain delays, seven cups of coffee and 14,000 wet Union Jacks.
Oh, yeah, and Ron Wood of the Rolling Stones, who was here as a guest, aged another 73 years. But that pretty much happens every day.
And still the rain falls.
So what does a journalist do during the delays? Why, he searches for the truth. About Buddy Hackett. About Cliff Richard's wardrobe. About Boris Becker's hair.
Ah, Becker. As a player he was a great champion, but he's even more fun as a commentator. Oh, he'll drive you crazy if you're looking for something such as, well, insight. But if you listen for comic relief, Becker is sensational. He says nothing, but he's so enthusiastic about doing so that you can't bear to tell him. All I know is that after listening to his accent, I cannot wait to see Terminator 3.
The other day BBC cameras caught a couple being affectionate during a changeover. A woman had her arm around a man, and she was gently tugging on his earlobe. It was all too much for Becker.
"Vas is she doink wiss his eayah?" he shrieked.
On Wednesday, Becker had his hair moussed straight up - we're talking about killing a major moose here - about 6 inches in height. He looked like the German Don King, to tell you the truth. Remember the movie poster for There's Something About Mary? That's how he looked. And it was all too much for me.
"Vas is he doink wiss his heayah?" I shrieked.
And still the rain fell.
There is a lot of talk about Billie Jean King. Now, King is the most influential female athlete of the century, and everyone on the women's tour should tithe to her. That said, Billie Jean seems to have woken up recently with a Vince Lombardi complex.
First, it was Jennifer Capriati who had trouble with King over her participation in the Fed Cup. That was a shame, but, hey, it happens. Now King has been criticized by Lindsay Davenport and Serena Williams, too. Seems King wants them at attention by Tuesday morning, even though the event doesn't begin until Friday. Oh.
Okay, topic for discussion: How many points does Billie Jean, in her prime, win off Serena? Just wondering.
Just checked. It's still wet outside.
Matthew Perry, the actor from Friends, has been here all week. A British journalist didn't know who he was. Someone in the America press corps explained he plays Chandler Bing, the son of Morgan Fairchild and Kathleen Turner. I'm sure that cleared things up.
Speaking of acting, Serena Williams said she was saddened by the death of Katharine Hepburn. It seems that every year someone famous dies, she said, like Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthews.
Walter Matthews?
Seems like it's raining at Serena's house, too.
In the media restaurant they serve prawn and cucumber sandwiches. Whose idea was that? Did someone taste a cucumber sandwich and go "Hmm. Needs more fish." Was it like a Reese's cup? "Hey, you got cucumber on my prawns!" What?
Look here. The newspapers say politicians are trying to outlaw fox hunting over here. The defenders, evidently, say the foxes started it.
Speaking of news, I don't know Oona King, who is a member of parliament from the Labour Party, but I know someone worthy of my vote. Asked about Henman's chances at Wimbledon by the Guardian, King said this: "I think Tim will win, and I think England will win the next World Cup, and I think I just saw a flying pig."
Still, the politicians are busy over here. There is also some talk of banning Page 3 girls, too, the models who have spiced up the tabs over the years. Not only that, but any day now you expect them to begin deliberations to have Greg Rusedski declared Canadian once again.
Alas, I have checked the sports pages. Evidently there is nothing new with the Bucs.
Wow. Look at the size of those raindrops.
For goodness sake, there are a lot of unknowns in this year's Wimbledon. But you have to like the spunky little Frenchman Sebastien Grosjean. I don't speak French, but from what I gather his last name, translated, means "your Levis are gross." Of course I could be wrong.
Poor Serena Williams. If she loses Wimbledon, even if it's to her sister, then Belgium's Kim Clijsters becomes the No.1 player in the world, even though she's never won a major title.
So, could someone please explain this computer to me? Frankly, I don't even think it is a computer. I think the rankings come out of the X-box owned by former Times writer Darrell Fry, now director of communications for the WTA.
Does anyone else wonder just how much time Serena is spending with her pal Keyshawn Johnson? And if she wins Saturday and says, "Just give me the damn trophy," will that tell us anything?
