I was a tennis umpire in the UK for the past decade, and had the privilege of being selected as an on-court line judge at Wimbledon for many years. With the advent of Hawk Eye Live, that chapter of my life is obviously over. This story is the final part of a writing series that attempts to jot down the memories before they inevitably fade with time.

The previous parts are here: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

You get the email from the Wimbledon Chief Umpire’s office at 11 pm. It lands in your inbox every evening, a single line of text stating your reporting time for the next day. You click it open, expecting the usual. But then you forget to exhale. It’s a late start time and in the first week of the Championships, it can only mean one thing. You’ve been assigned Centre Court tomorrow.

To say that it’s a dream to call lines on a Wimbledon show court is an understatement of the extreme kind. You just can’t believe it! This started off as a random hobby, and it’s taken you to the most revered tennis court on the planet. What have you done to deserve this?

You try to keep these thoughts hidden away as you wait in the small tunnel in the underbelly of the Centre Court stadium, surrounded by wires and cables. Your team is alongside you, flanked by two army lieutenants. You find it impossible to stand still, barely listening to the Team Leader’s recital of the daily notes. Shuffling your feet. Checking for the third time that you haven’t forgotten your sunglasses. Too much nervous energy.

“Ball kids are on.”
“It’s 56, guys!”
“Remember, first five minutes, last five minutes.”
“And everything in between!”
“Who’s right far? Don’t forget to turn.”
“I’m behind you.”
“57! Ready?”
“Have a good one!”
“Go!”

You have watched this scene on the television a hundred times. Line judges walking in. You make your way to the RC (right centre) chair and watch your colleagues make the long walk down the full length of the court. LF (left far) gives the signal and you sit down. The arena looks down upon you. Time to take it all in.

Over the next few years, your rewind reel will be filled with moments from the show courts that are as magnificent as they are memorable. That time with Andy and that time with Angelique. That time with Roger and that time with Rafa. That time with Coco and that time with Carlos. That time with Novak and that time with Nick (ahem!). That time with Ash and that time with Aryna. That time with Serena and that time with Sania. That time with Jannik and that time with Jack. That time with Iga and that time with... the list goes on and on, full of tales left untold.

You remember the royalty. You remember the roof closing. You remember the hush silence as the ball bounces 17 times. You remember the toss, you remember hearing your thumping heart, you remember the ball landing just wide. You remember the challenges, the euphoria, the stadium erupting. You remember a ruckus so loud you can’t hear your own voice.

You relive each minute again and again, reminding yourself of the details. But like a puff of chalk from a ball kissing the line, you know all of it is doomed to disappear. The lines will get repainted, the grass will grow again. As a line judge, you know only too well that all the past points played are mere distractions.

So the clock ticks along, matches end and new ones are played. On another first day of Wimbledon, you flash your pass at the turnstile and walk in. Press the button on the lift. 5th floor. Walk past office colleagues discussing EMEA T+1 settlement. Reach your desk, sit down, type in your password. 411 unread emails. The Wimbledon app buzzes on your phone. You ignore it. Game face on.

It’s time to focus on the next point.

Ready. Play.

I was a tennis umpire in the UK for the past decade, and had the privilege of being selected as an on-court line judge at Wimbledon for many years. With the advent of Hawk Eye Live, that chapter of my life is obviously over. This story is Part 3 of a writing series that attempts to jot down the memories before they inevitably fade with time.

The previous parts are here: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4

It’s raining and the first thing you worry about are your trousers. Some fashionista at Ralph Lauren has decided white trousers would look great on line judges but when it rains, with the grass damp and all the footways turning into puddles of mud, streaks of brown splashing up is inevitable.

Weather has forever been a fixture at Wimbledon. And as a line judge, you are pretty much immediately subject to its devilry. On late sunny evenings if you’re on the far side of court 6, you realize you can barely see the lines. The angle of the sun makes it impossible as the chalk reflects off the court. No difference with or without your designer sunglasses.

There’s other outfit related idiosyncrasies that become a part of your Wimbledon fortnight. It could be 35 degrees, the country might be in a hosepipe ban, amber heat warnings, NHS reporting heatstroke related ambulance call outs, but you need to put on a blazer to walk onto court.

The shirt sleeve has to stay rolled down, the collar must say buttoned, the tie still knotted tight. But you carry on, focusing on the line, ensuring your concentration does not waiver, undistracted by the streaks of sweat pouring down your neck. Years later, you’ll find yourself chuckling when Wimbledon Qualifying has to be stopped for an hour because Hawk Eye Live broke down due to the heat. Oh well.

And then there’s the rain. You know it’s coming before it comes. In your first year, an experienced umpire pointed to a tiny number display high on the outside walls of the Center Court arena, camouflaged by the vines of green creepers and ivy. A signal to the staff and crew. If the clouds are dark and low, you find your eyes flickering to the number often.

It’s 4!

Your hurry out of the way as the number signals the oncoming rain. The service line judge will herd the match balls to ensure they are protected. The court crew are coming from everywhere, pulling the covers, wheeling the umpire chair out of the way. If you don’t move, they’ll probably carry you off.

Your next job is to get to the umpire’s area as soon as possible. If you sprint too fast, the aforementioned mud will kill your trousers. But you can’t be too careful either. There isn’t enough space for everyone to fit in the tunneled room under Court 1. Too slow to grab a precious chair and you could be standing bored for 6 hours.

As with any group of people who have nothing to do but wait, the umpires somewhat naturally organize themselves into groups during rain breaks. There’s the table of word games and crosswords. Others are huddled around their phones watching the cricket. Obviously, the play still goes on under the closed roof at Center Court and Court 1, so some have gone to the stadium itself to watch in person while others surround the television screens.

Your partner joins the loudest table, the ones playing cards. You are part of the quiet book reader’s club. If the break extends into lunch, how to save your chair becomes its own game of strategy.

On some days the break is just a few minutes and on others it extends into hours. The ticker on the television and the voice on the speaker shift the “play not before” time in increments of 30 minutes. There will be times when the whole day is washed out.

What a waste of time, you say to your partner as you leave the Club. It feels like that then. But years later, even those dull days will seem special painted in the sepia shade of nostalgia. You clear out your wardrobes but the fashionista outfits stay untouchable. Are you ever going to wear that bright green belt? No, but it doesn’t matter. The memories and the memorabilia are both for safekeeping. And whenever the sun comes out after a bout of rain, even your eight year old knows to call it a 7.

I was a tennis umpire in the UK for the past decade, and had the privilege of being selected as an on-court line judge at Wimbledon for many years. With the advent of Hawk Eye Live, that chapter of my life is obviously over. This story is Part 2 of a writing series that attempts to jot down the memories before they inevitably fade with time.

The other parts are here: Part 1 | Part 3 | Part 4

It’s 15 minutes to start of play and the butterflies in your stomach are having an absolute party. It’s that funny feeling where everything seems to be still and yet moving at double speed at the same time.

You are standing with your team in the walkway next to Court 8. This is Day 1 of your first Wimbledon as a line judge. No one in your team knows how nervous you’re feeling, or at least that’s what you tell yourself. Game face on. You’ll only realize later: of course they know. They’ve all been in your shoes.

The first 3 hours since you parked your car have gone by in a flash. First, you found yourself in the crowded Buttery. You entered to face a sea of blue blazers, feeling like a fresher at university where you know nothing and everyone else knows everything. There’s a card to collect, and a sticker, and a foldable map, and a bottle holder, and a locker key, and then you finger through a massive chart to find out you are assigned to Court 8.

So there you are then, stepping onto the grass with your team, right after the ball kids have sprinted in. Line judge teams are assigned courts and not matches. You will be on this court all day, alternating hour long shifts with another line team. For this match you’re on RN (right near sideline).

Every line judge remembers their first Wimbledon match. Ivo Karlovic vs Borna Coric is yours. Given how big Karlovic’s serve is, you know what to expect. Your first call is a missile down the middle, about two inches in. You signal it and duck. It misses your head by a foot. The nerves are gone.

The match follows the expected pattern. The Karlovic serve is firing and it’s as much dodgeball as it is tennis. Unreturnable serve after unreturnable serve after unreturnable serve. Every time the ball approaches your line, your pulse rockets to the sky. In signal. Out shout. It’s addictive, that crazy cocktail of pressure and excitement.

You hear the balls zip past you, a dull ominous thud as they hit the back curtains. You have never been to a boxing bout but that’s what a Tyson punch to the gut must sound like. The lines on the court are fresh and bright, and chalk dust lights up every ace like a flare. You don’t get one call wrong. Neither does your team.

You find that your confidence is tethered not just to your own performance but also to everyone else’s. You rise and fall together in a line team. If you get calls wrong, everyone feels the pressure. If you win a challenge, it lifts them all.

Karlovic serves 25 aces and wins in straight sets, in the middle of your second shift on court. Two tie-breaks, of course. You wait for the players to leave before walking out. Fist bumps all around. You are one match old and you already feel like you’ve been doing this forever.

Someone in the crowd asks you who the players for the next match are. You tell her. But years later when you’ll try to write about that day, you wouldn’t be able to recall the names at all.

One can never predict what the mind remembers and what it will forget. A lot is lost. But that feeling when a ball threatens your line, when your eyes lock in, when the training takes over, when all your senses come together to concentrate the full focus of your being on that one millisecond… how can you ever forget that?

I was a tennis umpire in the UK for the past decade, and had the privilege of being selected as an on-court line judge at Wimbledon for many years. With the advent of Hawk Eye Live, that chapter of my life is obviously over. This story is Part 1 of a writing series that attempts to jot down the memories before they inevitably fade with time.

The other parts are here: Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

The security guard at the gate has a look of suspicion. He shakes his head as you approach, his arms tensing up. He has shooed away too many visitors today, all trying their luck to get in, some even asking how they could get Wimbledon tickets.

“No, no,” he raises a hand, but then you pull that green lanyard from your pocket. Hooked onto it with golden yellow buckles is that familiar card. Barcode scanned. The machine lights up green, signalling you are an on-court official for the Championships starting tomorrow. He still looks a tad unconvinced.

You step in past the gates onto the tarmac of the All England Lawn Tennis Club. This is not your first time here. Just a couple of years ago, you stood in queue for 8 hours for Wimbledon day passes, and you’ve been here as an umpire in the Inter Services Championship last year. So it’s sort of familiar. But at the same time, it’s also very different.

It’s like you’re in a theme park without a map. This is the orientation tour the day before the Championships begin, and you’ve been told to make your way to the Chief Umpire’s office. Where is that? You ask a grounds person who is tending to a flower bed. Behind court 14, they say. And where is that?

You somehow stumble your way there. Oh, there’s a familiar face. And another. And another. There’s around a dozen of you first-timers. The Wimbledon Officials Class of 2016. You don’t quite know it yet, but your lives are now forever intertwined, thanks to the many emotional, equal parts exhilarating and exhausting, moments you will share together.

They’re the ones you’ll march out with, who will nod at you from the left baseline as you rush to your seat on serve. They’re the ones who’ll whisper “good call” when you’ve got it right, who will comfort you with a kind word when you have received a needless string of abuse. You may not become great friends but the shared experience will leave a deep mark. They will know how you felt in those adrenaline filled moments the way no one else can.

But on that pleasant evening in June 2016, none of you know what the future holds. You stand at the meeting point, impatient for the tour to begin, when you see the Chief Umpire walking towards you. He smiles his usual beaming smile. On the sound system, they are running some sort of a test. A voice booms through the speaker, camouflaged in the green ivy, and the Chief waits for it to quieten down. He smiles again.

A couple of years ago, you had met him for the first time at the training course in Roehampton. And then again in Sutton. “Go have fun,” he had said, “and maybe we’ll see you at Wimbledon one day.”

You had thought he was joking. But you’re here now. The sound test is over and the smile still hasn’t left the Chief’s face. You find yourself grinning too. He holds out a hand and you shake it.

Welcome to Wimbledon.