Downpour was the villain but Poncho Man saved the day
Fan proves that not all heroes wear capes... some cannot put them on in the first place
Who are the real unsung heroes of Wimbledon? Not the players, obviously. The volunteers? Too obvious. The ball boys and girls? Too visible. Rufus the Centre Court hawk? Bit of a publicity whore these days, if we are being honest. Look at him showing off his plumage on the promotional videos, making eyes at the camera. Loves the limelight.
No, the real unsung heroes of Wimbledon are the spectators, and a certain genre of spectators in particular. It is the supporters who sit patiently beside the outside courts even when it is pelting down with rain, getting merrily soaked for no good purpose.
It is late afternoon and the prospects of play are receding faster than Bernard Tomic’s sponsors, but still they sit, huddled under umbrellas and macs, passing around the last of their M&S mini sausages, every one of them a fort of thundering optimism against the ceaseless onslaught of the British weather. Yesterday, on Court 3, during a delay in Martina Hingis and Jamie Murray’s third-round mixed doubles match, that defiance was finally given a face, and a name: Poncho Man. He probably has a real name, but for now, and probably for all time, he will be known as the guy who tried, and hilariously failed, to put on a poncho on national television.
For more than half a minute he grapples with the white sheet as if it was a task on The Krypton Factor. Is that a hood or a sleeve? Is that the front or the back?
Finally, after a little chivvying from his female companion, he abandons his quest and throws the whole thing off, blissfully unaware that his struggle has been captured on camera and will be all over the internet within the hour.
And the adventures of Poncho Man are perhaps a reminder that in these troubled times, not all heroes wear capes. Some try to put the cape on and struggle with it for 40 seconds before eventually giving up. It was that sort of a day at Wimbledon: one that called for stoic resistance, whether from Johanna Konta under the Centre Court roof, or the masses getting ambiently soaked outside. Wimbledon always feels like a more subdued, more quintessentially British place in the wet.
After the sun-drenched exuberance of Magic Monday, and barely 12 hours after the grounds were rocking to the strains of Rafael Nadal’s epic tussle with Gilles Muller, there was an altogether more muted feel to yesterday’s proceedings until Konta’s thrilling victory.
Not a hint of gloom, though, even though most of the crowd had seen a bare minimum of tennis, with no refunds available (at Wimbledon, two hours’ play means no refund).
Instead, they migrated to one of the many bars and cafes, picked up an overpriced souvenir from the Wimbledon shop, perched on the hill under hoods and blankets to watch the Centre Court action on a big screen. And still more simply waited at courtside, the rain forming puddles on their coats, fatally optimistic to the very last.
Even at 7pm, a full hour after play had been called off for the day, you could still see hundreds of people scurrying around, reading plaques, peering through windows, taking pictures of the Fred Perry statue, almost unable to tear themselves away.
Still, you can scarcely call yourself a true Wimbledonian unless you have lived through a rain day. Mine came late in my teenage years, when after diligently queuing for hours for a ground pass, and then diligently queuing for hours more to secure a
He grapples with the sheet as if it is a task on The Krypton
Factor. Is that a hood or a sleeve?
precious resale ticket to see Tim Henman on Court No1, I hurried to the arena only for the heavens to open spectacularly, tumultuously and for the rest of the day.
As I cowered under the parapet, contemplating my cruel misfortune, the vicissitudes of existence and the prospect of walking back to Southfields station through a torrential downpour in a T-shirt and combat trousers (it was 2003, OK?), a middle-aged man with greying temples took pity on me.
“First time here?” he asked. I nodded.
“Well, at least you’ve got a story to tell,” he said. “Give it 15 years, and you may even be able to tell that story in a national newspaper on a rainy day when you’ve got bugger all else to write.”
Actually, he didn’t say the last bit, but I do remember being struck by his simple, cordial kindness: the sort that over the years, you come to take for granted at Wimbledon. Come to think of it, I believe he may have been wearing a poncho.