A Love Letter to Wimbledon

We went from landlines to smartphones that now carry entire lives in our palms. From flipping through TV channels to streaming anything, anytime. From physical wallets to QR Codes. From photo albums to disappearing stories. News went from morning papers to endless scrolls. Friendships moved online. So did dating. Attention spans got shorter. Screens got bigger. Algorithms got smarter. How we shop, listen, and learn have all transformed in ways that would have felt impossible twenty-five years ago.

Everything is connected. Everything is fast. Everything is everywhere all at once. And it is only speeding up. So in a world like this, it is worth asking what will not change in the next twenty five years.

Let me offer one unlikely candidate: Wimbledon.

Yes, the tennis tournament. But really, more than that.

Wimbledon, in all its white-clad, strawberry-serving, sponsor-light glory, might just be one of the few things that will look and feel almost the same in 2050. At least, I hope it does.

But it is not just the tennis that makes it what it is. Think of the Queue. A tradition so beautifully out of step with the times that it almost feels sacred. In an era of e-tickets, dynamic pricing, and virtual waiting rooms, here is a Grand Slam where people camp overnight in a park, brave uncertain weather, and sit on the grass together in pursuit of a simple goal. To watch some tennis.

This year, I joined the queue on day one. Not brave enough to camp overnight, I arrived around 3 PM, hoping that as others left, I might still get in. I waited close to four hours. But somehow, it did not feel that long.

I met five people that day. A married couple — the husband from Italy, the wife from the UK. He was rooting for Fognini against Alcaraz, full of passion. She, likely less invested in the match, still sat patiently with him, carrying a bag that had everything a seasoned queuer needs. Coconut water. Sunscreen. Power banks. You name it.

We met a retired Canadian who now lives in Florida. He still plays and swears by the two-handed backhand, making his case with the conviction of someone who has spent a lifetime on court. The Italian and I disagreed. We are romantics, partial to the single hander. (Yes, I realize it’s not the most efficient option, but I don’t care. Sue me.) I blame Federer and Wawrinka. He blamed Edberg and Lendl.

There was a German fan who works in sports betting. He explained how odds are set, how markets shift, and how bookmakers shadow one another to avoid arbitrage. And then there was a quiet, observant Japanese woman, around my age, who came alone with a sketchbook tucked into her tote bag.

I’m not sure why I’m going into such detail here. Maybe it’s late and I have a tendency to romanticize sports and art. Or maybe it’s because they deserve a little romance. For four hours, we sat, talked, and stretched our legs in rhythm. It wasn’t just about tennis. It was about waiting side by side. Smiling at the absurdity of doing something so analog, so communal, so rooted in time. And yes, we eventually made it in. And yes, it was beautiful.

Sunset from Court 12 at Wimbledon

While Premier League clubs change their kits every season, and add crypto sponsors, and experiment with kickoff times, Wimbledon seems to whisper, We’re good, thanks. It reminded me of the Lindy Effect, an idea popularized by Nassim Taleb. The longer something has lasted, the longer it is likely to last.

Of course, evolution often calls for reinvention. Every great institution must adapt. Wimbledon is no different. This year, for instance, you can join the resale queue online. AI now calls balls in or out. There are gestures to the future.

But even so, the soul of it remains untouched. And that may be the hardest thing of all. Holding fast to identity and tradition in a world obsessed with the new is no small feat. Think of Jaguar, which faltered when it changed too much. Think of James Bond, who somehow evolves with each decade yet remains unmistakably himself.

So yes. I suspect that even twenty five years from now, Wimbledon will still carry the same quiet charm it does today. A patch of green grass. A sea of white. A line of fans stretched across a lawn. Waiting. Hoping. Together.

And on the Tube ride back home that day, exhausted as if I had played a five setter, I kept thinking about that scene in Moneyball. Brad Pitt driving, quiet, listening to his daughter sing, Just enjoy the show.

If you’ve stuck around till the end, thank you for letting me ramble and fanboy about Wimbledon.