Our little rented house in Wimbledon Village turns out to be the eye of the world tennis hurricane. You cannot throw a bucket of BBs without hitting a player, agent or Wimbledon mucky muck. Monday night, for instance, after Scotsman Andy Murray's historic under-the-roof win that went until nearly 11 p.m., we ate at the nearby Pizza Express, next to a bust of Murray, made out of pizza dough. They tossed us out for closing time. But 10 minutes after we left -- according to our friendly waiter the next day -- Murray himself came by, knocked on the glass, folded his hands into a prayer and asked if they'd feed him. They did. When he paid, you think they saved the Murray dough and put it next to the Murray dough?
One more: The local dry cleaners just got the contract to launder the Wimbledon umpires' clothes. But there was a problem, according to the harried proprietress. They kept finding blood on some of the trousers and jackets. Was it the return of John McEnroe? They were concerned enough about it to finally ask. Turns out it was nothing sinister, just juice from Wimbledon's famous strawberries, apparently snuck into pockets for sustenance during the endless five-set matches.