Yesterday I had breakfast at Wimbledon.
There are fewer things better than championship tennis on a beautiful Sunday morning. Attendees indulge in a favorite at the All England Club: fresh strawberries, granulated sugar, and whipped cream!
Of course, my annual Breakfast at Wimbledon has never been anywhere near Center Court. In fact, I’ve always watched the championship from a distance–roughly 5,400 miles away–in California … at a place I affectionately call the All Mexican Club.
Long before David Beckham and Posh Spice sat in the Royal Box–in the time when McEnroe and Borg ruled the grass court–I sat with my dad and brother in our comfortable living room in east San Jose. We didn’t have strawberries or whipped cream; we had chorizo, eggs, and my dad’s favorite: Jimmy Dean Sausage.
For years, we held Love.
No smart phones; no Internet; no spoiler results posted to social media. Just us, incredible tennis, and breakfast.
Game. Set. Match. Bacon.
And while yesterday’s championship between Djokovic and Federer was one for the ages, my affection will always reside in having breakfast with my dad, brother, and Borg.by