The Grandest of Slams

Excuse me. I’m sorry. I speak as an


For the game of lawn tennis there’s no

better symbol than Wimbledon,

The place where the game’s flame was

sparked and then kindled in,

Where so many spines have sat straight

and then tingled in


Where strawberries and cream have

traditionally been sampled in,

Kids’ eyes have lit up and their cheeks

have been dimpled in


Where tough tennis cookies have

cracked and then crumbled in,

Top seeds have stumbled, have

tumbled, been humbled in


Where home-grown heroes’ hopes have

swelled up and then dwindled in


The Grand Slams’ best of breed – it’s the

whizz, it’s the biz,

The temple where physics expresses

its fizz.

There’s one word for tennis and that

one word is


Copyright Matt Harvey, The Championships Poet 2010