Inside Wimbledon: What really goes on behind the scenes

The court was then relaid with seven tons of topsoil and 54 million seeds of perennial rye scientifically developed over many years for maximum resistance to drought and wear. Throughout the winter, the grass is spoon-fed nutrients and encouraged to grow using sodium lights. Since early April, using electric mowers to preclude any possibility of an oil spill, its height has been reduced by exactly a millimetre a week to  a uniform eight millimetres. ‘It’s like family,’ Stubley says of his pampered pelouse.

As the tournament looms, a soil impact machine known as a Clegg hammer tells him the exact hardness of the court. Four probes sunk through 275mm of soil inform Stubley of the moisture content every 50mm. Chlorophyll tests tell him whether he needs to give the grass more liquid fertiliser. Though the surface looks stunning to me, Stubley is not satisfied. ‘It needs a little more consistency and brightness of colour,’ he says.

But producing one flawless court is just the start. Stubley and his groundstaff must produce 40 equally perfect practice and tournament courts. Moreover, every court must play exactly the same, though some are shaded, others exposed and several have their own micro- climates. Thus each is tested daily for moisture and hardness, and has its own nightly irrigation programme drawn up.

‘You need to know every square inch of every court to know how it performs,’ says Stubley, 43, who joined the ground staff 24 years ago. ‘You manage them independently, then bring them all together, so come the championships Andy (Murray) and Roger (Federer) can play on any one of the 22 practice courts two hours before coming on to the Centre or No 1, and they’ll be identical. That’s the challenge.’

Today’s courts are dramatically better than those of 20 years ago. ‘You don’t get any bad bounces any more,’ Stubley declares unequivocally. But he admits that absolute perfection is unattainable. As fast as his science advances, the players grow bigger and more athletic, imposing ever-greater stress on the courts. And there is always the danger of a fox urinating on an outside court.

That means sleepless nights for Stubley. ‘I go through every single worst-case scenario,’ he says. ‘I even wake up sometimes thinking, it’s a week before the tournament and all the baselines have worn out already. It takes me about five seconds to realise it was a dream.’ 

Wimbledon is not only the world’s oldest and most famous tennis tournament. It is arguably its single most logistically challenging sporting event, with nearly 500,000 spectators watching approximately 534 players play 674 matches in 16 different competitions within the space of 13 days and just 13 acres.

While there are the inevitable rain delays, only two World Wars have stopped the championships taking place. The odd streaker has garnered brief attention, and in 2002 a couple of pranksters managed a 20-second knock-about on the Centre Court between matches. But it is astonishing how smoothly Wimbledon runs each year, how seldom there are glitches.

That record is testament to the skill and commitment of those who run the event, many of whom have worked at Wimbledon for 20 or 30 years and regard themselves as temporary custodians of an almost sacred institution. It is also due to the remarkable attention to detail that I discovered during two days of largely unfettered access to those stalwarts. ‘We live for details. We love details,’ said Sarah Clarke, the championships director, who began working at Wimbledon as a school-leaver 33 years ago.

That relentless quest for perfection is embodied in ‘The List’, which Clarke compiles after every Wimbledon. It consists of suggestions for improvements submitted by any of the 8,000-strong workforce. They range from major structural projects, like the retractable roof being built over Court No 1, to such minutiae as the colour of the petunias, chipped railings or a squeaky door. Last year no fewer than 1,700 suggestions were submitted.

I found the ball girls and boys – the ‘BBGs’ – training in the indoor tennis courts adjacent to the championship grounds, and watched them jogging, sprinting and star-jumping before standing stock still for three long minutes.

About 800 15-year-olds from 32 local schools apply each year, and 170 are selected based on their fitness and knowledge of the game. Anyone who turns up for the selection process chewing gum or wearing make-up stands no chance.

Starting in February, there are weekly sessions in which they are taught to march, hold themselves erect, roll balls with pinpoint precision, feed balls with upright arms or stand with arms at a 20-degree angle to their bodies with palms turned forward and fingers together to show they hold no balls.

They learn how to hand dropped racquets, as well as towels and drinks, to players. They are told to note players’ superstitious quirks – some will want to re-use the ball they have just won a point with, for example – and to record those quirks in a book for the benefit of their colleagues. They are instructed how to respond if players shout at them, or ask whether they thought a ball was out – ‘I’m sorry, Sir (or Miss), I can’t comment.’

The training is military in style and precision. There is no larking about, no talking. The BBGs are known by numbers, not names. Any who underperform, suffer injuries or miss a session without good reason are dismissed. The process is ruthless. ‘It has to be,’ Sarah Goldson, the physical education teacher who leads the coaching team, says sternly. ‘We put them under significant pressure because they’ll be under pressure when they’re standing on the championship courts.’ 

The culling continues as the number of matches decreases; by the end just 80 remain. As the culls are announced, ‘there are quite a few tears,’ says Goldson. The best BBGs do the finals. About 60 others form the guards of honour before the trophy presentations.

All leave with their Polo Ralph Lauren uniforms, a can of used balls, a certificate, photograph and a stellar entry on their CV. When they apply for jobs ‘it doesn’t matter what else they’ve done. The questions are always about being a BBG. I think it’s because of the discipline involved,’ says Goldson.

Equally high standards are required of Wimbledon’s 330  umpires and linesmen. A 30-page officials’ manual stipulates, for example, that the linesmen and women have to walk on to the court in a prescribed manner, and check the net height at the start of each set – not just of each match.

They must all dispense with their jackets together, or not at all.  They cannot roll up their sleeves, or drink water except when the players are changing ends. Unsurprisingly, they also undergo a mandatory eye test before each championship.

The umpires must ensure that players are not wearing coloured headbands, wristbands or shoe laces, or logos that are too big or advertise rival sporting events. They must make announcements in a prescribed manner, know how to pronounce the players’ names, and address the women as ‘Miss’ or ‘Mrs’. ‘I’m not sure we’ve ever had a Ms,’ says Adrian Wilson, the chief umpire, a property dealer who began working at Wimbledon as a linesman 26 years ago. 

The umpires’ performances are assessed by independent evaluators, the linesmen’s by the umpires, and the best are given the ultimate honour of officiating at the finals. ‘There’s really strong competition,’ says Wilson.

The balls are the responsibility of Brian Mardling, 69, a retired tax accountant and genial former Wimbledon umpire. Two lorry loads – about 57,000 balls in all – arrive from Slazenger, Wimbledon’s supplier since 1902, and are stored in two rooms beneath the Centre Court at a constant 20C. Before play each day 24 tins of balls are delivered to each court. Six new balls are introduced after every nine games, and the stock is replenished after every match.

Mardling monitors the matches on a computer screen in an office near Court 14, watching out for five-setters that might require extra balls. John Isner and Nicolas Mahut used 41 cans during their record-breaking, 11-hour, 183-game epic in 2010, with Isner winning the final set 70-68. ‘I had to continually take balls up to that court myself to keep the match going,’ Mardling chuckles.

Andrew Jarrett, the championship referee, who arrives from his home in Panama each year, oversees the whole caboodle from what he calls ‘mission control’ – an office lined with screens showing the draw, order of play, progress of every match and much else besides.  

Jarrett guards the silver crowns used for coin tosses – he describes Wimbledon as ‘the cutting edge of tradition’. He determines who plays when and on which court – he once let David Nalbandian start early so the soccer-mad Argentinian could watch his country’s World Cup quarter final later in the day. Guided by four weather forecasters who can tell him precisely how many inches of rain will fall over Wimbledon in the next few minutes, he decides whether to pull on the covers and close the Centre Court’s roof. 

Jarrett, a former professional player who once took a set off John McEnroe, is in charge of discipline too. He enforces the dress code with the help of a 100-page e-book of items rejected in the past, and fines players for audible obscenities or damaging the court with their racquets. Generally, though, he reckons ‘they’re far better behaved than they were in my day’.

Jarrett feels the stress, particularly when facing a backlog of matches because of rain. But, he insists, ‘It’s a huge privilege to be involved. We’re the support cast, trying to ensure the best players compete at the highest level in the best conditions in the world. That’s the goal of all of us here at Wimbledon.’

The players certainly receive every assistance. A fleet of 165 limousines ferries them to and from Wimbledon. They have their own hairdressing salon, travel agency and theatre booking office inside the grounds, not to mention a three-strong office that will dispense £31 million in prize money this year (even first-round losers receive £35,000). 

Over the next fortnight they will have more than 3,000 racquets restrung by 19 on-site stringers who will start work at 4.30am each day and use some 30 miles of polyester string. Andy Phillips, stringing services manager, says few of those racquets actually have broken strings; the players just want them restrung fresh for each match.

‘If they win they’ll come back and say, “Who strung my racquet?” And they’ll say he has to string it again.’ Some players are demanding, others charming, says Phillips. ‘Sometimes you get the feeling that someone’s waiting politely at the counter and you look up and it’s Rafa [Nadal].’

Dan Bloxham, head coach at the AELTC, and Wimbledon’s bubbly master of ceremonies, greets the players, shows them the courts, explains the etiquette and traditions and, if necessary, how to bow or curtsy. He takes me on what he calls the two-minute ‘walk of history’.

That is the route along which he leads nervous finalists from the dressing rooms to the Centre Court, past pictures of every Wimbledon champion since 1877, through doors held open by uniformed stewards and the lounge of the Royal Box, down a flight of stairs, past the trophy case and title boards and into the crucible through an arch bearing Kipling’s immortal line: ‘If you can meet with triumph and disaster and treat those two impostors just the same.’

The dressing rooms themselves are off-limits to outsiders like me but Bloxham offers some tantalising details. The televisions are tuned to football, rugby, cricket – anything but the tennis – so jittery players waiting to go on court do not hear themselves discussed. There is also a one-hole putting green that Bloxham installed as a distraction. ‘That’s my greatest contribution to the championships,’ he jokes. 

Elsewhere in the grounds the hospitality marquees are up, food kiosks are being erected, and stacks of Wimbledon-green umpires’ chairs await dispersal. An army of yellow-jacketed workmen are sweeping, painting, drilling, weeding, trimming and mowing Henman Hill (aka Murray Mound) so everything is immaculate when the public are first admitted at 10.30am on Monday. 

They are helped by Rufus, a Harris hawk, whose owner, Imogen Davis, brings him to Wimbledon throughout the year, and early each morning of the championships, to prevent pigeons fouling the seats or eating grass seed. ‘You’re never going to get rid of every single one, but he’s doing a pretty good job,’ she says. 

Martyn Falconer, the head gardener, and his 16 assistants are tending some 50,000 plants including hydrangeas, petunias and lavenders that are designed to give Wimbledon the air of an English garden. The bane of Falconer’s life is the iconic ivy that covers the outside of the Centre Court and requires endless tending. ‘It grows six inches to a foot in a week,’ he complains cheerfully. ‘It certainly keeps us out of mischief.’ 

Anthony Davies, head of food and beverage, is meanwhile preparing for what he describes as ‘the biggest annual catering event in Europe’. From 150 restaurants, food courts and kiosks, his team of 2,200 – 330 of them chefs – will feed 39,000 spectators each day, as well as 8,000 employees, 3,000 media, over 500 players, 375 members of the AELTC, plus corporate guests, and assorted presidents, princes and prime ministers.

Amazingly, someone somewhere collates the figures. The above will consume 330,000 cups of tea and coffee, 320,000 glasses of Pimm’s, 110,000 pints of beer, 29,000 bottles of champagne, 86,000 ice creams, 76,000 sandwiches, 16,000 portions of fish and chips and the odd strawberry – 28 tons to be precise. 

The strawberries come from a family farm in Kent. They are picked from 4am each morning and rushed in refrigerated vans to Wimbledon where 50 caterers hull them. The price of 10 strawberries with unlimited cream and sugar has remained at £2.50 since 2010 because, says Davies, ‘They’re such an intrinsic part of the Wimbledon experience.’

Another venerable Wimbledon institution is the Honorary Stewards Association – a select group of 210 men and women who greet the spectators, manage queues that can grow to 10,000 people, and generally dispense advice, information and bonhomie. They voluntarily work 12-hour days, provide their own uniforms, get to watch little or no tennis and must serve a two-year probationary period before joining the Association, which begs the question: why?

One answer is camaraderie, another is pride. ‘They just love being involved in Wimbledon,’ says Nick Pearce, 54, chief steward. ‘It’s such  a unique, fantastic sporting event that you pinch yourself  each morning and think how lucky you are to be involved.’

That spirit is also reflected in Wimbledon’s distaste for commercialism. It has a long list of sponsors, including Rolex, Polo Ralph Lauren, Lanson, Jaguar and Robinsons Barley Water, and makes an annual profit of more than £30 million, but you will not see a single advertising hoarding anywhere in the grounds – least of all on Centre Court. 

When the championships are over, the tennis nets will be given to local schools. Around £15,000 from the sale of used balls, and £340,000 from reselling the seats of spectators who leave early, will be given to good causes by the Wimbledon Foundation – as will approximately £2,500 raised by auctioning the plants to employees.

And success will be measured not by praise, but by the absence of any adverse comment about the BBGs, umpires, grass or catering. ‘A successful tournament,’ says referee Jarrett, ‘is one where on the following Monday everyone is talking about the wonderful tennis and not the controversy that’s taken away from the tennis.’ 

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