STRAWBERRIES, TRADITION AND SLIDING ON GRASS: THE WIMBLEDON STORY

Published: 29/06/2026 | By: Alex Courbat

There's a reason Wimbledon doesn't need a second name. Nobody says "the tennis" when they mean Wimbledon. They just say Wimbledon. One word, full stop, no further explanation required. The funny thing is, the world's most iconic tennis tournament didn't even begin with a racket in sight. It started as a croquet one.

Back in 1868, the All England Croquet Club set up shop in Wimbledon with the noble aim of letting Victorian gentlefolk whack balls through hoops on a nice patch of lawn. Tennis, or "lawn tennis" as it was charmingly known, arrived almost a decade later as a new addition to the club. By 1877, the place had become the All England Croquet and Lawn Tennis Club, and the very first Championships were held that same year.

Twenty-two players entered. Spencer Gore won it. The winner received a 25-guinea trophy. Tennis quickly became the star of the show and has been the main event ever since, though the club still keeps "Croquet" tucked into its full name today, a lovely little nod to where it all began.

And while the sport changed completely, one thing never did: the grass. Wimbledon is the only Grand Slam still played on it, and that's exactly the point. Grass courts are fast, low and full of surprises, a completely different test from clay or hard courts, where reading the bounce off real turf matters as much as anything written in the rulebook.

Form on paper means very little once you're out there. Underdogs get their moment. Big serves get rewarded. Strange things happen. That's the beauty of it.

The courts themselves are treated like a national treasure, tended all year round so they are immaculate by the time the first Monday arrives. Then, as the fortnight rolls on, those famous lawns start telling their own story. The worn patches around the baseline become a living record of every rally, every dive, every desperate chase and every player who left a little bit of themselves out there.

Because at Wimbledon, the court isn't just where the action happens. It is part of the identity. And that identity has always extended beyond the lines. The look of the place is every bit as recognisable as the grass itself. Wimbledon's all-white dress code is one of sport's great traditions, and it's stuck around because it remains completely unique. The rules have been refined carefully over the years, right down to the smallest detail. Players have still found ways to put their own stamp on it, including Roger Federer arriving in orange-soled trainers in 2013, creating one of those wonderfully Wimbledon moments that people still talk about.

There's a quiet theatre to the whole thing: everyone in white against the green, as if the entire tournament is one long elegant photograph that occasionally happens to contain a tennis match. And that sense of theatre doesn't stop when the players leave the court.

No tournament on earth has turned a snack into a personality trait quite like Wimbledon has with strawberries and cream. Tens of thousands of portions disappear across the fortnight, usually accompanied by a healthy amount of Pimm's, and the whole thing has become shorthand for the tournament itself.

Show someone a picture of strawberries with cream and no court anywhere in sight, and there's a decent chance they'll still know exactly what you're talking about. That's the strange magic of Wimbledon: even the smallest details become part of the mythology. The same goes for the people watching it.

Outside the gates, the fans created their own bit of folklore too. Every great sporting venue needs a spiritual home for the supporters who couldn't quite get Centre Court tickets, and Wimbledon found theirs.

What started as a grassy bank with a big screen became Henman Hill during Tim Henman's brilliant runs in the late nineties and early 2000s, a place where the nation collectively held its breath every summer.

When Andy Murray came good, it briefly became Murray Mound. These days it has settled on the much safer "the Hill", leaving plenty of room for the next British player to come along and earn their own nickname.

Because every great sporting story needs heroes. And it's the champions, of course, who truly tell the Wimbledon story. The women's singles has been part of the Championships since 1884, just seven years after the men's event began, with Maud Watson taking that first title. Since then, the tournament has produced a never-ending parade of icons.

Suzanne Lenglen swept through the 1920s like nobody had seen before, all flowing movement and fearless style, turning up in a calf-length dress when everyone else was still buttoned to the wrist and changing the image of women's tennis forever.

Billie Jean King did the same for the sport away from the court, campaigning tirelessly for fair treatment and proper recognition. Her work helped lay the foundations for greater equality in tennis, with Wimbledon eventually introducing equal prize money in 2007 after decades of campaigning, with Venus Williams playing a hugely influential role in bringing the issue to the forefront. 

Martina Navratilova then made Centre Court her own through the eighties, combining serve-and-volley brilliance with relentless competitiveness, while Steffi Graf brought a different kind of dominance entirely: power, precision and an almost ridiculous level of consistency.

Then came the Williams sisters, who changed what power tennis could look like on grass. Serena's serve felt less like a shot and more like a warning, helping her build one of the greatest Wimbledon records of the modern era and inspiring a whole generation watching from home.

On the men's side, Björn Borg and John McEnroe gave us 1980: ice versus fire, finishing with a tie-break so dramatic it's still considered one of the greatest moments in tennis history. 

Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal followed in 2008 with a final so good it stretched into near darkness and remains the match everyone reaches for whenever the "greatest ever" debate begins.

Federer returned to Centre Court time and time again, gliding around it like he owned the place, collecting a record eight gentlemen's singles titles with a game that somehow made ruthless efficiency look like ballet.

And then there was Andy Murray. Seventy-seven years of British hope, expectation and history resting on one bloke from Dunblane. When he finally got the job done in 2013, the roar around Centre Court felt less like the reaction to a tennis match and more like an entire country celebrating together.

Of course, Wimbledon wouldn't be Wimbledon without one final opponent: the weather. Rain delays are as much a part of the folklore as anything that happens on court. There is something very Wimbledon about thousands of people sitting under ponchos, patiently waiting, turning a disruption into part of the occasion. 

The retractable roof on Centre Court, introduced in 2009, gave everyone the best of both worlds: the magic of outdoor tennis when the sun is shining, and the guarantee that the show keeps going when the British weather inevitably does what it does.

Either way, the crowd always finds a way to enjoy itself. Plenty of tournaments have more prize money. Plenty have louder marketing campaigns. Plenty try to manufacture history. Wimbledon doesn't need to. It has something the others simply cannot buy: lineage.

The Royal Box still carries that unmistakable sense of occasion. The honours boards are still updated by hand. The ball boys and girls still move around the court with almost military precision. Everything feels connected to everything that came before.

That's the magic of Wimbledon. Tradition and sporting drama existing side by side without either one getting in the way. Nearly a century and a half on, it has somehow managed to stay exactly the same while feeling completely electric every summer. Same lawns. Same whites. Same strawberries. Different heroes every July, all queuing up to write themselves into a story that somehow never gets old.