Patriotism. Good manners. Courage. No wonder even sport-haters like me love Wimbledon

PUBLISHED: 22:42, 30 June 2013 | UPDATED: 22:42, 30 June 2013

Today, 19-year-old Laura Robson, the British No 1, fights for the chance to play in the quarter-finals at Wimbledon.

Until recently, I must confess, she had barely registered in my mind.

Now, however, I will be eagerly switching on the TV to see whether she and Andy Murray — who have already made history by becoming the first British pair since 1998 to survive into the tournament’s second week in both the men’s and women’s singles — can make it into the next round.

19-year-old Laura Robson, the British No 1, is fighting for the chance to play in the quarter-finals at Wimbledon

Like so many others, I am always gripped by Wimbledon. I am not — to put it mildly — a sporty person. Whenever a ball is spun, hurled or thwacked straight at me, I’m afraid my instinct is to run away from it as fast as possible.

As a spectator, I am left cold by other sports. Cricket remains a source of bafflement, football or rugby seem like war by other means, and as for Formula One — well, forget it!

But Wimbledon is different. As a child, I used to go along to matches after school, which happened to be conveniently located nearby. In those days, when the crowds were smaller, it was possible to turn up on spec and jam yourself into the stands on the centre court to admire the then giants of the game such as Chris Evert or Jimmy Connors.

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Today, many who have scant interest in sport in general and who have never wielded a tennis racket in their lives are nevertheless glued to the TV during Wimbledon fortnight, and fret if circumstances conspire to prevent them from watching a critical match.

The attraction surely does not lie merely in the awesome prowess and sportsmanship of players at the very top of the game.

Nor is it simply the inbuilt entertainment value caused by the exquisite calibration of tension, as players’ fortunes ricochet back and forth with the rallies, and apparently sure-fire victories suddenly slip through the strings of their rackets.

The way the game is played at Wimbledon in particular reaffirms the continuity of certain priceless values which elsewhere appear to be steadily disappearing. For Wimbledon conjures up the all-too-often despised but infinitely precious myth of Englishness.

Andy Murray and Laura Robson have already made history by becoming the first British pair since 1998 to survive into the tournament's second week in both the men's and women's singles

It is where passionate enthusiasm is tempered by orderliness and a dash of eccentricity, with doughty fans camping outside the gates weeks in advance to secure a centre court ticket.

The players are courteous and keep their emotions in check. When a player breaks that pattern — as did John McEnroe with his displays of petulance and temper — the watching crowds are quick to show their disapproval.

But it is the umpires, with their combination of firmness, understatement and courtesy, who stamp the proceedings with an unmistakable yet indefinable Britishness.

In fact, many of them come from other countries. Yet somehow, once they step into their umpire’s chair, they exude an air of British authority.

The spectators similarly have to restrain themselves. Players need quiet in order to concentrate on each point, and the umpires are no less firm in keeping eruptions of enthusiasm (or its opposite) down.

Wimbledon conjures up the all-too-often despised but infinitely precious myth of Englishness

Gentility is the watchword; and there aren’t many other institutions where that word can be applied without a class-war curl of the lip.

For sure, all this has eroded a bit in recent years. But when you compare Wimbledon with, say, a football crowd, it’s just a different world.

One obvious difference is that the focus is not on a team but on a lone individual. As a result, their moral character is placed under extraordinarily close scrutiny — something that, I think, goes a long way to explain the game’s appeal.

What excites so much admiration, for example, is the way a player manages to defy crushing setbacks to stay in the game — as did Laura Robson after losing the first set in her third-round match.

Rather than allow themselves to give way to demoralisation and defeat, they manage to excavate heroic reserves of self-belief and determination.

While some of us couldn’t serve an ace to save our lives, such behaviour is an inspiration for how to approach obstacles in life other than on a tennis court.

Of course, sometimes the character thing is agonising. Year after year, we watched Tim Henman trying to conquer his inner demons yet never quite managing it.

Now, however, we have witnessed Andy Murray mature from a nervy, bad-tempered competitor to a calm, assured, much more disciplined and devastating player.

There is something particularly admirable and sometimes poignant about that small, lonely figure out there on court, relying entirely on his or her own reserves of skill, self-belief and courage.

Unlike teams, which are innately divisive, lone players unite many more people behind them. This is particularly true, of course, whenever a Brit makes it through the first rounds.

People are so astonished and thrilled that Britain might at last have a winner at Wimbledon that the player in question becomes the focus for a national wave of emotion.

Tennis fans have now witnessed Andy Murray mature from a nervy, bad-tempered competitor to a calm, assured, much more disciplined and devastating player

Which is why there is such excitement over Laura storming through to her match today. And, of course, it is why all are holding their breath that this will at last be the year Andy Murray finally wins Wimbledon.

Whatever eventually happens to either of these players, the feelings they provoke among the public have a galvanising and unifying effect.

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In these socially atomised times, where so much divides us from each other, it’s genuinely moving to see how people seize any opportunity to come together to express shared excitement, optimism and national pride.

The fact that Wimbledon fortnight is an annual British institution is itself a source of considerable reassurance. Indeed, the British summer follows the same comforting schedule every year, with established events including the Chelsea flower show, Royal Ascot, Glyndebourne, Wimbledon and the Promenade concerts, whose Last Night stands proxy for the end of summer.

All these events provide not just a regular rhythm for the national cultural calendar but also uphold a sense of continuity and timelessness.

They help us define, in particular, that most loved but besieged myth of British national identity: the English idyll, which at Wimbledon comes complete with immaculate tennis whites, manicured grass courts and strawberries and cream.

And, of course, most years it also provides the ultimate defining national image of the stoical British, huddled shivering under their brollies on the stands as the rain buckets down.

OK, it’s all getting a bit frayed around the edges. At Ascot, some of the women turn up half-naked; and the Proms regularly see attempts to chuck out the elements of patriotism (boo, hiss) from the programme for the flag-waving Last Night.

And yes, the astronomical prize money and ruthless corporate sponsorship in the world of tennis are increasingly corrupting the innocence of Wimbledon.

But the line is still holding, just about. Go to any of these summer events and for a while you can forget the gathering storms outside, the increasing cynicism and despair.

Arguably, Wimbledon inspires the most affection and enthusiasm of any of these fixtures of the British summer. Unlike, say, Ascot, Glyndebourne or the Proms, it is classless. And if Andy Murray actually wins Wimbledon, it’ll be like the Olympics all over again, but sweeter.

Personally, with all that tension I’ll be watching — riveted, but hardly bearing to look — from behind the sofa.

New balls, please!

Monday, 1 July 2013