Wimbledon Fortnight is here again. Fourteen days of showers, analysis and Sue Barker on TV at tea-time! Do other countries have this sort of slavish obedience to a sport once a year, only to leave it rusting away, unloved and forgotten in the rear of the garage for another 50 weeks? The unsung heroes of this festival are those who spend the fortnight in the firing line, on bended knee, with more airtime than the big stars, yet remain unknown – the BBGs (ball boys and girls)…
Do ball boys and ball girls
Attend special schools?
Where they learn to dash across the court,
To retrieve the server’s balls?
Do they take exhaustive lessons,
In how to look at ease,
When a multi-millionaire player,
Doesn’t utter the word “please”!
When at last the day is over,
And they’re safe, tucked up in bed,
Are they thankful, that no ball,
Thwacked them in the head!
So as you sit there drinking,
A cold Pimms on Henman Hill!
Give a thought to the BBGs
And appreciate their skill.
© Baldock Bard 2013
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picture: Daily Mail
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