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By Shane Gilreath
There are weeks that pass quietly in our lives. They leave scarcely a ripple. Others feel like an hour glass running low on time. This has been one of the latter. The last seven days have carried with them some astonishing losses. People I have long admired. People whose voices, work, and example have inspired and encouraged. It felt wrong not to recognize it, as it’s been almost perpetually on my mind.
The brutal murder of Ann Widdecombe in the UK came as a particular shock. I was stunned to silence that she had died, even before I learned the grisly details. I simply adored her. Whatever one thought of her politics, she possessed a rare quality in the modern world. She was a straight shooter who stood firmly in what she believed. She was unshakeable. There were no exceptions. Not once. Not ever. Whip smart and funny, she became a consequential leader – far ahead of her time – and it’s shame she never became Prime Minister. Such figures become fixtures in our lives, even unbeknownst to us, and we’re never quite prepared to let them go. That was me with Ann Widdecombe. I’ll miss her.
The unexpected death of Senator Lindsey Graham brought a similar feeling. For decades he’s been a familiar face in American lives. Like him or not, he was present for triumphs and travesties. For South Carolina, he was a stalwart leader whose resilience will be missed both in Washington and on our television screens.
The music world, too, suffered a loss with the passing of Bonnie Tyler. There are singers whose songs belong to a moment and voices to the ages. And Bonnie Tyler had a monster of one. We can’t deny that her voice had a weathered strength to it, as if she’d experienced the hardships of life. I’ve seen many clips of her this week belting “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” It was a voice that didn’t seem to change. Powerful, raspy until the end. .
Closer to home, my community lost a former Deputy County Judge. Bruce Murphy was a man with whom I had the privilege of working while in college. While it never earned headlines, the administration gave me responsibilities I hadn’t yet earned and he continued to encourage even years after. Because of them, I first wrote for a newspaper. I worked with the governor on pet projects and took meetings with environmentalists. Baptism by fire in some sense, but that’s what the entire week has felt like – as though life was presenting a kind of yin and yang – both losses and celebrations, endings and continuing traditions that exist side by side.
All of this unfolded during what may be my favorite two weeks of summer: the Championships of Wimbledon.
For many people, Wimbledon is simply a tennis tournament. For others, it’s part of the rhythm of the English summer and the London social season – a procession of garden parties, regattas, horse races, polo matches, and cultural occasions that stretch from late spring to midsummer. It’s the season of Ascot, Henley, Glyndebourne, and Wimbledon – occasions where tradition is not merely remembered but actively practiced. Something about that sets my world at ease.
When I was a youngster playing tennis with my late sister, who was world class at the sport, we lived enthusiastically for the Wimbledon fortnight. I don’t think I can overstate that the tournament seemed sacred to us – as sacred as it was for Navratilova, Sampras, Edberg, and Graf. It still is. The perfectly cut grass, the Royal Box, the strawberries and cream, the respectful quiet hush before a player serves, the way the grass wears over the two weeks and the court changes in appearance and speed. Heavenly!
From the beginning of the French Open in May to the close of Wimbledon in July, the sporting calendar feels steeped in tradition. Clay gives way to grass, Paris gives way to London, another chapter in a century old story is written and my heart flutters with childlike excitement. I still feel the urge to cross my fingers in earnest hope at championship point, as Princess Charlotte did from the Royal Box a few year ago, and then leap to my feet at triumph, as I did a thousand times growing up.
Maybe because I grew up with it, but it just feels like home, and it’s been a steady comfort in a week that’s confirmed that the world has gone awry. Much to my chagrin, players come and go. Champions retire. In that regard, Wimbledon is a reflection of real life, as familiar faces disappear from our screens and from our lives. And yet, like life, the game continues, just as it’s supposed to. The grass is cut. The crowds gather. Life moves on.