Wimbledon started Monday, overpriced strawberries and all. Which should remind us once again of the sorry lot of the hosts.

        The poor Brits. They cherish this gala fortnight, they tend it, they nurture it. They queue up just after dawn to get in, with the first serve not until mid-afternoon.

        They tolerate lousy weather. Only four times since 1922 has it not rained at some point.

        Their royalty shows up in the good seats, like Jack Nicholson at a Lakers game, only better dressed.

        They seed the grass, mow it, roll it, care for it. Then watch as it gets trampled for two weeks.

        They have carried it through one
world war, then another.

        Hitler put a bomb on Centre Court in October of 1940. Wiped out a thousand seats. Good ones.

History of supportp>         They have held firmly, proudly, some might say stubbornly, to tradition. No screwball starting times like 9:22 p.m. This is not the NBA.

        The outfits stay white, the surface green.

        Let everyone else have their clay surface or hard courts or whatever. If God didn't want tennis on grass, He wouldn't have made Pete Sampras.

        It is their jewel, their treasure, their baby.

        Except ... they never get to win it.

        Well, hardly ever. The last British men's champion was Fred Perry. That was 1936. The last woman was Virginia Wade, in 1977.

        For the home patrons, the only thing that has broken the dry spell is the champagne sold on the grounds.

        They have been asked annually to cheer with enthusiasm and respect for various Americans, Australians, Swedes, Germans, Czechs.

        It can't be easy. Imagine the Masters without an American winner since Horton Smith in 1936.

        Or the last Yankee to take the Indianapolis 500 being Louie Meyer.

        The customers over here in the colonies don't take kindly to such indignities. We got steamed when Toronto won the World Series twice in a row.

        But each year, the British endure another frustration. Another wave of native sons mowed down. Another year to wait.

        It seems strange. This is the premier event in tennis, held each and every year on British soil. You'd think the host country would get a champion by osmosis, if nothing else.

        Instead, they don't win it any more than the United States wins the Olympic hammer throw.

        There is always some infernal foreigner in the way. A Borg, a Becker. And of course, a Sampras.

        Sampras has lost one match here since 1992. He is Florida State, and this is Tallahassee. It means he will probably beat Tim Henman again, if it comes to that.

Savior in Henman?

        Tim Henman? He is the hottest homeboy in years. The London bookies put his odds at 6-1, which is a lot better than the British women, who check in at 1,000-1, or only slightly better than if they played with no racquets.

        Henman won big in the first Monday, pounding a Russian. But what if bad news is ahead, sooner or later?

        Then the gloom of another unfulfilled year will set in. And there will be only one place for the British to go for understanding.

        Call a Boston Red Sox fan.

        Mike Lopresti is a columnist for Gannett News Service

Updated Wimbledon coverage from Associated Press

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