When you attend a major sporting event as a spectator, you temporarily surrender your individuality to the collective energy of the crowd. You become part of a unified body, letting your reactions rise and fall with the shared emotion.
Some people resist that surrender. Occasionally a spectator will insist on standing out by stripping off their clothes and streaking across the arena. Others hoist banners to draw attention to themselves or to promote a cause.
Sometimes the crowd’s focus lands on one person by accident: a stray ball sails into his lap, or a player collides with a spectator. For an instant every eye in the stadium—and countless viewers watching on television—turns toward him. He reacts with pain or embarrassment, prompting a ripple of concern or amusement. Then the contest resumes, and the individual dissolves back into the anonymous throng.
There is a third way to become singled out by the crowd, and I experienced it firsthand.
The year was 1990 and the scene was Centre Court at Wimbledon on men’s semi-finals day. Earlier, the crowd had watched Stefan Edberg outmaneuver Ivan Lendl. Now Boris Becker was locked in a punishing duel with Goran Ivanišević.
I had a first-row corner seat. It provided an incredible view but carried real risk. Each time Ivanišević launched one of his thunderous serves from the far end, I braced to take evasive action. Realistically, there was little chance to dodge: the ball left his tightly strung racket as a green blur.
Fortunately Becker was at the peak of his powers, returning serve after serve with fierce accuracy. The ball pounded back and forth in long, thrilling rallies that drew rising gasps from the crowd. Winners were met with exuberant cheers and applause.
Now and then I glanced toward the Royal Box, where dignitaries and celebrities sat in genteel isolation. They were present but apart, often chatting during points and seldom visibly moved by the match—except for Princess Diana. Despite her fame, she appeared most engaged with the ebb and flow of the crowd.
During the earlier match I had used my SLR camera to capture action shots from my courtside position. As the Becker–Ivanišević match intensified I raised it again, fitting a telephoto lens to frame the play.
Ivanišević hammered a baseline winner and I clicked the shutter. Becker lunged full length for an astonishing volley and I clicked again. Shot after shot I documented what was becoming a titanic five-set battle. After pivotal points the entire stadium—including Diana in the Royal Box—rose as one. I stayed seated with one eye to the viewfinder.
Becker was serving. He tossed the ball into the air and I clicked. But there was no satisfying thump of racket on ball. I looked up to see Becker standing with his hands on his hips, glaring directly at me.
“Not during a serve!” he barked. “Sheesh!” Every head turned my way. A thin ripple of disapproving applause circled the court. I glanced up to the Royal Box and saw Diana joining in the reproachful clapping.
I sheepishly slipped the camera back into its bag. The moment was already fixed on film—a single photograph that forever captures my brief, mortifying turn in the Centre Court spotlight.
Becker served once more. A 747 thundered overhead en route to Heathrow, but he didn’t seem to hear it.