Hooked by Osuna's elegance in everlasting love affair

Growing up in the United States, baseball was the sport I valued above all others. From the age of eight until I was nearly 13, nothing mattered more to me. But then, in the summer of 1965, my father took me out to Wimbledon, and my life was irrevocably altered.

That first day at the All England Club was damp and grey as Mexico's Rafael Osuna – a former US champion-played Germany's Ingo Buding on Court Three. I sat there in the stands, wide-eyed and exhilarated, delighted by Osuna's flair and the elegance of the surroundings. From that day forward, I was hooked on top-flight tennis, reading the results every morning in the newspapers, developing a deep appreciation of the game. Wimbledon fired my imagination and made me certain I wanted to become a tennis reporter.

I will celebrate my 50th birthday during this years' edition of "The Lawn Tennis Championships", and this will be my 35th Wimbledon. I was there for seven years as a fan, then spent two years as a reporter in training, and this will be my 26th in a row as a full-time member of the press.

As I look forward to the upcoming Wimbledon, my mind drifts to moments from across the years. I saw Rod Laver's signature performance at Wimbledon during his second Grand Slam season in 1969. He confronted the US Open champion Arthur Ashe, who would rule at Wimbledon six years later. Ashe was serving prodigiously at the outset of this semi-final, swinging freely, driving one blazing backhand after another past the charging Australian.

Ashe seemed certain to carry the day. But Laver was not only the best tennis player in the world – he was a seasoned competitor who knew how to work his way out of a bind. Ashe gave his all, but the red-haired "Rocket" blasted him off the court, 2-6, 6-2, 9-7, 6-0, with shot making only he could have invented.

Two years later, on a flight from Paris to London, the 19-year-old Evonne Goolagong was sitting across the aisle from me. Hours earlier, she had won at Roland Garros. When we landed, she walked off the plane, leaving her rackets behind. I picked them up and returned them to her at the baggage claim. She giggled as she thanked me. Nearly a month later, I watched the carefree Australian win Wimbledon, defeating Billie Jean King and Margaret Court with almost casual ease.

It was 1977, and Jimmy Connors moved swiftly through the crowd toward the referee's office. I was visiting with a few linesmen when a smiling Connors approached us and said: "Hey, how are you, how's everything?" He seemed in high spirits, determined to go all the way on the grass. And he nearly did. Ten days later, in the final against Bjorn Borg, Connors struck back valiantly from 0-4 in the fifth set to lead 4-4, 15-0. But then he delivered a crippling double fault and never won another point, bowing 6-4 in the final set. I had seen him rout Ken Rosewall in the 1974 final, and witnessed his stirring victory over John McEnroe for the 1982 crown. Connors could be vulgar and objectionable, but in that gallant showing against Borg he left me feeling deeply saddened by his narrow failure.

While Chris Evert was victorious a record seven times at the French Open and the winner of six United States Opens, the American with the impeccably groomed ground strokes garnered only three singles titles at Wimbledon despite reaching 10 finals. When she won her last championship in 1981, I attended the celebration dinner at a restaurant in London. I had seen Evert lose in the finals three consecutive years before reclaiming the crown. Toasting her triumph, I said: " I know how frustrating the last few years have been for you." From the far end of the table behind me, I heard a familiar voice interject: "I didn't think those years were so frustrating." It was Martina Navratilova, who had defeated Evert in the 1978 and 1979 finals, and would beat Chris in three subsequent finals on her way to a record nine singles titles. Everyone at that small gathering burst into laughter.

It was no laughing matter when a 17-year-old unseeded player swept through the draw and became the youngest ever to take the men's title in 1985. Boris Becker was immensely appealing , diving audaciously for volleys, serving thunderously, cracking his ground strokes mightily. A year-and-a-half earlier, I had watched Becker at the Orange Bowl Junior Championships in Miami, and wrote that the German "seemed destined for the top". As he came of age in 1985, I felt proud to have recognized his considerable potential.

No one has inspired me more than Pete Sampras, a singularly important champion who has won seven titles with extraordinary grace and style, the best player I have ever seen. Down a set in the 1995 final against Becker, Sampras hit a sparkling passing shot. The crowd responded passively. Sampras turned to the courtside observers and raised his palms, grinning as he urged the audience to turn up the volume of their applause. The fans were delighted by his unusual gesture, cheering him on vigorously as the American went on to win in four sets.

In 1999, Sampras produced a masterpiece with a 6-3, 6-4, 7-5, triumph in the final over Andre Agassi. Agassi was near the top of his game, but Sampras brought him down with a virtuoso performance, and the finest tennis I have ever seen played on the Centre Court. The following year, he won his record-breaking 13th career Grand Slam title, overcoming Patrick Rafter in a four-set battle ending with darkness descending rapidly over Centre Court. Sampras made his way into the stands to embrace his parents, who were there to see him win a major championship in person for the first time. I could feel the hair standing up on the back of my neck.

How fortunate I have been, carrying on this long romance with Wimbledon. There could be no better way to celebrate a 50th birthday than to be back at the All England Club, day dreaming about 1965 and Osuna, wondering who will come through this time around.