Perhaps it was curiosity that took us to the Wimbledon grounds after dinner. Perhaps it was the inkling that our strategy to stand in line early the next morning would fail. Whatever the case, we went and crossed our fingers that we’d see only a few other people in the dusk. We’d read articles about tennis fans camping out for tickets but hoped that they were the exception and not the norm.

As we approached the grassy lawn where the ticket queue began,  our stomachs dropped. A sea of tents lay before us. We saw lounge chairs and blankets and people playing cards by lamplight and dinner cooking on portable grills. My dad, brother, and I, we had a map of London and a camera, wallets, phones, and hotel room keys.

The ticketeer smiled at us when she handed us our numbers. 997. 998. 999. “You’re lucky,” she said. “There are only 1000 tickets available for purchase. Everyone behind you will have to wait.” We’d earned our seats to No. 1 Court. The problem was we’d forfeit them if we left the grounds that night. So we stayed.

Two Australian backpackers were in front of us in line. They’d arrived in London that day from Spain and were as ill-prepared for camping as we were. For hours we bonded over our shabby campsite and shared stories of our travels. Around midnight, those with tents packed up and went to sleep. Then came the rain. Within minutes we were soaked. The Australians carried trash bags and so we each slept in them. Crawled into them like we would a cocoon or potato sack and pulled them up as far as we could so that they covered our bodies. We were garbage sleeping outside of tennis’ grandest stage.

There is a rule at Wimbledon that mandates its competitors wear white. In fact, the official codebook states that even “undergarments” and accessories like wristbands and bandanas must adhere to this strict color standard. Needless to say I could not have competed that day in my mud-stained shirt. I tried to clean up as best I could in the public restroom. Changed into a new shirt I purchased at the gift shop. I was still so tired, though. I’d slept for less than an hour in the rain the night before. Eventually, I did watch Novak Djokovic defeat Tomas Berdych then Lukas Rosol face off against Jerzy Janowicz. But I dozed during the second match. Neither of them won the tournament anyway. That year, Andy Murray became the first British man to win his home grand slam in almost a century.

There’s a reason I have almost no pictures of my time at Wimbledon. On the subway back to our hotel that day, I fell asleep again, and my camera was stolen out from under me. l continue to wear the shirt I bought from the gift shop and watch the tournament every year. Only now I watch from my couch, still without a tent, and enjoy it all the same.