I'm sorry, I don't have a queue

There are a lot of things I don't understand.  Tennis is one of them.

I once had a friend "kidnap" me to a tennis court.  Minutes later, we climbed back in his car.

"You're right, you can't play tennis."  I'd been telling him that for years.

What I know about tennis could be written on a scrap of paper.  In large letters.  I do know that if the Resident Fan Boy is watching it on television and the court is red and dusty, it's the French Open, and that if they're playing on grass, it's Wimbledon. Also that there is a long-standing (pun not intended, but applicable) ritual of waiting in line for same-day tickets at Wimbledon.  It's called the Queue.  Not sure of the reason for the capitalisation; they also capitalise "the Grounds".  Maybe to make it more hallowed?

Anyway, I awoke before 6 am to a string of texts from elder daughter, who had evidently braved the Queue with her flatmate (said flat is in South Wimbledon) and was now seated near the edge of Court 1, behind the umpire (referee? judge? I don't know nothin' about tennis.). I had to look up what Court 1 was, and worked out which game she was watching.  (Maria vs Ostapenko - never heard of either). 

Tatjana Maria - perhaps you've heard of her

I mentioned this to the Resident Fan Boy, who leapt out of bed and ran his bath.  As I dressed, I tuned in the game -- and totally failed to understand what was going on, except that the crowd seemed riveted.  When it was evident that someone had won -- Tatjana Maria -- I sat down and suddenly glimpsed my daughter for an entranced instant.  Texted "Saw you!", and the RFB's identical text appeared a split second after mine, as he watched in the living room.  

I'm in the coffee shop now, and the RFB just saw elder daughter again.  In slow motion.

Ain't technology something?

Still clueless about tennis, but it's all about love, for me. (Pun intended.)