IT'S hard to dislike Wimbledon, despite its occasional pomposities, but one sound, one sight, always drew a groan. Suddenly,  there would be a disturbance in the crowd, a sort of low murmur like when a celebrity is spotted, and then with a collective click umbrellas would open to signal the closing of a match. The rain had come. Again.

The All England Club's powers were considered boundless. But despite suggestions of a direct line to God, on this matter it had no control. Of course, this being tennis' ancient home of sorts, the rain was cleverely turned into just another tradition. Spectators ate strawberries, sipped Pimms and huddled stoically in the wet. Incredibly some will mourn the passing of this tiresome ritual.

The rain was rarely strong but unending, like some heavenly tap in need of a plumber, and the grass was more sensitive than a Hollywood star's skin. It turned greasy, slippery, unsafe, and players would stand, arms akimbo, demanding matches be halted.

The rain was no good for everyone. It hurt spectators, who lined up all night wearing warm clothes and a grin, or bought tickets months earlier, yet went home without seeing a single shot. It was tragic for players, especially those ahead in matches, like Ivan Lendl in 1989, who had a slight edge over Boris Becker in their semi-final before rain stole his momentum. Said Becker, using the advantage of being able to commune with his entourage during a rain break: "I could settle down, I could think again, and I came back fresh.'' Maybe Lendl was just fated never to win there.

As a journalist I hated delays for deadlines were approaching rapidly with little to write, and the only option was to stand frowning at the bar and down more pints than necessary. Every 10 minutes you looked out to a funereal sky, shook your head and carried on. Else you watched re-runs of famous matches, took a long look at a crowded Wimbledon museum and walked enviously through the merchandising tent. For a young, poorly-paid sportswriter then, POUNDS 9.99 (the starting price for almost anything) was a fortune.  

The new Centre Court roof, and 118 lights (thus allowing for later matches), are to be celebrated but they are also overdue. The very idea of sport is that it should be continuous, which is yet another reason why football has such universal appeal. Wimbledon has always managed to complete the tournament, but has been achingly slow to see the benefits of Australia's roof installed 21 years ago. It is a strange reluctance from a club that is more modern than many believe. Tennis in the open air admittedly has a different feel, especially since the sun and wind and cold have an effect on the court, ball toss and occasionally endurance. But eventually play must somehow go on.

Wimbledon's roof is classy, as expected, a translucent, retractable cover that will allow the sun in and uses an air-conditioning system to stop the grass from sweating. How it will affect the grass, and the tennis, will be examined in minute detail this summer. Big servers, who don't play the conditions well, will love this airless bubble, and those in trouble during a point might earn a replay by hitting a lob so ferociously high that it touches the ceiling.

The roof closes in 10 minutes and a further 30 minutes is required for the air system to start working. Just enought time to sidle up to the bar for another pint, but not enough time for too many.

Rohit Brijnath covered six Wimbledons between 1987-1992.