Quite a business at Wimbledon

A seemingly other worldly approach to organising the tennis tournament yields huge profits and is a masterpiece of subliminal marketing

If you are watching Wimbledon on TV next week, look closely at Centre Court. What is remarkable is what you won't see. No advertising for Emirates, Kia, Hertz Rent a Car or BNP Paribas. In stark contrast to all the other Grand Slam events and indeed to just about every major sporting event, there are, in fact, no billboards at all. On Centre Court, advertising is limited to the products being used on court. Rolex helps keep the time for the duration of the match, IBM keeps track of service speeds (and behind the scenes, all the data on approaches to the net and unforced errors) and Evian is the bottled water drunk by the players at the changeover between games. To call this advertising seems an exaggeration. It is more like the signature of a celebrated artist on a painting.

One of the lesser known attributes of "The Championships", as Wimbledon grandly calls itself, is that it is a masterpiece of marketing, although of the most subtle kind. Intrigued by this aspect of a tournament that manages to preserve the sense of an English garden party, while still raking in millions of pounds in TV broadcasting revenues and sponsorships, I sought an interview with Mick Desmond, the commercial director at the All England Club last year. He explained that while the advertising at Wimbledon was "very subliminal," it was also "very powerful". Research conducted by IBM, Rolex and by the All England Club itself showed that brand recall is very high. Precisely because of the absence of billboards, the brands that make seemingly cameo appearances by the standards of 21st century advertising, stand out. (As a tennis fanatic, I can remember most of the brands at Wimbledon, I can only recall Kia at the Australian Open and that is because its senior executives make excruciatingly painful speeches at the awards ceremony). When Ralph Lauren won the contract to dress the linesmen and umpires in cream coloured sweaters and trousers and blue blazers a few years ago, this prompted several articles applauding the retro look, reminiscent of The Great Gatsby.

Slazenger and Robinsons logos sit unobtrusively on the umpire’s chair

At Wimbledon, sponsors like Slazenger, IBM and the others are referred to as "partners". This New Age nomenclature may sound corny, but the sponsors seem to do as much to promote tennis and "The Championships" as their own brands. Proof of this can be found not only at Wimbledon, but in an extraordinary event that has played out in midtown Manhattan during the first week of Wimbledon for the past few years. Right in the heart of Rockefeller Plaza, a grass tennis court is laid out amid those stunning Art Deco skyscrapers, something that in this very urban setting seems staged by the surrealist Rene Magritte, well known for his works of men in bowler hats falling to the earth. Commuters to and from work can stop and play on the court, watch live action from Wimbledon, courtesy ESPN, and listen to the commentary of the former French Open champion Jim Courier. The Wimbledon partner behind this spectacle is HSBC. The anomaly is that HSBC is nowhere visible on Centre Court at Wimbledon; its logo appears where a bank should - above the ATM machines near the entry gates to the club. Desmond says the club's partners "appear where you expect them to appear".

Few organisations could be as low-key about money-making as Wimbledon. Seating in stadium court at the US Open may now accommodate in excess of 20,000 with the result that the higher reaches offer a better view of the New York skyline than they do of the action below, but at Wimbledon it has been limited to 15,000. Wimbledon also limits corporate customers to less than 10 per cent of the total seats. The vast majority of the spectators receive their seats through a ballot system or through membership to tennis clubs throughout the UK. In contrast to the US Open where corporate boxes are as often empty as not, on Centre Court on most days almost every seat is occupied when play begins at 1 pm. The spectators, having won their seats through an open ballot, treasure them like a lottery ticket. And, even those who are at corporate marquees and are debenture holders of the club are encouraged to take their seats in time, not least because lunch is no longer served once play begins on Centre Court. Despite such strictures, more than 90 per cent of companies with corporate marquees renew them.

In Holding Court, a book published a few years ago by the former chief executive of the All England Club, Chris Gorringe, Gorringe reveals less about the club's dealings with the world's top players and more about the management mantras the club lives by. In addition to limiting advertising on Centre Court because it distracts viewers from the tennis, Wimbledon follows the traditions of Japanese keiretsu, whereby organisations value long-term relationships with suppliers and customers. IBM and Rolex, for instance, have had a relationship with the All England Club for more than a quarter of a century. But, the club can be hard-nosed as well, especially in negotiating broadcasting rights, which is where the real money is made at Wimbledon. Three decades ago, it used the late Mark McCormack of the well-known sports management firm, the International Management Group, to negotiate broadcasting rights with European broadcasters and eventually all TV rights. McCormack, a long-time tennis fan himself and author of What they don't teach you at Harvard Business School, was ferocious in defending the club's interests and regarded a low bid for TV rights "as a personal affront", reports Gorringe.

Wimbledon's huge take from selling TV rights has helped it roll out a massive new broadcast and press centre and new show courts in the past couple of decades. Five years ago, the club debuted its roof for Centre Court at what was estimated to cost more than £100 million. Traditionalists had pooh-poohed the idea of a roof at Centre Court, saying it would make it seem like an indoor stadium. Befitting a club that balances continuity with change, the 1,000-tonne roof turned out to be translucent and unfolded concertina-style. Writing about it that summer for the Financial Times, I would gush that it looked as natural a part of the stadium as a "veil would with a wedding dress". The roof had its first day out in front of a packed Centre Court and 12 million TV viewers cheering on local favourite Andy Murray. A less expensive roof would have done the job, but Wimbledon's ingenious variation preserved the sense of an open-air tennis match.

Wimbledon exemplifies a lesson they don't emphasise often enough at business school: a seemingly uncommercial approach to running an organisation can yield huge profits if there is a passion for the product - in this case Wimbledon and tennis. It is reflected in the club's inelegant mission statement: "We maintain The Championships as the premier tournament in the world - and on grass." It's not poetry even by the standards of mission statements, but it works. Every year 8,000 temporary workers - many of them elderly volunteers and members of the British armed services working at the tournament on vacation days - work as ushers. Ballboys from local schools are treated with respect; their family members receive passes to the first week. Fans queuing up for hours outside for the tickets released daily are updated by these good-humoured elderly stewards on when they might expect to get in and what matches within are generating the loudest applause. In the late 1990s, just off a plane from Hong Kong, I became a fan of the tournament watching the egalitarian way in which it treats people who queue outside its gates in the hope of getting a ticket. Not only did I get in on that occasion, but by evening found myself in another queue for tickets returned by patrons leaving early. Tickets were resold then for £5 per seat, the proceeds donated to charity. The happy result is that punters find their way on to Centre Court - in my case to watch Andre Agassi followed by Venus Williams.

Former tennis players Jim Courier and Jennifer Capriati play an exhibition game in 2009 on a grass court created by HSBC in the heart of Rockefeller Plaza in New York

The tournament may be humane and considerate to fans and players, while tying sponsors down with restrictions that seem idiosyncratic in the extreme, but it still mints money. Gorringe reports that the club's surplus (profits) from The Championships rose from £306.737 when he took over in 1979 to £27 million by the time he retired in 2005. It now makes in excess of £35 million, which is then donated to the UK's national tennis association. It ought to be given to charity. Aside from Murray, who in any case was sent away to Spain as a young boy to hone his game, the UK tennis authorities have little to show for the club's generosity. Countries like Serbia, France and Spain have consistently produced many more top players than the UK is able to do. For all of Wimbledon's success, giving its profits to the national tennis association is the equivalent of flushing millions down the toilet.

While I have been an obsessive tennis fan since I was a a boy in Calcutta, cheering on the late Arthur Ashe's determined bid to win Wimbledon in 1975, I have not always been a fan of the All England Club. In the early to mid-'80s, while still in college, I was a cub reporter, freelancing for The Telegraph and Sportsworld, which were then sister publications of Business Standard. By then I was an utterly myopic fan of the talented, if temperamental, John McEnroe. I mostly blamed the club for its mishandling of the New Yorker in 1980, when he lost that epic battle to Bjorn Borg, and 1981 when he won, even withdrawing his invitation to the champion's dinner in 1981.

In my opinion, McEnroe's demented inability to control his temper was made worse by the stuffiness of the club's umpires. One of the famous showdowns between McEnroe and an umpire at Wimbledon displayed the insularity of the club's officials. Angered by his poor play, McEnroe berated himself. "You're the pits of the world," he shouted, common American slang for hitting rock-bottom. The umpire penalised McEnroe for obscenity. The umpire's log showed that he had reported that Mr McEnroe had abused the umpire, calling him "piss". I would interview Richard Evans, the legendary tennis writer who had published a biography defending McEnroe, for Sportsworld in the early '80s, in which we both castigated Wimbledon for being out of touch with the modern world.

My conversion to the belief that the All England Club runs a better sporting event than just about any I can think of elsewhere began in that endless queue outside its gate for tickets sold on the day. Attempting to write an article about the queue and the bonhomie between those in the line as well as the gracious stewards issuing their updates on the chances of getting in by the afternoon in 2003, I joined the queue while talking on my mobile phone to a property agent who was helping me with a lease for a flat in London. Six hours later as I approached the gate, I discovered the Club had been handing out a piece of paper to queuers. Distracted by my phone call, I had missed the official handing them out in the morning. Despite the protests on my behalf from others in the queue who I had become friendly with in the midst of photo shoots by the FT's photographer, I was denied entry. I admired the club for enforcing its rules even if my article turned out rather differently.

It is the tournament's openness to outsiders that has made me a fan. One of my favourite days at Wimbledon is the Saturday before the tournament starts when the club opens its doors to schoolchildren from local government schools who enjoy the opportunity to see the big stars practising for free. So much about Wimbledon, from that expensive 1,000-tonne roof that looks like a veil to opening up its hallowed grounds to schoolchildren, is guided by a love for the game, not strategies to maximise profits.

How I came to receive my first press pass to the tournament in 2006 was itself an illustration of that wonderful, if quixotic, generosity. As with any large sporting event, journalists normally apply for credentials months in advance. As I worked for the FT, which did not even have a sports page, I had never done so. In 2006, however, I had written a 5,000-word profile of Roger Federer for the FT. It was the longest piece published on Federer in the mainstream press until then. That summer in the middle of the first week of Wimbledon, Richard Evans discovered that I did not have a press pass. As I understand it - and at some level I still don't - he walked over to the lady in charge of the press centre and made a case for my being given a pass, mentioning the Federer profile. That was all it took. A day's pass was produced for the middle Friday.

The memory of that first visit to Wimbledon eight years ago as a reporter is as fresh as if it happened yesterday. The action on Court 1 and elsewhere had been more compelling than on Centre Court that day. I ran from court to court, taking in all the tennis I could, scarcely pausing for a sandwich till late in the evening.

By the time I arrived on Centre Court, it was past 7.30 pm at the end of a long hot day of tennis. It was Friday evening, so the stands were half empty as many people had left. I showed my pass to the uniformed volunteer from the British Army. He escorted me to my seat in the press box. Down the steps he went towards the court. Feeling simultaneously like a visiting head of state and an 11-year-old from Calcutta who had grown up listening to commentary from Wimbledon on a Philips radio because we did not have a TV at the time, I followed. As I walked a step behind him, that exquisite rectangle of hallowed grass became magnified. I was thinking of Ashe covering his face with a towel to stay calm during his dismantling of Jimmy Connors in 1975; I remembered the serve and volley elegance of Stefan Edberg and Martina Navratilova and McEnroe's unorthodox limp volleys that were unreturnable on the softer grass of the '80s. As we walked towards the front row of the press box, that journey of 15 steps at most seemed like we had spent the day marching together. I looked across the court as we walked down and spotted Federer lounging in the Friend's Box, where competitors' family and friends sit. On court was his countryman, Stanislas Wawrinka. The front row of the press box turned out to be in essence a bench that looked like it was hauled from a nearby park. As I sat down, I looked up at Federer as a kind of homage and realised the press seats were even closer to the court than he was. For the first few minutes I was scarcely aware of the tennis. Most of my life as a tennis fan from the age of eleven and as an occasional tennis reporter was a progression to this moment, but now I was on Centre Court, I was unprepared for it. I had not dared to dream this big.