Sunday 7 July 1985.

Rachel Evans had promised herself she wouldn’t get sucked into Wimbledon that year.

She’d meant it, too. She had work to think about, and job applications, and the mountain of washing that never seemed to end now her mum’s arthritis had got worse. Tennis on telly was for people who had time to sit around all afternoon, sipping squash and shouting at the screen.

Then Boris Becker had started winning.

There was something about him—this big, ginger, German teenager diving around the court like it was a playground and not Centre Court, Wimbledon. He served like he meant to knock people over with the force of it. He grinned when he made mistakes. He had that thing that commentators called “star quality” and she, privately, call...

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