Do you believe in magic?

Magic, Hope and Centre Court

@kime011

Dearest reader,

Do you remember the first time you stood before your closet, heart quietly pounding, willing its doors to open and reveal the snowy world of Narnia? Or the moment you imagined placing a talking hat atop your head, breath held, as it sorted you into one of the four fabled houses? Or perhaps when you stared out the window at twilight, half-believing a fairy godmother might appear in a shimmer of light, and turn pumpkins into carriages and wishes into reality? I certainly do. And I couldn’t help but wonder, what did these moments have in common? The answer, I realized, was this: magic.

But magic is rarely as simple as weaving your wand and soaring through life. It’s subtler, more abstract and woven into our everyday, shaping phases of our lives quietly. It imbues us with a sacrosanct quality, one more endangered now than ever before. This quality manifests itself most perfectly in the shape of Platform 9¾. You must run at it full speed with faith in your heart, or else you’ll hit the wall. Our ever-elusive, ever-essential quality being… hope.

@kime011

Magic has always defined a certain fortnight in July, where crisp white attires meet the lush green grass. But magic alone isn't enough. You must pair that magic with hope; only then do you reach the sublime. That’s when you realize you’ve stepped into a place where childhood dreams aren’t just remembered but honored. Served up gently, like strawberries and cream, on silver spoons of tradition. A place where time pauses, just enough for wonder to take root. Where the erratic weather lingers just enough to choose its champion. And where tradition doesn’t merely exist but forms the heartbeat of it all.

It is a place that enchants, beguiles, and casts its spell, year after year. This is the place young tennis players dream of before they even understand the rules, clutching rackets far too big for their tiny hands, their knees scuffed from hours of backyard rallies. Yet in their minds, they are already stepping onto Centre Court. Where thousands sit in perfect stillness. Where the late afternoon sun casts long shadows.

Where the gleaming silver-gilt trophy waits. Just. Within. Reach. It’s true: a victory on this court elevates you, forever, to tennis pantheon status. Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Wimbledon.

Long associated with tradition and touched by royalty, Wimbledon feels less like a tournament and more like a crown jewel in the sporting world. Fittingly, the setting unfolds like a master jeweler’s vision brought to life. Their signature purple blazes with amethyst depth, rich and regal, heavy with the weight of ceremony. While their grass spreads in an impossible emerald expanse, where each blade catches light like faceted jade, creating a living carpet that feels almost too sacred to disturb.

Against this jeweled backdrop, players move in pristine white: luminous as opal catching summer light, glowing with moonstone purity against the deeper hues. When champions emerge, they transform like rough diamonds shaped by pressure and brilliance, becoming crystalline and eternal. Their names join a constellation of legends. Each one a brilliant star in Wimbledon’s crown, reflecting the light of every champion before.

But, as with anything steeped in tradition, Wimbledon has its quirks. Their curfews, for instance, are notoriously strict. No matter how tense the fifth set or how electric the atmosphere, the match must stop when the clock strikes time. And if you thought the English weather was the only culprit that could throw off the rhythm of play, then think again. Because at Wimbledon, the schedule obeys only two forces: their skies and their sacred rules.

And yet, even in a place governed by tradition, unpredictability finds a way to steal the spotlight. This year, it arrived in the form of a series of jaw-dropping upsets. A record-shattering thirteen seeded men and ten seeded women bowed out before the second round had even begun. Amongst them were four Top 10 players from each draw. For a tournament steeped in history, here's another unforgettable moment they can add to their ever-growing ledger of the extraordinary.

Against all odds, from the rubble of shattered brackets and fallen giants, magic and hope joined forces, conjuring an atmosphere of ineffability. Deep into the heart of this fortnight, the stage was set and history waited with open arms to crown its next champions.

Two names rose above the rest: Iga Świątek and Jannik Sinner

Iga Świątek once again proved why she stands at the summit of women’s tennis. As a junior, she took home this title. But as an adult, the slick grass became her turbulence. It was the only surface where she had yet to prove her mettle. The truth is, not everyone dares dream a dream too big, fearing it might never see daylight. And Świątek felt exactly this way about winning Wimbledon. But fate was her invisible cosmic trickster, empowering her with imperceptible strength, brewing her elixirs of dominance and summoning a performance so hypnotic it bewitched all who bore witness. For Świątek, that magic crystallized into a 6-0 6-0 demolition in 57 minutes. Surreal.

For Jannik Sinner, however, the quest was even more ethereal. How could it not be? He hung by a thread in the Round of 16 when Bulgarian Grigor Dimitrov’s agonizing pectoral tear forced him to surrender. In one fateful blink, destiny had intervened. Soon after this, Sinner, found himself in the final against the man —Carlos Alcaraz—who crushed his Parisian dreams mere weeks ago. Together, they channel the primordial forces of fire (Alcaraz) and ice (Sinner). But under what celestial alchemical condition does frost extinguish flame? Only under the rarest alignment: when the lights burn brightest on Centre Court, and ice rises from the ashes of fire's early dominance—4-6, 6-4, 6-4, 6-4.

@kime011

Iga and Jannik. Both multi-slam champions. Both subjects of endless media scrutiny. Both emerged victorious. They’re the quiet champions, the ones who quite literally let their rackets do the talking.

At Wimbledon, the fortnight culminates with a Champion’s dinner. Another time-honored tradition that makes it stand apart. Here, the champions (if they both want to) share a dance. It’s a rare kind of moment when the faith to sprint towards the unseen is rewarded. Two people, chasing their own Platform 9¾, find that the wall doesn’t stop them.

Instead, it yields, as if it was waiting for them all along. Because magic, after all, belongs to those who believe enough to keep running.

So dearest reader, whether this was your first Wimbledon or your fiftieth, I hope you felt it too: that flutter of possibility when an underdog takes the first set, or that collective gasp when a winner clips the line. Because here's what I've discovered; the magic you witnessed these past two weeks wasn't just happening on the grass. It was happening in you every time you believed in a comeback, every time you held your breath for a stranger chasing their dreams, every time you let yourself hope for something beautiful.

Wimbledon doesn’t just create champions on court. It creates believers in the stands, dreamers at home, and rekindles hope in hearts that had stopped believing in magic.

Maybe your own Platform 9¾ isn’t a tennis court; maybe it’s something else entirely. But after two weeks of watching people run wholeheartedly at their dreams, and after remembering how to be enchanted, I have a feeling you’re ready to find out what happens when you don’t slow down.

Now, take this magic, and run.

Until next time,

Love-all,

Areyah DCosta

Areyah DCosta writes Love All, where she frequently shares her love for tennis. Read more here. You can also reach Areyah on Instagram @ l.o.v.e_all_.

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Areyah’s piece was published in Issue 37 of the WARKITCHEN, a Wimbledon special. Explore the full issue here.