Katherine MacAlister samples the delights of the Centre Court

I was a virgin Wimbledoner until yesterday, when I decided to break the habit, turn off the TV and go to witness the action for myself.

Within hours of arriving I was transfixed, experiencing an afternoon of stars, disappointment, tears, victory and humour.

Several players were carried off, one of the top seeds was beaten by a novice and the big names came out to play.

Suddenly it all made sense - why hundreds of people were queuing in the heat in the hope of getting one of a handful of tickets, why people slept on the pavements outside to try to get in, and why Wimbledon is still the favourite tennis tournament in the world.

But it's not just about tennis. It's an event in itself. Fans arrive in time to sprawl on the many lawns, eat vast picnics, drink and watch the matches on the big screen. I had tickets for Centre Court which was like a compact football stadium itself. It was like watching a play - the audience awed by the skill of the actors before them and the players were more than just sportsmen and women - they were performers.

From their costumes such as Hewitt's big baggy white surf shorts and backwards baseball cap to Agassi's newly-shaved head, they wept, pleaded, shouted, begged, fell, skidded and rolled their way across the stage to huge applause.

I'm not a huge tennis fan, haven't picked up a racquet for years, and was hard-pushed to name any of the five top players today but as I neared the site I felt the excitement and buzz oozing out of the All England Tennis Club. The first match was between Lindsay Davenport, last year's women's Wimbledon champion and Corinna Morariu, a fellow American.

It wasn't a great start, panning out to be more of a formality for Davenport. In fact, the only exciting bit was when Morariu did a spectacular skid, legs in the air and landed on her wrist - ending the match.

From then on the tempo increased. The match cancelled yesterday by rain recommenced. The sulky Conchita Martinez, seeded fourth in the world was finishing off Anne Kremer, or so we thought. What followed was a fantastic match, full of long, strenuous rallies, athletics, grunts and sulks. Conchita acted but didn't play the star until nearing the end, when she realized the young, nimble, Luxembourger was going to take her to the cleaners unless she played some decent tennis. She did of course, much to the crowd's disappointment. Next up was the current hot young thing on the tennis scene Lleyton Hewitt, who was Queen's champion last week and seeded third in the world at Wimbledon. He was playing an unseeded American and the crowd agreed it would be another formality match.

I say agreed because the atmosphere in the stands is one of conviviality. We chattered and ate, became experienced critics within minutes, and we were fickle - our favour moving fast between the underdog and the favourite, relishing every morsel thrown our way and applauding vigorously when satisfied.

The unseeded American Jan-Michael Gambill beat Hewitt, who fought back in the last set but still lost and has probably already packed his bags and gone back to Australia by now. The birth of a new star and on our court. Next up was the headliner - Agassi, the one we had all secretly been waiting for. As he warmed up with Taylor Dent, ten years his junior, the crowd discussed Agassi's varied love-life - Brooke Shields, Barbra Streisand and now more suitably Steffi Graf, and then moved on to his haircuts - long, pony-tailed, with bandanna, to bald, sorry shaved.

We soon put a sock in it when Agassi lost the first set against serves of up to 136 miles per hour. Henman did the same next door on court number one. Things suddenly got serious. But the stars needed to be losing to get them playing properly. Agassi then started showing us why he was a finalist at Wimbledon last year and how he had stayed at the top for so long.

Those effortless lobs, dazzling forehands and lethal returns slowly overwhelmed his eager opponent, who retired near the end of his thrashing, complaining of a mysterious leg injury and we lapped it up. Forget the underdog we wanted the champion.

That's the thing about Wimbledon that you just don't get on the TV - it's a play, a performance, and always best live. Next year I might even join the sleeping bags on the pavement. As for picking up a racquet - maybe next summer.