WIMBLEDON, England -- They are the fabled Sloane Rangers -- gorgeous, 20-something babes out from Sloane Square wearing their stylish suits and drinking their Pimms. They are bloated, balding 50-something men pounding fish and chips and sporting designer boxer shorts as if they just got out of bed. Or stumbled out of the nearest pub. They are groomed matrons, tiny children, Turnbull and Asser shirts and suits and maniac skinheads -- "half-wits of all ages, creeds and colors," as The Times described the denizens of the so-called Henman Hill on Thursday morning.

	One English newspaper suggests Tim Henman's fist pumping is 'manufactured' personality.

It was a holiday back in America to which the Wimbledon program made slurring reference, the Fourth of July being an occasion not so much for Uncle Sam as for "Aunt Samantha," it read -- inasmuchas, representing U.S. women's tennis, the Williams Sisters (who would win their way to another Grand Slam final Saturday) had left U.S. men's tennis far behind.

But think The Hill cared anything about that?

It's namesake, Tim Henman, ol' triple B himself (Brave Brit Boy), a now four-time All England semifinalist, the caretaker of every Isle's hopes and dreams, the patriot who had kept the nation's hearts on edge practically every match, was doing it again not merely live on Centre Court but, far more important, on the huge television screen in front of the sloping ground where several thousand screaming fans eat and drink and live and die with Henman.

The Oxfordshire man had gone a set ahead of his previously unknown Brazilian opponent, Andre Sa, the night before. But just after noon Thursday, Sa swept to a 7-5 second-set victory and broke Henman's serve to start off the third.

"Tim always makes it so difficult on himself," said Ann McCormack, 40ish, who was squeezed into the second tier of The Hill, a South African who is nevertheless all hemmed in for Henman. "In one of those earlier matches, I'm at home watching the telly and he's hitting the balls crazy. He was finished, dead on court. I was so despondent, I went up to do my shower. By the time I came back he was back on form. Quite stunning, really."

"Henman will win this match, but he can't win the tournament," snarled Patrick Brock, a 20-year-old shaved-head, tattooed "psychiatric nurse" who was enjoying several beverages until a uniformed steward on The Hill ordered him to put his T-shirt back on. "I'm normally quite violent at sporting events, so I feel sort of misplaced here. I mean, the guy makes me put my shirt on? C'mon. This is Henman Hill. The sun's out. What the hell? Let's get happy."

All The Hill people got in considerably better humor once Henman, as they say, leveled the contest and then ran off the last two sets, 6-4, 6-3. Several times, as the overhead sky cameras bore in on the crowd on the slope, part of the thousands (obviously playing hookey from their jobs -- but not Brock, he was on holiday) covered their heads and faces. Others, free to be in the bright sunshine after several days of off-and-on again dripping rain, whipped out cameras and took pictures of the screen! In effect, of course, photographing themselves.

"COME ON, TIM!" echoed constantly. "LET'S ... GO .... HEN ... MAN" a chant started. The throngs roared when Henman put away a strong volley. They groaned when he struck a lame groundie. Henman has always said he can hear The Hill from inside Centre Court though it is on the other side of the other showcourt at Wimbledon, Court One. "I realize the anxiety out there," he said after beating Sa for a place in Friday's semifinals where he will need more than The Hill to take out top-seeded Lleyton Hewitt. "In certain situations nerves creep through the crowd. That's why I knew I had to get my nose back in front."

The Hill has become nearly as familiar at the All England as strawberries and rain. "It's the best place to be," McCormack said. "If somebody offered me Centre Court seats, I'd turn them down. This is much more exciting."

"I don't know," Brock said. "I thought it would be quite different. Only about 20 percent of these people are rooting for their country, 30 percent are here because it's, like, Wimbledon." And the other half of the crowd? "Fashion show," grumbled Brock.

	Henman Hill is the place to hang at Wimbledon if you haven't got Centre Court seats.

Schizophrenia in the grass merely mirrors the weirdly varying attentions his countrymen pay Henman every season at this time. The son of a noted solicitor who plays for the national seniors field hockey team and son-in-law of one of the top cancer surgeons in the land, slim (almost fragile) 27-year-old Henman was born to the task. Not only did his grandfather Henry Billington compete at Wimbledon, but his great grandmother Ellen Stawell Brown was the first woman to serve overarm at the All England, that being in 1901.

Henman was the British junior champion in 1992. He made his debut at Wimbledon two years later by losing in the first round and, then in '95 -- after suffering the first of his three defeats here to Pete Sampras -- accidentally cold-cocked a ballgirl with an angrily whacked forehand in the doubles that got him disqualified from the tournament. Everybody remembers that, but it's his everyday Englishman look and demeanor and somewhat boring personality that have earned him not so universal praise from the ever vigilant British press.

And we're not talking just the tabloid rotters, either.

"He is such a mummy's boy, only a large number of tattoos could save him," says Neil Stevenson, the editor of the magazine The Face -- a kind of British combo of Details and Spin -- whose cover Stevenson vows Henman would never make.

Then there's the newspapers.

Wimpledon Champion was the headline over a story on Tuesday in the lifestyle section of The Times, whose Stefanie Marsh went on to list his wimpish tendencies, writing that Henman: