When you are a spectator at a major sporting event, you surrender your individuality for the duration. You become an integral part of the crowd, allowing your reactions to ride with the ebb and flow of collective emotion.

Not everyone submits willingly. Occasionally, spectators assert their personal identity by ripping off all their clothes and streaking across the arena. Or they hold up a banner drawing attention to themselves or a particular cause.

Sometimes the singling out of one person among the crowd occurs by accident: A stray ball hits him, or a competitor careens into his lap. For a moment all eyes in the stadium, and of the wider TV audience, are on him. The person will react with pain or embarrassment, and the incident will stimulate a mass ripple of concern or amusement. Then the sporting contest resumes and he is absorbed back into the anonymous throng.

There is a third circumstance by which the attention of the majority can be directed at one hapless spectator. It happened to me.

The year was 1990 and the place was the Centre Court at Wimbledon. It was men’s semi-finals day. Earlier, we — the monolithic crowd — had watched Stefan Edberg finesse his way past Ivan Lendl. Now Boris Becker was engaged in a hard-hitting duel with Goran Ivanisevic.

I was sitting at a corner of the court in the first row. It was an incredible vantage point, but potentially dangerous. Each time Ivanisevic launched his legendary serve from the far end, I prepared to take evasive action. In truth, there would have been no time to dodge the hurtling ball; it flew off his tautly-strung racket as a fuzzy green blur.

Fortunately, Becker was in top form, returning almost every serve with sizzling ferocity. The ball was pummeled back and forth. Long rallies induced mounting gasps of appreciation. Winning shots were greeted with cheers and applause.

Periodically I glanced up to the Royal Box, where dignitaries and celebrities sat in regal isolation. They were among us, but not with us. They chatted during points and barely responded to the unfolding drama. All except Princess Diana, who, despite being the most recognizable face up there, seemed to be most in tune with the general populous.

Throughout the previous match, I had taken advantage of my courtside position to snap action shots with my SLR camera. Now that the Becker–Ivanisevic clash was in full fury, I raised it again, focusing the telephoto lens.

Ivanisevic hammered a winner from the baseline. I clicked the shutter. Becker flung himself full length for an incredible volley. I clicked the shutter. Shot by shot, I was capturing what was turning into a titanic five-setter. After crucial points, the entire crowd — and Diana in the Royal Box — rose as one. I remained seated, one eye fixed to the viewfinder.

Becker was serving now. He tossed the ball into the air. I clicked. But there was no corresponding thud of ball on racket. I looked up. Becker had caught the ball and was glowering at me, hands on hips.

“Not during a serve!” he shouted. “Sheesh!” All heads turned in my direction. Disapproving applause pattered around the court. I stole a glance up to the Royal Box. Diana was also clapping her displeasure at me.

I sheepishly stowed my camera into its bag. The offending photograph was indelibly imprinted on film. Even now it vividly reminds me of my torturous instant in the spotlight on Centre Court.

Becker served again. A 747 roared overhead, heading for Heathrow Airport. He didn’t seem to hear it.