I was reluctant to post about Andy vs Andy, as Rebecca said that transmission was delayed over there, and she did not wish to know the result ahead of watching the game. Now the game is over. The warm-handled racket is back in its press, and both Andys are pootling their separate ways in Hillmans and Austins by roads not adopted.

Andy won. It was the "wrong" Andy - American Andy Roddick, rather than Scottish Andy Murray, but it was the right Andy, because he played better - superbly, in fact. Andy Murray was nervous and simply lacked the power of his opponent, particularly on the serve. Murray put up a good fight, though, and what he lacks in power, he makes up in agility and astonishing accuracy. It was a cracking good match. Three sets to one looks bad, but each set was close - agonisingly so. I can't bear tie-breaks or penalty shoot-outs; we always lose them.

Murray is just twenty-two and will have his chances in future Wimbledons. Roddick seems to be a thoroughly good egg, and I wish him all the best on Sunday, as Federer has had his share of wins. I had the pleasure/good fortune of securing a ticket for Wimbledon - there is a ballot -  last year, and saw Roddick play early on in the tournament. If you think that serve is fast on TV, wait till you see it for real.

Both Andys were sportsmanlike and respectful of each other, just as it should be. Wimbledon is a very civilised occasion, and very British, even if the British are doomed never to win.

Reader Alan kindly alerted me to Mark Steyn's amusing piece from ten years ago on British Wimbledon failures. It seems we are a nation of subalterns, doomed forever to lose to a bunch of foreign upstart HunterDunskis:

June in south London, in a corner of an English field that is forever foreign: on Centre Court a surly Yank is whacking aces at a charmless Czech; across the languid haze of a perfect English summer afternoon (54 degrees and light drizzle) drifts the sound of simulated female orgasm from the two grunting Brazilian nymphettes on Court Number 1; far away, on Court Number 73, a British player is being knocked out in straight sets by a 12-year-old midget from the South Sandwich Islands; and, as if by clockwork, the air is suddenly rent by the traditional cry of "You cannot be serious, man!" as John McEnroe finds the strawberry tent expects him to pay £23.95 a punnet ("includes two to four actual strawberries and use of complementary serving utensil").

[...]

Wimbledon's Lawn Tennis Championship is now the last oasis of green in the blaring orange clay of the rest of the Grand Slam tournaments: sadly, Britain’s chaps aren't very good on clay, except when it comes to having feet of them. But, for this year’s competition, the nation's hopes are riding high, following last year's surprisingly good showing, when several British players achieved a personal best and made it through to the second day, due to rain postponing their opening matches.

[...]

"Always difficult for the British players here," as Barry Davies likes to say. "So much is expected..." Barry's note of wistful regret is all too genuine: after all, most failed British tennis players are hoping to parlay their cliffhanger 1-6, 0-6, 1-6 first-round match against Sampras into a lifetime gig as a Wimbledon commentator, and Des and Barry don't need any more of them grubbing around the BBC presentation box.

We are fortunate, though, that many of our tennis greats survived into the modern era. Until the early Nineties, at Wimbledon finals Dan Maskell could always be relied on to spot some 1920s Ladies' Champion in the crowd. "There's Kitty Godfree," he'd say. "Now 93 and still Britain's highest-ranked world player." Now, alas, even Dan is gone, the voice of Wimbledon stilled.

In a turbulent world he was reassuringly unruffled. Like a dowager on the Tube declining to catch the eye of the nutter across the aisle, he sailed serenely past the temper tantrums. McEnroe would be snapping his racket in two and shouting obscenities at the umpire, but Dan would confine himself to a few technical observations: "McEnroe will really have to work on his beckhend in this next set," he'd murmur, as the young champion roared "mutha------!" and stomped off, possibly to work on his beckhend.   

 Watch that Scot, though.