Private Eye has a column which libelously confuses two things, at least one of which is often a human being. It is enormously tempting, isn’t it, when a thing puts one so in mind of another?
When occupied on his purpose he appears to demolish all before him with a mixture of robotic concentration and merciless glee. It is a fearful spectre that chills the heart.
And yet here we are with a Men’s Final in SW19 where this year’s victor demonstrates an unendingly graceful, infinitely civilized style. Federer’s reputation for fair play akin to Borg’s, his focus on victory as McEnroe’s, his low-key stardom as Fred Perry’s. Perhaps it’s the case that a longer life in a chosen field supervenes on something more than skill of making mincemeat of competitors; it is a generosity of spirit ventilates those intangibles of humanity that extends lethal efficiency.
When did he start winning Wimbledon – 2003? Goodness.