Rafa v Roger

When I was growing up, TV was a bit of a luxury. Sure, we had one in the lounge but it seemed like it was only put on for special occasions. Like a felt hat.
The idea that you would 'sit in front of the television' was treated with the kind of scorn usually reserved for people who think Liverpool will ever win the League again, or something equally perverse and unlikely.
The telly might go on for an hour. But no more.
The only exception to this rule was for Trooping the Colour (in the early days) or Sport, chiefly the FA Cup Final or Wimbledon. Possibly the Olympics. Possibly the British Grand Prix. Or maybe a Test Match. You get the picture.
Sport had a simply spiritual characteristic that meant it could live and pulse on the TV screen as long as it liked.
This afternoon reminded me of those early days. The TV in our front room was positively begging to be turned off at about 20 past nine this evening. As we had been treated, it had been punished with hour after hour of rain delayed tennis brilliance the like of which we shalln't see again. Until perhaps next year. Rafa is the man. Roger is also the man but mainly Rafa is the man.
What a match.