I Know Where the Summer Goes

There's something beautiful about how Wimbledon's grass goes from a well-manicured green to patchy, rough brown over the tournament's fortnight. That, with the fading sunlight of the early-evening matches, say "shimmering summer" like perhaps nothing else.

The U.S. Open, the hometown tournament, where genteel tennis gets dragged through the New York muck, will always be my favorite, but Wimbledon has a wonderful, precious aesthetic with its Victorian air, required all-white uniforms, and formal "Ms." and "Mr." before each player's name on the scoreboard. And then there was yesterday's men's final between Rafael Nadal and Roger Federer.

I don't think I've ever seen two people so committed to what they were doing, so unwilling to lose, so strong to will themselves to keep playing, to keep competing, to keep overcoming. It takes a personality, motivation and mindset that few in the world have. It's what makes them the best two men's tennis players in the world. The shot-making, which continued through the fifth set at such an unparalleled level, was breathtaking. Here's the final point and celebration. I wish I could post the whole match, all four hours, 45 minutes of it:



Even beyond the romantic, titanic nature of it, the match had a lot working for it yesterday: The rain delays were perfectly placed so I was able to read a few sections of the Times yesterday morning, catch the first set, head over to my aunt's for brunch for a couple hours and only miss parts of the second and third sets, and then go grocery shopping during the last rain delay in the fifth, before watching the end and head straight for a 5 p.m. appointment. It was great.

Then there's Nadal and Federer, both of whom are so likable that the victory felt enjoyable no matter who got it (though I was pulling for Federer for historic reasons). And Nadal has his hillarious shants, which seem to give him the world's highest-ever rate of wedgies. And Federer has his unnecessary white cardigans and blazers -- he's trying way too hard for a "Great Gatsby" look, but he's so earnest it kind of works -- and gets huge props for dating the same woman for at least the past eight years, who, while attractive, is not like an incredibly beautiful model, who I'm sure throw themselves at Federer at every opportunity. I mean, if Pete Sampras, my favorite tennis player ever, married "Veronica Vaughn," then you know Federer could probably date anyone he wanted.

Update: Thanks for the post's title to Belle and Sebastian, a band as delicate and British as Wimbledon.