I always enjoy Wimbledon. the British tennis tournament. It's fun to watch even on TV, though not as much as when, living in London years ago, I used to go.
Pretty people in interesting leisure clothes your grandparents might have worn, British summer food--hey you can't knock strawberries and cream, can you?
And of course there's the tennis match itself. This year, it's been all upsets. Rafael Nadal, a top seed, out the first day; Roger Federer, once the world's best but a little older now, left early; Serena Williams, whom we all thought unbeatable, got beaten. American sportswriters were lamenting the decline of American men--no Agassis, no Samprases these days. British sportswriters complain of a much longer drought--this British tournament was last won by a British man, Fred Perry, back in 1938.
That may be changing. A Brit named Andy Murray just survived a gruelling quarterfinal and is into the semis. He's not only a Brit, he's a Scot, and they hardly play the game at all. My late father, whose folks came from there, would have been very pleased.