Don't count your strawberries before the cream's been poured

Tomorrow could be the day.  It could be the day that 74 years of disappointment ends and an entire nation's hopes will finally be realized.

Sorry.  It's just so easy to fall into the pomp and grandeur of a British man playing in the Championship's final match.  When it comes down to it, I know that it's just a sporting result.  But that's not how it feels.  It feels like a foundational shift in the truth of tennis.  The fact that I've never experienced a British Wimbledon champ isn't that impressive, seeing as I only just caught the tail end of Sampras.  But at 74 years, we're teetering on the edge of living memory even for sports fans who were born and bred to it.

And then there's the fact that there are so many millions of people investing their emotions into it, spending ridiculous amounts on Centre Court tickets, or camping out religiously for a grounds pass.  And even though I don't have the money to fork out for a fancy seat next to Kate and Wills, or the opportunity to sit in line (with my knitting) for two days straight, I'm right there with them all in rooting Andy on.

Of course, there's the matter of Roger Federer.  You know, Rog, over the years, you've dashed a lot of my hopes.  Especially at Wimbledon.  Not once, but three times, you raised the trophy next to Andy Roddick as the runner-up.  And I know you would like to raise it again, prove that you are still the King of Grass.  All I'm saying is, let this Andy win, and I'll forgive you all the pain and suffering of the past.  Just this once.

For the Queen.