Wimbledon in the dark

Federer has owned Wimbledon. Nadal has owned clay. In 2008 they play a final that runs past sunset. 6-4, 6-4, 6-7, 6-7, 9-7. Hawk-Eye, rain, a roof that does not exist yet. John McEnroe calls it the greatest match. For once the hyperbole has a case.

Tennis had been waiting for a rivalry that was not a marketing department. This is two men who make each other better and will not yield the lawn. The Big Three era has its signature night.

Later matches will be longer. Few will be this complete: serve, dirt-born topspin, fading light, a crowd that does not leave. The sport’s modern myth is a five-setter in the gloom.