Your Final Cup of Tea, Day 13

* !Picby Pete Bodo*

WIMBLEDON, England—Well, this is the day numerous people from all over the UK and points elsewhere have waited for, ever since somebody noticed that an unseemly number of years had passed since Great Britain produced a men's singles champion at the All England Club.

The vibe here is extraordinary, and bound to bring a smile to your face. There's a special feeling in the air, sort of like there was when Britain's Virginia Wade stunned pundits here by winning the women's title in 1977 on the 100th anniversary of the founding of Wimbledon—and the Silver Jubilee of Queen Elizabeth's reign.

I'm not that into the royalty angle (but hey, did you see where The Duchess of Cambridge has dumped her ginger-haired husband to bring along her kid sister, Pippa Middleton?), but when journeyman Jonathan Marray started the remarkable run that last night netted him the doubles title (see my previous post, "Can You Say, "Omen?") it made me begin to think that something spooky is going on here. I mean, even the similarity in the names is uncanny.

So, while I picked Roger Federer to win the title in our TENNIS.com selections, I'm changing my pick. I think Murray will win, because of the enormous power of the historical momentum I'm feeling here. And most of you know I'm not particularly a hippy-dippy kind of guy. Forget the forehands and backhands—there's magic in the air. And I'll be content with my pick even if Federer blows Murray out, because sometimes you just need to go lunatic—to yield to the dream instead of the analysis, and to abandon that splintery raft of reality and take the plunge into a sea glittering with romantic possibility. It's so rare we get to pull for the miracle; this is one of those times.

Anyway, Henman Hill is already loaded up. This is when Wimbledon looks best, when that complex of buildings, all of them dark green, and many of them built of and on different planes, is enlaced by ribbons of striking color—all those spectators, covering the hill and filling the walkways and spaces between the pale green courts like so many jelly beans. But the Centre Court crowd and Henman Hillbillies won't be the only ones watching this match in live, or sort-of live, mode. The match will also be telecast in No. 2 Court, presumably on the large video scoreboards.

Also, the No. 1 Court ticket-holders prix fixe menu offers both boys' finals and a tasty invitational doubles featuring Martina Navratilova and Jana Novotna against Lindsay Davenport and Martina Hingis. Finally, it should be said that there is prominent rain in the forecast, for later this afternoon.

You all probably understand how tough it is to remain fair to the players in my role as a critic and journalist; you don't check your likes and dislikes at the door, and it would be a poorer world if you did. You know that in the recent, oh, two years, I've had a great resurgence of respect and something like admiration for Roger Federer—you can follow some of that journey if you download my new e-book, Roger Federer: the Man, the Matches, the Rivals. Whatever else you say about him, Federer seems a profoundly decent man beautifully handling a life that, while built on entitlements and an insane degree of privilege, is also  a little crazy, and as stressful as you allow it to be.

So I will speak heresy; Roger's decency will hurt him today. Federer just isn't the kind of guy who, like, say Jimmy Connors, would just love to get in there to shatter the obviously fragile and borderline deluded hopes of those British who actually care about this match and its historical context. I believe Federer may get caught up—despite his best efforts—in the powerful tide of history that I feel surging along to Murray's benefit, partly because he really understands and feels the charm and beauty of this moment.

And if I'm wrong, and Federer wins, you won't find me crying or complaining. Enjoy the final!