Morning:
8°c
On what may have been the most relentless weekend in the history of televised sport, the anticipated highlight sadly doubled up as the undeniable lowlight.
Even with competition from Euro 2008, an England Test cricket victory, a sparkling new page in the Lewis Hamilton Compendium of Hilarious Cock-Ups, The Derby from Epsom and a potentially historic Belmont Stakes from New York plus a splendid UK Open in the darts, nothing activated the saliva glands like the prospect of Roger Federer versus Rafael Nadal in the French Open final.
For years, this match-up between the bestial power of Nadal and the graceful genius of Federer has been by miles the most ferocious and captivating sporting rivalry on the planet, but yesterday I think we saw the beginning of its end. The rampaging Mallorcan bull didn't merely gore the Swiss to death. He humiliated the man known as GOAT (greatest of all time) until it was painful to behold.
The only similar demolition job I can recall in a Grand Slam final was John McEnroe's 6-1, 6-1, 6-2 dismantling of Jimmy Connors at Wimbledon in 1984.
Federer also won only four games, but the psychological impact on a man supposedly in his prime, where Jimbo was way past his sell by, will be incomparably more severe.
From the moment he arrived on court, the Fed's demeanour confirmed that he had no expectation of becoming the first player to beat Nadal at Roland Garros. This wasn't defeatism. It was the realism of one aware that he'd lose even if he played better than ever before.
He was anything but that, and even during a brief second set revival you knew that for him, no less than Hillary Clinton, the only prospect of achieving his most cherished ambition lies with a sniper's bullet.
There is no disgrace in being obliterated by Nadal in Paris (everyone is) but there is enormous danger. Federer had never taken a beating like this, and even the best and bravest fighters seldom recapture their greatness after enduring their first real hiding. Boxing and tennis are psychological siblings, and I cannot imagine that Federer will ever be quite the same again.
In truth, the signs of gentle decline have been evident since January, when Novak Djokovic blew him away in the Australian Open semi-final. The Fed blamed glandular fever at the time, but you now wonder whether at 26 - the age at which Bjorn Borg could take the ceaseless pressure no longer and retired - the motivation is waning.
I certainly wouldn't bet on a sixth consecutive Wimbledon title with Nadal more terrifyingly bestial than ever, and Djokovic arguably the strongest of the trinity on all surfaces other than clay.
I hope he proves me wrong and moves to within one of Pete Sampras's record of 14 Grand Slam titles. But all good things come to an end, and if we have seen the best of Federer, so be it. It was probably the best anyone ever saw of a tennis player.
What we saw yesterday was something quite different - a man publicly marooned in private distress, bambooz led and embarrassed beyond endurance, pliantly yielding to an astonishing force of nature from Spain taking mildly sadistic satisfaction at what looked like an act of attempted regicide.
The king isn't quite dead yet, and he may revive. But there are two very hungry young birds of prey encircling overhead, and they don't plan on waiting long to strike.
