Winning a 'sphairistike' title is hard, especially when you are on grass

I WOULD be the first to admit that my knowledge of ancient Greek drama is, well, non-existent. But imagine what Sophocles would have made of tennis?

This afternoon, the ultimate-of-ultimate sporting rites takes place, the annual Wimbledon men's singles final. The potential for drama is infinite, and I'm not thinking of some minor royal choking on strawberries and cream.

In team sports, players have the relative anonymity of their mates. Not so on Wimbledon Centre Court. Two guys with nothing but a bag of racquets for company face the scrutiny of an umpire, linesmen, ball kids, thousands of spectators and millions of armchair critics. They are expected to combine the speed of Usain Bolt with the balletic prowess of Nijinsky, while plotting a Machiavellian strategy and hitting the ball. Wow! And they say it's voluntary?

Tradition amplifies the drama. I bet most top players would swap all their other prizes to lift the trophy at the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club. Why would you settle for a donkey cart if you could drive an Aston Martin?

Wimbledon still operates as a members' tennis club, with many courts in use all year round, but it's said the club is so exclusive that the easiest way to join is to win the title.

Wikipedia tells us the first championships were held in 1877 to raise money for a pony-drawn roller for the club's croquet lawns. About 200 spectators paid one shilling to watch. The club moved to its present grounds in 1922, and many feared the centre court would turn into a white elephant.

Wimbledon is the history of tennis. The rules nailed down for the very first tournament are virtually the same as those used today.

Part of the genius of the game is in this scoring system, which has infinite capacity for high drama. One minute there is hope and expectation. The next, misery and devastation. Take Roger Federer. He was two sets to love up this year to Jo Wilfried Tsonga in the quarterfinals and still inexplicably managed to lose.

Actually, Wimbledon is not all tradition. In 2009, Centre Court was fitted with a retractable roof to prevent those dreaded rain delays.

BBC Radio, responding to complaints from listeners about what it termed "the ambient sounds of a tennis match" - like that Maria Sharapova-type grunt straight out of a porn flick - invented a device that minimises the screeches and turns up the commentary. Yes, you've gotta love technology.

Monks and royalty had played indoor ball games that resembled tennis since the Middle Ages. Henry VIII was an enthusiast ("That wasn't out! Off with your head!").

In the 1870s, an Englishman adapted indoor tennis to be played on grass, naming the game "sphairistike," after an ancient Greek game (Taking notes, Sophocles?). Sphairistike quickly became popular among the idle classes. It also lost its preposterous name and became known as tennis.

Only amateurs were allowed to take part. "Amateur" was synonymous with "gentleman". The term "professional" had the whiff of the manual labourer about it. No gentleman worth his spats would engage in sweaty pursuits with the lower orders.

The crotch shots that are a feature of modern television coverage were many yards of muslin away when women began competing at Wimbledon in 1884.

But our true fascination goes way beyond the lean limbs thrashing around the courts. It's about the mental grit needed to perform under the hugest of pressure.

Today, one guy will go home the victor, his name forever recorded in sporting history. The other will be vanquished, inconsolable, in need of a psychologist and a stiff drink.

And all this in high-definition television close-up.

New balls, please.