Like so many others, I spent my Sunday afternoon trying to watch the Cricket World Cup and Wimbledon finals at the same time. I tried channel-hopping. I tried double-screening, switching gaze between television and iPad, but couldn’t focus on either game. I ended up just watching the tennis, and it broke my heart. I’ve long supported Roger Federer in an obsessive and somewhat pretentious way. For me, he represents the triumph of talent over force, fragile beauty over grit. Rafael Nadal is AC/DC, I sometimes say; Federer is Mozart. I have now watched Federer win so many majors, and said to myself: enough, he is the greatest, now let it go. Then his genius propels him towards another amazing feat and I’m sucked back into the mad worship. He can’t do it again, can he? He must. He is the greatest. I didn’t think Federer could beat Novak Djokovic on Sunday. When he lost the first set, I felt resigned. But then he picked up his game and the contest turned into one of the best Wimbledon finals. My excitement grew. We had to go to Mass at 4 pm. I should confess to feeling a pang of resentment at the obligation. Sinfully, I checked the score on my phone once or twice. We got back in front of the television in time for the fifth and final set. The children started giving me worried looks as I shouted at the screen. Federer had two championship points, but fell short. I wanted to cry. I admire Djokovic, an Orthodox Christian and in many ways as big a talent as Roger the Great. But he isn’t Federer. I then tuned back into the cricket to watch England win the World Cup in what many are calling the most thrilling match of all time. Nothing could lift my spirits, however, and I woke up on Monday still feeling down. Sport doesn’t matter, I know. If anything, it is probably good for the soul to watch one’s heroes fail – a reminder that we’re all frail mortals. It hurts like hell, though.