When Roger Federer progressed from the first round of this year’s Wimbledon on Tuesday, he added yet another record to his formidable tally.
His victory — secured when his injured opponent retired early in the second set — was his 85th match win at Wimbledon, taking him past the previous men’s record-holder, American legend Jimmy Connors.
The feat is testament to Federer’s longevity (he will turn 36 next month) and consistency (he has now reached the second round for 15 straight years). And it’s further evidence — if more were really needed — of his status as the greatest male ever to have played the sport.
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That status will surely be cemented beyond all doubt if, come Sunday week, Federer lifts his eighth Wimbledon crown. He is currently the bookies’ favourite to do so, having started 2017 in blistering form, coming back from a six-month injury lay-off to win the Australian Open and three other tournaments.
If Federer indeed regains Wimbledon this year, I doubt even many Brits will begrudge him the title — and that, I suspect, will even remain true if he has to beat Andy Murray in the final.
Perhaps I am only saying this because I am such a diehard ‘Fedhead’.
For more than a decade, I have been obsessed with the Swiss champion to the point where I have sometimes feared for my mental health.
I got bitten by the bug in 2006, on a trip to Shanghai, when I happened to catch him playing on TV. The sense of revelation was instantaneous — he was then at the height of his powers, playing tennis that was consistently miraculous.

His performances have provoked both searing pain and profound ecstasy. I have travelled to countries like France, Germany and America to see him play.
I have watched him at all hours of the day and night on television. My adoration has, at times, placed considerable strain on my relationships.
Desperate to see him in the 2014 Wimbledon final, I ended up (much to my wife’s dismay) paying a tout £850 for a ticket. And even though he lost, I still regarded it as money well spent.
Such is my fascination that I wrote a book, Federer And Me — and I have grown to realise that I am not alone. An awful lot of people around the world feel as I do. All top players have their ardent fans, but Federer’s support is unique in its sheer volume and intensity, and in the way it straddles generations and continents.
It has become common for commentators to note that wherever he plays, it feels like a home match.
So, what exactly is it about him that captures the imagination of so many?
There are the standard, oft-repeated words and phrases. His tennis is elegant, smooth, balletic, touched by genius.
Only he, for example could have contemplated, let alone pulled off, the exquisite on-the-run flicked backhand passing shot which he hit against Murray in the Wimbledon semis two years ago (a match he won in straight sets in one of his finest-ever performances).

Since the Seventies, tennis has evolved dramatically to the point where it is virtually unrecognisable from the way it used to be. The old game, played with small-headed wooden rackets, has been replaced by one in which players use state-of-the-art composite rackets to blast the ball at each other with savage power and spin. Many people don’t feel these changes have been all for the good.
While today’s tennis is an impressive spectacle, other qualities — a sense of elegance, of finesse — have been lost.
What’s curious about Federer is that, while he is supreme in the current era, there is much about his game that harks back to the past. His technique isn’t wholly modern. He plays with an old-school sense of vision and craft.
And this traditionalism is apparent in other ways, too. For example, the stylish and elegantly old-fashioned all-white outfits he habitually wears at Wimbledon make him look like a character from the movie Chariots Of Fire.
Because of all this, it is oddly easy to imagine Federer playing in previous epochs. Without too much of a leap, you can envisage him facing the Australian great Rod Laver in the late Sixties, or Bjorn Borg a decade later.
In either scenario, his style of play would not have to have been significantly different.
Another thing I’ve noticed about Federer is that he never loses his capacity to surprise. Throughout his long career, he has had the ability to adapt his game, to introduce surprise new tactics.
The most recent addition to his arsenal is the ability to consistently blast winners with his one-handed backhand — a change credited with enabling him, this year, to finally gain the upper hand over his old nemesis Rafael Nadal.
And the very nature of his game is also deceptive. I’ve been fortunate over the years to be court-side to watch him play a dozen times. At the semis at last year’s Wimbledon, I sat in the front row. Seeing him up close was a unique experience, and made me reconsider much of what I thought.
When you see him on TV, or from 30 rows back, he really does appear to glide, to be all about smoothness and stress-free elegance.
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But up close, you become aware of something else — of his mind-boggling speed, and just how predatory he is.
The picture that emerges is rougher, more feral. He becomes less the suave aristocrat and more like a savage animal dismembering his prey.
In some ways, I wish I wasn’t quite so partisan, because then I could enjoy the spectacle of the Wimbledon fortnight impartially.
As it is, if Federer makes it through to the latter stages I know I’ll spend several days in an agony of tension.
But the pain will be worth it for the sheer ecstasy his legions of devotees will feel if Federer wins. After that, I won’t ask for anything more — I’ll be perfectly happy if he never even wins a tournament again to add to his astonishing tally of 18 Grand Slams.
Until, of course, next year’s championship comes round . . .