Wimbledon | An imaginary feast
What would happen if players across all generations could play against each other in that one Championships? We find out
At 2pm, on the second Sunday, the sun is singing, the ivy is manicured more sharply than Ms Sharapova and the grass is greasier than Big Bill Tilden’s brylcreemed hair. Rufus the hawk, hired to disperse loitering pigeons, glides above a court where Roger Federer has swooped all fortnight.