ABSTRACT
Retirement abroad was prominently in mind as I watched the annual tennis tournament at Wimbledon. They were down to the last sixteen, and the British, who had not turned out champions of late, had grounds for thinking they at last had a man worth supporting. That he was a Canadian with a Slavic surname who claimed to be British did not deter anybody. Desperate for success, they not only waved the Union Jack, they wore it on their heads and painted it on their faces: they were patriots. Their man was playing an American, California-born, of Greek descent, who beat the newly coined Briton in straight sets. I detested the displays in the stands and in the press of what the reporters called patriotism. Yet when the American won, I felt satisfaction, almost a gloat, and hated myself for it.
