TV VIEW: Those of a certain vintage saw the future on Saturday afternoon, watched awe struck, and then sighed nostalgically for the past."AAARGH," roared Serena Williams. "EEEHHH," thundered Venus back. "OOOOUTT," squealed a line-judge, banjaxing her larynx in the bid to be heard.

Stukas shrieking down on Stalingrad made less of a din than the Williams sisters as they flailed their way into history.

The only other sisters to contest the women's final were the Watsons in 1884. In their time, they were probably the embodiment of athleticism too. But they can't have made every other player in the world look like they should just give up and quietly slip out the side door.

"Serena and Venus can go on for another 10 years if they want to," said Martina Navratilova approvingly.

But once-a-year tennis fans, certainly of the male variety, may yet yearn for the days when the women's final didn't sound like the mating roar of the bull elephant.

Your reporter is one of that vintage who used to watch Wimbledon for the sole purpose of feasting on the glory that was Gabriela Sabatini.

Possessed of shoulders like Gladstone Small, a gait that made John Wayne look effeminate, and eyes that made any male with a pulse sweat, Gabby could never quite make it over the finish line first. But she sounded great in the attempt.

Quite frankly, a tired Gabby in the third set turned Centre Court into a pervert's fest. As each bead of sweat glistened on that delectable face, Gabby would lean into her serve and utter a little cry that could have you running to the showers.

Saturday's final was different. Neither sister looked like getting tired this side of 2010.

"It's a turf war," declared Navratilova. "Oh my God, did you see that? That was a missile, not a tennis ball."

The ferocity with which the ball was leathered must have led to some nervous leg crossing at court side. But Serena and Venus just concentrated on a level of sporting excellence that Pam Shriver rightly described as "unique".

In the build-up, Serena was asked about luck and the reporter was swatted: "I don't believe in luck. I believe in going out there and making it happen."

But the real pre-match question was one that the plethora of ex-players commentating ignored like the plague. It was left to the BBC's Barry Davis to utter the love that dare not speak its name.

"They have a responsibility to the game and the world watching to give as good as they can," said Barry.

Navratilova responded with some politically correct outrage about nobody really believing their father's assertion as to which daughter was going to win.

The match itself was an exercise in competitive ferocity but it's surely no coincidence that the valid journalistic question on everyone's mind was spoken by the one hack in the box.

The concept of competitive sport being about winning still seems to leave a bad taste in some mouths, but to his credit Tim Henman is not among them. It's just the actual winning that nice guy Tim has a problem with.

After a week and a half of stuttering to victory against windy South Africans and smiling Brazilians, Henman finally came up against Hewitt on Friday. This was somebody Henman knew how to lose to.

The fist-pumping, swearing and all-round hard-as-nails Aussie promptly kicked seven shades of shinola out of "Tiger Tim" which left Henman Hill looking sheepish enough to graze.

"The bottom line is that he was too good for me. It's a difficult pill to swallow but I still believe in my heart of hearts that I will win here," the British number one declared.

That's the sort of competitive instinct that Serena and Venus would understand only too well. But in terms of actually walking the walk, can Timmy ever win Wimbledon while admitting that his favourite mode of relaxation is golf? After all there is relaxation and relaxation.

After the sweating, grunting epic of Wimbledon on Saturday, a little channel hopping led to the European Open at the K Club. The picture was of a man fishing.

"I did a little fishing myself last night," purred the venerable Alex Hay.

"Catch anything?"

"I caught two fish."

Maybe there was something weirdy going on under the surface. Maybe it was code for golfers everywhere to don turbans and make for the clubhouse in Tora Bora.

But the truth is that watching golf can make even the most laid-back person start roaring for relief. Golf: the sport that never sweats. Scream on sisters!