Blind Shots

… then you are apt to have what one of the tournament’s press bus drivers
describes as a “bloody near-religious experience.”
—David Foster Wallace. “Roger Federer As Religious Experience.” The New York Times, 20 Aug. 2006.

Not much gets by the New York Times, unless it’s the non-existence of WMDs—or the rules of tennis. The Gray Lady is bamboozled by the racquet game: “The truth is,” says The New York Times Guide to Essential Knowledge, Third Edition, not only that “no one knows for sure how … the curious scoring system came about.” But in what might be an example of the Times’ famously droll sense of fun, an article by Stuart Miller entitled “Quirks of the Game: How Tennis Got Its Scoring System” not only does not provide the answer its title promises, but actually even only addresses its ostensible subject by merely noting that “No one can pinpoint exactly when and how” the ostensible subject of the piece came into existence. So much, one supposes, for reportorial tenacity. Yet despite the failure of the Times, in fact there is an explanation for tennis’ scoring system—an explanation that is so simple that while the Times’ inability to see why tennis is scored the way it is is amusing, also leads to disquieting thoughts about what else the Times can’t see. That’s because solving the mystery of why tennis is scored the way it is also could explain a great deal about political reality in the United States.

To be fair, the Times is not alone in its befuddlement: “‘It’s a difficult topic,’” says one “Steve Flink, an historian and author of ‘The Greatest Tennis Matches of All Time,’” in the “How Tennis Got Its Scoring System” story. So far as I can tell, all tennis histories are unclear about the origins of the scoring system: about all anyone knows for sure—or at least, is willing to put on paper—is that (as Rolf Potts put it in an essay for The Smart Set a few years ago) when modern lawn tennis was codified in 1874, it “appropriated the scoring system of the ancient French game” of jeu de paume, or “real tennis” as it is known in English. The origins of the modern game of tennis, all the histories do agree, lie in this older game—most of all, the scoring system.

Yet, while that does push back the origins of the system a few centuries, no one seems to know why jeu de paume adopted the system it did, other than to observe that the scoring breakdowns of 15, 30, and 40 seem to be, according to most sources, allusions to the face of a clock. (Even the Times, it seems, is capable of discovering this much: the numbers of the points, Miller says, appear “to derive from the idea of a clock face.”) But of far more importance than the “15-30-40” numbering is why the scoring system is qualitatively different than virtually every other kind of sport—a difference even casual fans are aware of and yet even the most erudite historians, so far as I am aware, cannot explain.

Psychologist Allen Fox once explained the difference in scoring systems in Tennis magazine: whereas, the doctor said, the “score is cumulative throughout the contest in most other sports, and whoever has the most points at the end wins,” in tennis “some points are more important than others.” A tennis match, in other words, is divided up into games, sets, and matches: instead of adding up all the points each player scores at the end, tennis “keeps score” by counting the numbers of games, and sets, won. This difference, although it might appear trivial, actually isn’t—and it’s a difference that explains not only a lot about tennis, but much else besides.

Take the case of Roger Federer, who has won 17 major championships in men’s tennis: the all-time record in men’s singles. Despite this dominating record, many people argue that he is not the sport’s Greatest Of All Time—at least, according to New York Times writer Michael Steinberger. Not long ago, Steinberger said that the reason people can argue that way is because Federer “has a losing record against [Rafael] Nadal, and a lopsided one at that.” (Currently, the record stands at 23-10 in favor of Nadal—a nearly 70% edge.) Steinberger’s article—continuing the pleasing simplicity in the titles of New York Times tennis articles, it’s named “Why Roger Federer Is The Greatest Of All Time”—then goes on to argue that Federer should be called the “G.O.A.T.” anyway, record be damned.

Yet weirdly, Steinberger didn’t attempt—and neither, so far as I can tell, has anyone else—to do what an anonymous blogger did in 2009: a feat that demonstrates just why tennis’ scoring system is so curious, and why it has implications, perhaps even sinister implications from a certain point of view, far beyond tennis. What that blogger did, on a blog entitled SW19—postal code for Wimbledon, site of the All-England Tennis Club—was very simple.

He counted up the points.

In any other sport, with a couple of exceptions, that act might seem utterly banal: in those sports, in order to see who’s better you’d count up how many one player scored and then count up how many the other guy scored when they played head-to-head. But in tennis that apparently simple act is not so simple—and the reason it isn’t is what makes tennis such a different game than virtually all other sports. “In tennis, the better player doesn’t always win,” as Carl Bialik for FiveThirtyEight.com pointed out last year: because of the scoring system, what matters is whether you win “more sets than your opponent”—not necessarily more points.

Why that matters is because the argument against Federer as the Greatest Of All Time rests on the grounds that he has a losing record against Nadal: at the time the anonymous SW19 blogger began his research in 2009, that record was 13-7 in Nadal’s favor. As the mathematically-inclined already know, that record translates to a 65 percent edge to Nadal: a seemingly-strong argument against Federer’s all-time greatness because the percentage seems so overwhelmingly tilted toward the Spaniard. How can the greatest player of all time be so weak against one opponent?

In fact, however, as the SW19 blogger discovered, Nadal’s seemingly-insurmountable edge was an artifact of the scoring system, not a sign of Federer’s underlying weakness. Of the 20 matches the two men had played up until 2009, the two men played 4,394 total points: that is, where one player served and the two volleyed back and forth until one player failed to deliver the ball to the other court according to the rules. If tennis had a straightforward relationship between points and wins—like baseball or basketball or football—then it might be expected that Nadal has won about 65 percent of those 4,394 points played, which would be about 2,856 points. In other words, to get a 65 percent edge in total matches, Nadal should have about a 65 percent edge in total points: the point total, as opposed to the match record, between the two ought to be about 2,856 to 1,538.

Yet that, as the SW19 blogger realized, is not the case: the real margin between the two players was Nadal, 2,221, and Federer, 2,173. Further, those totals included Nadal’s victory in the 2008 French Open final—which was played on Nadal’s best surface, clay—in straight sets, 6-1, 6-3, 6-0. In other words, even including the epic beating at Roland Garros in 2008, Nadal had only beaten Federer by a total of 48 points over the course of their careers: a total of less than one percent of all the points scored.

And that is not all. If the single match at the 2008 French Open final is excluded, then the margin becomes eight points. In terms of points scored, in other words, Nadal’s edge is about a half of a percentage point—and most of that percentage was generated by a single match. So, it may be so that Federer is not the G.O.A.T., but an argument against Federer cannot coherently be based on the fact of Nadal’s “dominating” record over the Swiss—because going by the act that is the central, defining act of the sport, the act of scoring points, the two players were, mathematically speaking, exactly equal.

Now, many will say here that, to risk making a horrible pun, I’ve missed the point: in tennis, it will be noted, not all acts of scoring are equal, and neither are all matches. It’s important that the 2008 match was a final, not an opening round … And so on. All of which certainly could be allowed, and reasonable people can differ about it, and if you don’t understand that then you really haven’t understood tennis, have you? But there’s a consequence to the scoring system—one that makes the New York Times’ inability to understand the origins of a scoring system that produces such peculiar results something more than simply another charming foible of the matriarch of the American press.

That’s because of something else that is unusual about tennis by comparison to other sports: its propensity for gambling scandals. In recent years, this has become something of an open secret within the game: when in 2007 the fourth-ranked player in the world, Nikolay Davydenko of Russia, was investigated for match-fixing, Andy Murray—the Wimbledon champion currently ranked third in the world—“told BBC Radio that although it is difficult to prove who has ‘tanked’ a match, ‘everyone knows it goes on,” according to another New York Times story, this one by reporter Joe Drape.

Around that same time Patrick McEnroe, brother of the famous champion John McEnroe, told the Times that tennis “is a very easy game to manipulate,” and that it is possible to “throw a match and you’d never know.” During that scandal year of 2007, the problem seemed about to break out into public awareness: in the wake of the Davydenko case the Association of Tennis Professionals, one of the sport’s governing bodies, commissioned an investigation conducted by former Scotland Yard detectives into match-fixing and other chicanery—the Environmental Review of Integrity In Professional Tennis, issued in May of 2008. That investigation resulted in four lowly-ranked players being banned from the professional ranks, but not much else.

Perhaps however that papering-over should not be surprising, given the history of the game. As mentioned, today’s game of tennis owes its origins in the game of real tennis, or jeu de paume—a once-hugely popular game very well-known for its connection to gambling. “Gambling was closely associated with tennis,” as Elizabeth Wilson puts it in her Love Game: A History of Tennis, from Victorian Pastime to Global Phenomenon, and jeu de paume had a “special association with court life and the aristocracy.” Henry VIII of England, for example, was an avid player—he had courts built in several of his palaces—and, as historian Alison Weir has put it in her Henry VIII: The King and His Court, “Gambling on the outcome of a game was common.” In Robert E. Gensemer’s 1982 history of tennis, the historian points out that “monetary wagers on tennis matches soon became commonplace” as jeu de paume grew in popularity. Yet eventually, as historians of jeu de paume have repeatedly shown, by “the close of the eighteenth century … game fixing and gambling scandals had tarnished Jeu de Paume’s reputation,” as a history of real tennis produced by an English real tennis club has put it.

Oddly however, despite all this evidence directly in front of all the historians, no one, not even the New York Times, seems to have put together the connection between tennis’ scoring system and the sport’s origins in gambling. It is, apparently, something to be pitied, and then moved past: what a shame it is that these grifters keep interfering with this noble sport! But that is to mistake the cart for the horse. It isn’t that the sport attracts con artists—it’s rather because of gamblers that the sport exists at all. Tennis’ scoring system, in other words, was obviously designed by, and for, gamblers.

Why, in other words, should tennis break up its scoring into smaller, discrete units—so that  the total number of points scored is only indirectly related to the outcome of a match? The answer to that question might be confounding to sophisticates like the New York Times, but child’s play to anyone familiar with a back-alley dice game. Perhaps that’s why places like Wimbledon dress themselves up in the “pageantry”—the “strawberries and cream” and so on—that such events have: because if people understood tennis correctly, they’d realize that were this sport played in Harlem or Inglewood or 71st and King Drive in Chicago, everyone involved would be doing time.

That’s because—as Nassim Nicholas Taleb, author of The Black Swan: The Impact of the Highly Improbable, would point out—breaking a game into smaller, discrete chunks, as tennis’ scoring system does, is—exactly, precisely—how casino operators make money. And if that hasn’t already made sense to you—if, say, it makes more sense to explain a simple, key feature of the world by reference to advanced physics rather than merely to mention the bare fact—Taleb is also gracious enough to explain how casinos make money via a metaphor drawn from that ever-so-simple subject, quantum mechanics.

Consider, Taleb asks in that book, that because a coffee “cup is the sum of trillions of very small particles” there is little chance that any cup will “jump two feet” of its own spontaneous accord—despite the fact that, according to the particle physicists, that event is not outside the realm of possibility. “Particles jump around all the time,” as Taleb says, so it is indeed possible that a cup could do that. But in order to to make that jump, it would require that all the particles in the cup made the same leap at precisely the same time—an event so unlikely that the odds of it are longer than the lifetime of the universe. Were any of the particles in the cup to make such a leap, that leap would be canceled out by the leap of some other particle in the cup—coordinating so many particles is effectively impossible.

Yet, observe that by reducing the numbers of particles to less than a coffee cup, it can be very easy to ensure that some number of particles jump: if there is only one particle, the chance that it will jump is effectively 100%. (It would be more surprising if it didn’t jump.) “Casino operators,” as Taleb drily adds, “understand this well, which is why they never (if they do things right) lose money.” All they have to do to make money, on the other hand, is to refuse to “let one gambler make a massive bet,” and instead to ensure “to have plenty of gamblers make a series of bets of limited size.” The secret of a casino is that it multiplies the numbers of gamblers—and hence the numbers of bets.

In this way, casino operators can guarantee that “the variations in the casino’s returns are going to be ridiculously small, no matter the total gambling activity.” By breaking up the betting into thousands, and even—over the course of time—millions or billions of bets, casino operators can ensure that their losses on any single bet are covered by some other bet elsewhere in the casino: there’s a reason that, as the now-folded website Grantland pointed out in 2014, during the previous 23 years “bettors have won twice, while the sportsbooks have won 21 times” in Super Bowl betting. The thing to do in order to make something “gamable”—or “bettable,” which is to say a commodity worth the house’s time—is to break its acts into as many discrete chunks as possible.

The point, I think, can be easily seen: by breaking up a tennis match into smaller sets and games, gamblers can commodify, or make the sport “more bettable”—at least, from the point of view of a sharp operator. “Gamblers may be a total of $20 million, but you needn’t worry about the casino’s health,” Taleb says—because the casino isn’t accepting ten $2 million bets. Instead, “the bets run, say, $20 on average; the casino caps the bets at a maximum.” Rather than making one bet on a match’s outcome, gamblers can make a series of bets on the “games within the game”—bets that, as in the case of the casino, inevitably favor the house even without any match-fixing involved.

In professional tennis there are, as Louisa Thomas pointed out in Grantland a few years ago, every year “tens of thousands of professional matches, hundreds of thousands of games, millions of points, and patterns in the chaos.” (If there is match-fixing—and as mentioned there have been many allegations over the years—well then, you’re in business: an excellent player can even “tank” many, many early opportunities, allowing confederates to cash in, and still come back to put away a weaker opponent.) Anyway, just as Taleb says, casino operators inevitably wish to make bets as numerous as possible because, in the long run, that protects their investment—and tennis, what a co-inky-dink, has more opportunities for betting than virtually any sport you can name.

The august majesty of the New York Times, however, cannot imagine any of that. In their “How Tennis Got Its Scoring System” story, it mentions the speculations of amateur players who say things like: “The eccentricities are part of the fun,” and “I like the old-fashioned touches that tennis has.” It’s all so quaint, in the view of the Times. But since no one can account for tennis’ scoring system otherwise, and everyone admits not only that gambling flourished around lawn tennis’ predecessor game, jeu de paume (or real tennis), but also that the popularity of the sport was eventually brought down precisely because of gambling scandals—and tennis is to this day vulnerable to gamblers—the hypothesis that tennis is scored the way it is for the purposes of gambling makes much more sense than, say, tennis historian Elizabeth Wilson’s solemn pronouncement that tennis’ scoring system is “a powerful exception to the tendencies toward uniformity” that is so dreadfully, dreadfully common in our contemporary vale of tears.

The reality, of course, is that tennis’ scoring system was obviously designed to fleece suckers, not to entertain the twee viewers of Wes Anderson movies. Yet while such dimwittedness can be expected from college students or proper ladies who have never left the Upper East Side of Manhattan or Philadelphia’s Main Line, why is the New York Times so flummoxed by the historical “mystery” of it all? The answer, I suspect anyway, lies in some other, far more significant, sport that is played by with a very similar set of rules as tennis: one that equally breaks up the action into many more different acts than seem strictly necessary. In this game, too, there is an indirect connection between the central, defining act and wins and losses.

The name of that sport? Well, it’s really two versions of the same game.

One is called “the United States Senate”—and the other is called a “presidential election.”

Human Events

Opposing the notion of minority rule, [Huger] argued that a majority was less likely to be wrong than a minority, and if this was not so “then republicanism must be a dangerous fallacy, and the sooner we return to the ‘divine rights’ of the kings the better.”
—Manisha Sinha. The Counterrevolution of Slavery. 2001.

Note that agreement [concordantia] is particularly required on matters of faith and the greater the agreement the more infallible the judgment.
—Nicholas of Cusa. Catholic Concordance. 1432.

 

It’s perhaps an irony, though a mild one, that the weekend of the celebrations of American independence the most notable sporting events are the Tour de France, soccer’s European Cup, and Wimbledon—maybe all the more so now that Great Britain has voted to “Brexit,” i.e., to leave the European Union.  A number of observers have explained that vote as at least somewhat analogous to the Donald Trump movement in the United States, in the first place because Donald himself called the “Brexit” decision a “great victory” at a press conference the day after the vote, and a few days later “praised the vote as a decision by British voters to ‘take back control of their economy, politics and borders,’” as The Guardian said Thursday. To the mainstream press, the similarity between the “Brexit” vote and Donald Trump’s candidacy is that—as Emmanuel Macron, France’s thirty-eight-year-old economy minister said about “Brexit”—both are a conflict between those “content with globalization” and those “who cannot find” themselves within the new order. Both Trump and “Brexiters” are, in other words, depicted as returns of—as Andrew Solomon put it in The New Yorker on Tuesday—“the Luddite spirit that led to the presumed arson at Albion Mills, in 1791, when angry millers attacked the automation that might leave them unemployed.” “Trumpettes” and “Brexiters” are depicted as wholly out of touch and stuck in the past—yet, as a contrast between Wimbledon and the Tour de France may help illuminate, it could also be argued that it is, in fact, precisely those who make sneering references both to Trump and to “Brexiters” who represent, not a smiling future, but instead the return of the ancien régime.

Before he outright won the Republican nomination through the primary process, after all, Trump repeatedly complained that the G.O.P.’s process was “rigged”: that is, it was hopelessly stacked against an outsider candidate. And while a great deal of what Trump has said over the past year has been, at best, ridiculously exaggerated when not simply outright lying, in that contention Trump has a great deal of evidence: as Josh Barro put it in Business Insider (not exactly a lefty rag) back in April, “the Republican nominating rules are designed to ignore the will of the voters.” Barro cites the example of Colorado’s Republican Party, which decided in 2015 “not to hold any presidential preference vote”—a decision that, as Barro rightly says, “took power away from regular voters and handed it to the sort of activists who would be likely … [to] participat[e] in party conventions.” And Colorado’s G.O.P. was hardly alone in making, quite literally, anti-democratic decisions about the presidential nominating process over the past year: North Dakota also decided against a primary or even a caucus, while Pennsylvania did hold a vote—but voters could only choose uncommitted delegates; i.e., without knowing to whom those delegates owed allegiance.

Still, as Mother Jones—which is a lefty rag—observed, also back in April, this is an argument that can easily be worked against as for Trump: in New York’s primary, for instance, “Kasich and Cruz won 40 percent of the vote but only 4 percent of the delegates,” while on Super Tuesday Trump’s opponents “won 66 percent of the vote but only 57 percent of the delegates.” And so on. Other critics have similarly attacked the details of Trump’s arguments: many, as Mother Jones’ Kevin Drum says, have argued that the details of the Republican nominating process could just as easily be used as evidence for “the way the Republican establishment is so obviously in the bag for Trump.” Those critics do have a point: investigating the whole process is exceedingly difficult because the trees overwhelm any sense of the forest.

Yet, such critics often use those details (about which they are right) to make an illicit turn. They have attacked, directly or indirectly, the premise of the point Trump tried to make in an op-ed piece in The Wall Street Journal this spring that—as Nate Silver paraphrased it on FiveThirtyEight—“the candidate who gets the most votes should be the Republican nominee.” In other words, they make an argumentative turn from the particulars of this year’s primary process to take a very disturbing swerve toward attacking the very premises of democratic government itself: by disputing this or that particular they obscure whether or not the will of the voters should be respected. Hence, even if Trump’s whole campaign is, at best, wholly misdirected, the point he is making—a point very similar to the one made by Bernie Sanders’ campaign—is not something to be treated lightly. But that, it seems, is something that elites are, despite their protests, skirting close to doing: which is to say that, despite the accusations directed at Trump that he is leading a fascistic movement, it is actually arguable that it is Trump’s supposedly “liberal” opponents who are far closer to authoritarianism than he is because they have no respect for sanctity of the ballot. Or, to put it another way, that it is Trump’s voters—and, by extension, those for “Brexit”—who have the cosmopolitan view, while it is his opponents who are, in fact, the provincialists.

The point, I think, can be seen by comparing the scoring rules between Wimbledon and the Tour de France. The Tour, as may or may not be known, is determined by the rider who—as Patrick Redford at Deadspin put it the other day in “The Casual Observer’s Guide to the Tour de France”—has “the lowest time over all 21 stages.” Although the race takes place over nearly the whole nation of France, and several more besides, and covers over 2,000 miles from the cobblestone flats of Flanders to the heights of the Alps and down to the streets of Paris, still the basic premise of the race is clear even to the youngest child: ride faster and win. Explaining Wimbledon however—like explaining the rules of the G.O.P. nominating process (or, for that matter, the Democratic nominating process)—is not so simple.

As I have noted before in this space, the rules of tennis are not like cycling—or even such familiar sports as baseball or football. In baseball and most other sports, including the Tour, the “score is cumulative throughout the contest … and whoever has the most points at the end wins,” as Allen Fox once described the difference between tennis and other games in Tennis magazine. But tennis is not like that: “The basic element of tennis scoring is the point,” as mathematician G. Edgar Parker has noted, “but tennis matches are won by the player who wins two out three (or three out of five) sets.” Sets are themselves accumulations of games, not points. During each game, points are won and lost until one player has not only won at least four points but also has a two-point advantage on the other; games go back and forth until one player does have that advantage. Then, at the set level, one player must have won at least six games (though the rules vary at some professional tournaments if that player also needs a two-game advantage to win the set). Finally, then, a player needs to win at least two, and—as at Wimbledon—sometimes three, sets to take a match.

If the Tour de France were won like Wimbledon is won, in other words, the winner would not be determined by whoever had the lowest overall time: the winner would be, at least at first analysis, whoever won the most number of stages. But even that comparison would be too simple: if the Tour winner were determined by the winner of the most stages, that would imply that each stage were equal—and it is certainly not the case that all points, games, or sets in tennis are equal. “If you reach game point and win it,” as Fox writes in Tennis, “you get the entire game while your opponent gets nothing—all of the points he or she won in the game are eliminated.” The points in one game don’t carry over to the next game, and previous games don’t carry over to the next set. That means that some points, some games, and some sets are more important than others: “game point,” “set point,” and “match point” are common tennis terms that mean “the point whose winner may determine the winner of the larger category.” If tennis’ type of scoring system were applied to the Tour, in other words, the winner of the Tour would not be the overall fastest cyclist, nor even the cyclist who won the most stages, but the cyclist who won certain stages, say—or perhaps even certain moments within stages.

Despite all the Sturm und Drang surrounding Donald Trump’s candidacy, then—the outright racism and sexism, the various moronic-seeming remarks concerning American foreign policy, not to mention the insistence that walls are more necessary to the American future than they even are to squash—there is one point about which he, like Bernie Sanders in the Democratic camp, is making cogent sense: the current process for selecting an American president is much more like a tennis match than it is like a bicycle race. After all, as Hendrik Hertzberg of The New Yorker once pointed out, Americans don’t elect their presidents “the same way we elect everybody else—by adding up all the voters’ votes and giving the job to the candidate who gets the most.” Instead, Americans have (as Ed Grabianowski puts it on the how stuff works website), “a whole bunch of separate state elections.” And while both of these comments were directed at the presidential general election, which depends on the Electoral College, they equally, if not more so, apply to the primary process: at least in the general election in November, each state’s rules are more or less the same.

The truth, and hence power, of Trump’s critique of this process can be measured by the vitriol of the response to it. A number of people, on both sides of the political aisle, have attacked Trump (and Sanders) for drawing attention to the fashion in which the American political process works: when Trump pointed out that Colorado had refused to hold a primary, for instance, Reince Priebus, chairman of the Republican National Committee, tweeted (i.e., posted on Twitter, for those of you unfamiliar with, you know, the future) “Nomination process known for a year + beyond. It’s the responsibility of the campaigns to understand it. Complaints now? Give us all a break.” In other words, Priebus was implying that the rules were the same for all candidates, and widely known before hand—so why the whining? Many on the Democratic side said the same about Sanders: as Albert Hunt put it in the Chicago Tribune back in April, both Trump and Sanders ought to shut up about the process: “Both [campaigns’] charges [about the process] are specious,” because “nobody’s rules have changed since the candidates entered the fray.” But as both Trump and Sanders’ campaigns have rightly pointed out, the rules of a contest do matter beyond just the bare fact that they are the same for every candidate: if the Tour de France were conducted under rules similar to tennis’, it seems likely that the race would be won by very different kinds of winners—sprinters, perhaps, who could husband their stamina until just the right moment. It’s very difficult not to think that the criticisms of Trump and Sanders as being “whiners” is disingenuous—an obvious attempt to protect a process that transparently benefits insiders.

Trump’s supporters, like Sanders’ and those who voted “Leave” in the “Brexit” referendum, have been labeled as “losers”—and while, to those who consider themselves “winners,” the thoughts of losers are (as the obnoxious phrase has it) like the thoughts of sheep to wolves, it seems indisputably true that the voters behind all three campaigns represent those for whom the global capitalism of the last several decades hasn’t worked so well. As Matt O’Brian noted in The Washington Post a few days ago, “the working class in rich countries have seen their real, or inflation-adjusted, incomes flatline or even fall since the Berlin Wall came down and they were forced to compete with all the Chinese, Indian, and Indonesian workers entering the global economy.” (Real economists would dispute O’Brian’s chronology here: at least in the United States, wages have not risen since the early 1970s, which far predates free trade agreements like the North American Free Trade Agreement signed by Bill Clinton in the 1990s. But O’Brian’s larger argument, as wrongheaded as it is in detail, instructively illustrates the muddleheadedness of the conventional wisdom.) In this fashion, O’Brian writes, “the West’s triumphant globalism” has “fuel[ed] a nationalist backlash”: “In the United States it’s Trump, in France it’s the National Front, in Germany it’s the Alternative for Germany, and, yes, in Britain it’s the Brexiters.” What’s astonishing about this, however, is that—despite not having, as so, so many articles decrying their horribleness have said, a middle-class senses of decorum—all of these movements stand for a principle that, you would think, the “intellectuals” of the world would applaud: the right of the people themselves to determine their own destiny.

It is they, in other words, who literally embody the principle enunciated by the opening words of the United States Constitution, “We the People,” or enunciated by the founding document of the French Revolution (which, by the by, began on a tennis court), The Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen, whose first article holds that “Men are born and remain free and equal in rights.” In the world of this Declaration, in short, each person has—like every stage of the Tour de France, and unlike each point played during Wimbledon—precisely the same value. It’s a principle that Americans, especially, ought to remember this weekend of all weekends—a weekend that celebrates another Declaration, one whose opening lines reads “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.” Americans, in other words, despite the success individual Americans like John McEnroe or Pete Sampras or Chris Evert, are not tennis players, as Donald Trump (and Bernie Sanders) have rightfully pointed out over the past year—a sport, as one history of the game has put it, “so clearly aligned with both The Church and Aristocracy.” Americans, as the first modern nation in the world, ought instead to be associated with a sport unknown to the ancients and unthinkable without modern technology.

We are bicycle riders.