Maybe it was a Faustian pact – why else would a predominantly English crowd cheer so long and so loud for an Italian? Given that England play Italy in the final of Euro 2020 on Sunday? 

Perhaps a deal had been struck with the sports gods: we cheer for Matteo Berrettini today – and on Sunday too – and, in return, England beat Italy at Wembley. Deal? We will find out by close of play on Sunday night. 

The crowd fulfilled their half of the bargain: they cheered the gentle giant that is Berrettini to a 6-3, 6-0, 6-7(3) 6-4 win over Hubert Hurkacz to book his ticket to his first Wimbledon final. 

Of course, the tennis watchers of the UK have come to know Berrettini well in the past four weeks. The big man from Rome was on a 10-match winning streak as he came into Friday’s semi-final. As soon as his toes touched the grass of Queen’s Club last month, there had been no stopping him. He hoovered up that title and did not break step as he marched towards the business end of The Championships. 

Two big men with thumping serves and a good deal of grass court nous are guaranteed to get the crowd excited. And judging by the sound of popping champagne corks as the match began (you cannot hide up there in the darkness at the back of the stands; we can hear you), that crowd was relaxed and ready for some fun. 

When Berrettini opened up with a first service winner of 133mph, he had, as they say, set out his stall. We knew he was going to clatter that serve and then follow up with a forehand so big and so hard that it could split concrete – but we never realised that he would be able to do it so often and so freely in his first Wimbledon semi-final. 

There is not a player here who has not said how much they are enjoying having the fans back on site. For all their desperately serious talk of forehands and backhands, of string tensions and grips (always a belter for breaking the ice at parties), at heart they are all entertainers. They love to go out in front of a packed house and put on a show. The thrill of the contest and the buzz of the applause – there is no more powerful drug. 

The flip side (and there has to be a flip side) is that when things start to go wrong, there is nowhere to hide; 14,979 pairs of eyes are trained on your every move, be it good or bad. And for a while there at the end of the first set and all of the second, things were going horribly wrong for Hurkacz. 

What he would not have given for a hole to open up on Centre Court and swallow him up. It would have to be a big hole, mind you: Hurkacz is 6ft 5ins tall and Neil Stubley, the head groundsman at the All England Club, would not approve of that. 

The warning signs had been there from the start: three break points needed saving in the third game. And then, at 3-3, his forehand started to waver and his pulse rate started to rise. Berrettini broke for a 4-3 lead. 

In the space of 30 minutes, the Italian ran away with 11 games in a row while Hurkacz could barely get a ball in court. The power and the poise that had got him this far had evaporated. Vanished. Disappeared in a puff of white titanium paint (where another Berrettini forehand had just scorched the line). This was supposed to be the biggest match of Hubi’s career – and he was taking an absolute pasting. 

By this stage, though, the crowd was getting fickle. Yes, they wanted to win the football but they also wanted a cracking semi-final here in SW19. And Berrettini was racing away with it. So they cheered for Hurkacz (they have always loved an underdog) in an attempt to get another set or two out the Pole. And after two sets and a bathroom break, Hurkacz obliged. 

The harder he tried, the louder they cheered. When, at last, he stopped the flow of games to Berrettini, the terribly expensive and awfully useful retractable roof was almost shaken from its rafters. OK: that’s the first bit done – we’ve stopped Berrettini winning every point he plays. Now, how do we stop him winning every point on his own serve? It wasn’t necessary – once into the tiebreak, it was Berrettini who looked tight and the decider was going Poland’s way. 

More bananas were called for if Hurkacz was to get to the final. The chap from Wroclaw is a vegan (which, by his own admission, is strange because he dodged vegetables like the plague when he was a child) and he does like a banana or a bunch to get him through a match. Trouble was, he only had one and half left and there were potentially two more sets to play. 

Meanwhile, it was Berrettini’s turn to call upon the magic powers of the bathroom break. Leaving the court to powder his nose after the third set, he came back and immediately broke serve. From there, he was not to be stopped. Hubi wouldn’t need those bananas after all. 

Right, now for the football. 

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