In the hands of the worst amateur dramatic society Shakespeare can be rendered shabby, Pinter passé.

So our great sporting stages can lose all sense of drama if the protagonists are not the best the sport has to offer. The final weekend at Wimbledon came down to Serena versus Venus and Roger versus Rafa.

The rankings might not agree but Serena and Venus are the two best players in the world when measured on almost any other gauge. Achievement, power, sense of history, ability to produce compelling drama and the intangible quality that allows them to become the only story in town. The best. No question.

Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal. We can argue about the merits of the best ever but surely now there must be some consensus that, as a pairing, they are the best world top two that we have ever seen. Four players - two joined by birth, two joined by the invisible bond that exists between two people that are taking the long history of a sport and raising it to another level.

That these four made it to the last weekend may not have been a story that elicited as much as a raised eyebrow in the bookies. But predictability is not a great cause for concern in sport. If Wimbledon is the most famous stage of all then it is only right that the best should demand that platform at the end.

Serena bursts out of the block. Venus is rocked but calm. She hangs in, patient, waiting for her moment. She knows better than anyone that Serena is the more irresistible force in full flow. But she also knows that Serena doesn’t have her calmness, her ability to dissect a game in her head as the match rages around her, knows that in a swirling wind Serena will stumble. She bides her time and grabs her chance.

If this match was indeed decided over the breakfast table then it must have been some breakfast. They both want to win. For two sets the bond between sisters is overshadowed by the desire to make the other bend to their will.

There is little celebration at the end. The big sister still looks out for the kid - but not in the eye of the storm. Tennis has lifted them from poverty, delivered them the world, and they both still want more. Greatness beckons. Family can wait.

Rafa storms out of the blocks as well, but Federer looks to rein him in during the second set. Nadal comes back though and Federer looks stunned. Like Muhammad Ali taking fights when the genius had already died inside him, the winner of 12 Grand Slam events wanders the court looking punch-drunk, shell-shocked by what has happened to him.

Suddenly he remembers whose stage this is and what he’s trying to achieve. He fights back. One set back. Two sets back. Now Nadal looks stunned, he’s beaten one of the best to ever play the game already surely. Does he have anything left to beat him again? Emphatically yes.

The tennis keeps getting better, both players raging against the dying light, their dreams close enough to touch but still so far away. John McEnroe and Bjorn Bjorg look on. Perhaps only they know what a match like this really means to the players, how one game of such inspiring brilliance can define the careers of both the winner and the loser.

In the end Federer looked inside himself and found there was nothing left to give. He has rarely played better as he staved off match points and hauled himself into contention. But he was beaten by the better man, consoled only by the knowledge that he had played in the game of games.

What now for Nadal? Can he extend his dominance in France to the grass that must suddenly feel so comfortable? Can Federer regain his superiority? There’s much more drama still to come from these two.

A predictable Wimbledon? Yes, but who cares?