It was nine minutes past nine o'clock in London yesterday evening when, deep into the fifth set of the Wimbledon gentlemen's final, Roger Federer eyed a short ball and prepared to hit his forehand, the sport's most dominant shot.

Instead of drilling it into the corner for a winner, as he's done countless times before, he went straight up the middle, directly at Rafael Nadal, his shot landing six inches beyond the baseline. Out. Nadal had secured a break and would hold his serve the next game to win the title, 6-4, 6-4, 6-7, 6-7, 9-7, in four hours and forty-eight minutes of spectacular tennis.

It was Federer's first loss at Wimbledon since 2002, and many have claimed this match marks a permanent change atop men's tennis. Personally, I'm not so sure: Nadal has yet to prove his body can take the pounding of a full year of tennis, and he normally breaks down at some point during the summer hardcourt or fall indoor seasons. I expect Federer to remain No. 1 for the rest of this year.

Nevertheless, the match was fascinating, suspenseful, exhilarating. It was so engaging to watch that, as a tennis fan, I was surprised when I had an odd feeling early in the fifth set, as night began to fall on London and clouds crept toward Centre Court.

I wanted it to rain, and I wanted the completion of the match to be pushed to Monday.

You should know that Monday finals are a disaster for everybody associated with tennis tournaments: the tournaments, the sponsors, the fans, the television partners. Nobody likes them. The last Monday Wimbledon final was broadcast on MSNBC, apparently because they couldn't possibly find a lower-rated news network on which to show the finals of an elite sporting event.

And yet, with the match moving toward conclusion, I started rooting for anything to stand in the way of that happening. And as the match reached 7-7 in the fifth set, I had a real chance: darkness wasn't far away, and just a couple more service holds (there hadn't been a break since the second set) would get us to Monday. Come on!

I should explain myself: We do work for the United States Tennis Association, and I'm always especially excited when we land a new USTA project. I've played tennis almost my entire life and have always loved the game.

You may have heard that tennis in America has seen better days: not only have other countries caught up (and in some cases passed) the U.S. on the court, but overall tennis interest isn't what it could be. While there are some positive signs, the conventional wisdom that is parroted so often in the media is that ratings are bad, the game has become too fast, and there are no compelling rivalries.

Even ESPN.com's Bill Simmons recently stopped writing about himself long enough to critique tennis, making a series of suggestions for improvement that ranged from the thoughtful (shorter sets, but more of them, thus increasing the number of important points) to the absurd (just about everything else in the column).

So here I was, watching one of the most exciting matches of my lifetime, hoping they'd stop playing and come back on Monday, when half of the country (including myself) would be at work. Why? Because I find myself constantly rooting for anything to make tennis more popular, to move it toward the front pages, to stand out among the entertainment options available to the average American. Once people are exposed to tennis, they'll love it, I reason.

I pictured Wimbledon being the No. 1 media story throughout Sunday evening and into Monday. And I thought of anxious coworkers huddling around the office TV early Monday morning, finding themselves caring about tennis for the first time in a long time. This, I thought, could be great for tennis.

But it wasn't to be. The greatest player of his generation couldn't find the court with his best shot, the sport's best shot, and the match ended with about 10 minutes of playable daylight remaining. And I'm left hoping that the overnight ratings were strong, so today's story isn't about how two great tennis players played an historic match but not enough people watched. Such is the life of a tennis fan.

Late last year about a dozen of us formed an office movie group. Every month we meet to discuss the current selection over pizza or sandwiches. (I suspect some joined just for the food, but that's not the point of this entry.)

Aside from a noted fondness for Patricia Clarkson (back-to-back months of "The Station Agent" and "Pieces of April"), the collection of movies we've discussed has been eclectic. And while most of them were made within the last decade, June's selection was "Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb," a 1964 black comedy directed by Stanley Kubrick.

The movie was met with very mixed reactions, with some ranking it toward the top of their all-time favorite movie list and others noting that it was hard to get through the entire 90 minutes. (Full disclosure: I found the film okay; I wouldn't recommend it to my friends.)

Like in much of our focus group research, reactions were divided mainly along demographic lines -- in this case, the split was based on age. Those old enough to have seen the film when it premiered liked it, while those of us who weren't expressed a more negative view. I may have forgotten, but I can't recall a single exception to this rule.

Someone wondered, aloud, whether movies with themes relevant to the day (in this case, the Cold War) could possibly be evaluated fairly by today's audiences. I don't think so. There's no substitute for being there. One group member recalled what it was like to duck and cover as a class in elementary school. I couldn't fully relate. I barely remember "The Day After." So in this respect, older period pieces definitely get short shrift.

But I'm convinced there's more at play here. At the risk of taking an immature view on the subject, I believe that entertainment today, for all its faults, is better than it has ever been -- that goes for movies, music, and even everyone's favorite punching bag: TV. I believe today's entertainment offers more selection and higher quality than at any time in the past -- that acting has evolved, writing is more creative, directing is sharper, and that there's more good entertainment out there if people are willing to search for it.

What do you think?

Has anyone noticed how often age comes up in these Praxis entries? Starting with Jason's "It's a Young Person's World" piece, we've had entries making the case that young professionals aren't taken seriously, entries on the different ways younger and older people consume media, and entries on the younger generation's difficulties with boredom. Vive le generation gap!

Oh, and for those of you who worry that the older people don't show you the respect you deserve, indulge me for just a moment while I place yourselves in my shoes.

Ahem . . .
- "Peter likes Radiohead?????" (Jessica, April 9, extra question marks added)
- "But then I thought to myself, 'Karma Police'????? . . . Radiohead????? . . . Peter? No way." (Scott, February 27, question marks untouched)

Nothing like putting yourself out there on a blog to find out how people really perceive you. Apparently, the key brand attributes for me are "old" and "unhip."

Remember that little exchange about projective exercises we had a while back? Well, now I'm really hesitant to use them.

Hazy dissolve to . . .

PF: So, if this brand were a person, what kind of person would it be?
Respondent 1: Really old . . . like ancient.
Respondent 2: Yeah, drives an old station wagon . . .
Respondent 3: With wood on the sides!
Respondent 4: Plaid pants and striped shirt . . .
Respondent 5: Would NEVER listen to Radiohead . . . more like Journey . . . or Air Supply.
All: Yeah, sort of like . . . YOU!

So the next time an older person is looking askance at you, consider the indignity we suffer every day. How would you feel opening your mailbox to find yet another invitation to join AARP? Or when you're filing out of an airplane: "Thanks for flying, thanks a lot, have a great day, take care . . . thank you, SIR!"

On behalf of all mature Taylorites, I bid you . . . twenty-three skidoo.

And Jessica, after reading through your latest entry, I invite you to join our group. You may be in your late 20s, but you already sound a lot like us. :)

We've once again entered the time of year when I come out of a winter depression I didn't fully realize I had. The Seasonal Affective Disorder (can you really believe they call it "S.A.D."?) abates and I begin to fantasize about the days ahead when I can enjoy a cocktail on the waterfront decks in Portsmouth as the sun lazily sets around 8:30 p.m.

But before summer truly arrives, I have to deal with the teasing and tormenting of spring.

There are many things I love about spring in New Hampshire:
- The obscene amounts of snow we've had start to melt
- The anomalous 60-degree day
- I can run outside again
- Summer-time seafood restaurants and ice cream shops open for the season
- Daylight, daylight, daylight
- My weekend travel plans are no longer weather-dependent

However, there are several things that are not my preference about spring in New Hampshire:
- The obscene amounts of snow we've had start to melt -- and cause flooding, mud, and other mini-natural disasters
- The anomalous 60-degree day . . . that's followed by another 20-degree day
- I can run outside again . . . and should really start training for the Redhook 5K race that the Taylor team is doing in May
- The inevitable March or April snow storm
- Rising gas prices

Let me know when it's safe to ditch the winter coat and don the flip-flops. I know I have them in my closet under the gloves and scarves and coats, somewhere . . .

I do eat M&Ms in color order (but only when no one is looking). I place each 30-pack can of Budweiser in the refrigerator in careful alignment with the label facing forward. I count stairs. My books at home are organized alphabetically, by genre. My books in the office, however, are arranged by size of volume (within genre), rather than alphabetically. I don't want my colleagues or visitors to think I am anal-retentive.

I was appalled when I read Sarah Floyd's entry on thinking of the process of writing first drafts as "throwing up on paper." It's not the throwing-up part that bothered me. I have done my share over the years. And I agree with her point about the fear-inducing effect of a blank page when it's time to write. But the idea of just typing out my thoughts, whatever comes to mind, letting my mind go without worrying about spelling, grammar, or organization for the first draft--I couldn't bear it.

I am a one-draft writer. (I mean, to the extent that I write I am a one-draft writer. I'm hardly a "writer.") I write a sentence, and if I don't like it I rewrite it immediately. I finish a paragraph and fiddle with it before I go on. As I write subsequent sentences and paragraphs I find myself stopping and going back to previous ones to fiddle some more. I worry constantly about spelling, grammar, and organization--even formatting. I cannot go on if I realize I have misspelled a word. It's just too much for me to bear. My first draft is always my final draft.

Then I submit my perfect one-draft work to Jason and Sarah for editing -- and every time it comes back cleaner, clearer, more concise, more compelling.

Damn I find that frustrating.

For the record (because I know the way you people draw inferences and extend logic), I do not fold my dirty clothes before putting them in the hamper.

I don't do laundry.

I was sitting in the lobby at my local Volkswagen dealership while work was being done on my Jetta. An older woman was sitting about three feet directly across from me, and as we both waited, another older woman entered the waiting room and sat on the far side of the seating area. Within a few moments, the close-to-me woman turned toward the far-from-me woman and asked, "Have you been taking your car here long? I was wondering if you could tell me if you trust the people here."

One simple question popped into my mind as their conversation began: Why hadn't she asked me? I was sitting much closer, I had been there longer, and I'd been taking my car there for a while (which, of course, she wouldn't know unless she asked me. Which she didn't).

I'm sure there could be a plethora of reasons why the close-to-me woman decided to ask the far-from-me woman about her experience at our dealership, but I'm assuming it's because I am young. I was wearing typical business casual attire, and was reading the news on my Blackberry, but I was still somehow deemed ill-equipped to provide the kind of information this woman was looking for.

And it got me thinking: Are young professionals not being given a fair shake as long as they are considered, well, young? We all know experience is a valuable thing to have, in any industry, but is it the only valuable thing to have? Is there anything about youth that could be seen as advantageous, as well?

Now, this is not to say that experience and the cluster of things that could possibly come along with youth are mutually exclusive. In my experience (yes, I have experience!), that is often not the case. Many times, the most talented people are those who survive in a given profession, who go on to become experienced and knowledgeable in their field.

However, how does a "talent" come to be discovered, if inexperience is the more visible trait? For example, I eventually came to learn that the far-from-me woman at the dealership had only been taking her car there for a few weeks, and only because her car was under warranty. I have been taking my car there much longer, because I choose to, and was therefore much better prepared to offer feedback on the quality and trustworthiness of the service staff. But that fact was never unearthed.

Even in the world of politics, the debate of experience versus a fresh perspective is being fought as each state votes in its respective primary/caucus. Democratic candidate Hillary Clinton claims she is the better presidential candidate because the experience she has in the political universe far outweighs that of her rival, Barack Obama. But is experience the defining characteristic of a great candidate? (And, if it is, wouldn't McCain be the default winner?) Obama often counters that what he offers, and what this country needs, is change, not experience. Who is right?

And how can we know? As the popular adage goes: If a tree falls in the forest but no one hears it, does it make a sound? Similarly, if a remarkable skill dwells within someone, but he/she is inexperienced in the particular field that his/her skill would be used, does the skill really exist?

I think, to a lot of people, there is great comfort in experience. Someone who has been there, who has seen what there is to see, can make a client or consumer feel that he or she is inherently prepared for what is to come. But is there any value in having a knack for something? In an example that I recently read, in an old blog entry from "Acland Brierty . . . Explained," one can be trained to solve word puzzles, and can have done so for many years. But when a person has a talent for solving word puzzles, they will likely be able to solve even the most difficult of riddles, and produce better results. The blog reads, "Training and experience will only get you so far. You can't teach talent."

So, as a young professional, I wonder whether my future will allow for my talents to be revealed, or if, after time goes by, I will perhaps be seen as better qualified in a certain area because I look or sound older. While youth often does imply inexperience, how often does it imply something that is desirable? Not often enough, I'm afraid.

In the words of Oscar Wilde, "Experience is the name everyone gives to their mistakes." So, here's to all young professionals, making mistakes every day.

I loved Jason's last entry on Raymond Carter. I love the irony that that particular blog entry went through probably more drafts than any entry on this blog to date. And, being the literary nerd that I am, I love conversations about the writing process.

I had a high school English teacher who used to say that writing a first draft was like "throwing up on paper." I know the image is a little unpleasant, but I've always remembered that line--and repeated it to myself countless times since.

There's nothing scarier than a blank piece of paper in front of you (or blank Word document, which is worse--if you're typing on the computer, it just feels like your writing has to be that much more professional). And you've heard your English teachers say it, but it's true--an introduction and conclusion are always the hardest things to write. Now, granted, these days most of us aren't sitting down to write a paper that requires a real clincher of an opening line, but the principle remains--getting started is always the hardest part.

The first try doesn't even have to be good. I recently read that Tom Hanks had a horrible time trying to nail down Forrest Gump's accent, and finally mimicked the actor who played Forrest as a young boy. Can you picture Tom Hanks stumbling over, of all things, a Southern accent? And then he won an Oscar for the role.

So try typing out your thoughts--whatever comes to mind--and organizing them later. Sometimes you can get right to the meat of what you're saying when you just let your mind go--without worrying about spelling, grammar, or organization for a while.

Just don't do what my friend Tim did and go on a tirade against your professor (or client) for half a page--and then forget to delete it before sending in the report. Clean up your word vomit first!

"My friend Herb McGinnis, a cardiologist, was talking."

That was the opening line of the short story "Beginners" that Raymond Carver submitted to his editor, Gordon Lish, in 1980. If it seems familiar but not quite right, that's because when it was published in 1981 under the title, "What We Talk About When We Talk About Love," the text read like this:

"My friend Mel McGinnis was talking. Mel McGinnis is a cardiologist, and sometimes that gives him the right."

Recently The New Yorker published Carver's original version next to a piece on Carver's professional relationship with Lish. (You can compare the two versions here).

I found this fascinating. As a big Carver fan, as well as someone who is interested in the writing process, I was captivated by this look into the Carver-Lish relationship. When reading a novel, or watching a movie, or listening to a song, we too often never think to ask, "What did the first draft look like?" This gave us the answer.

Carver's widow, the poet Tess Gallagher, is hoping to republish a selection of Carver's work in its original, pre-edited form. I am less enthusiastic about this.

It's one thing to examine a draft in the context of a story on the editor-writer relationship, or for scholars to attempt to glean insight into an author's thought process. It's another thing to publish a selection of someone's first drafts after his death.

Lish was known to cut 30%-40% of Carver's drafts, contributing to the author's stripped-down style. For example, in "Beginners," Lish cut Carver's last page and a half and replaced it with a single paragraph:

"I could hear my heart beating. I could hear everyone's heart. I could hear the human noise we sat there making, not one of us moving, not even when the room went dark."

The first draft is just that: a first attempt. Few (if any) authors, journalists, or songwriters can whip out a masterpiece on the first try. The first draft often isn't very good at all. (The first draft of this blog entry was unreadable.) The real action takes place in the work-shopping, the rewriting of that original draft. That's where a piece of writing comes together.

People often think of the writer-editor relationship in black and white: the writer writes and the editor edits. But that's not the way it works. The writer edits too. The editor writes. It's a constant give-and-take, a thoughtful exchange between two people aiming for a common goal: better writing.

All of this is part of the process, and the author writes the first draft with that process in mind. He or she is not writing for publication, but rather as a starting point that will hopefully lead to something worth reading.

I hope no one finds the first draft of this blog entry and publishes it after I'm dead.

So as I was reading this "Karma Police" entry (and really enjoying it--from start to finish), I kept thinking to myself--who wrote this? It's terrific. I had three (and only three) guesses along the way:

- First Nikki Lavoie (music lover, member of the RIAA team and the College Media use team, the energy and enthusiasm of the piece);

- Then Sarah Floyd (music lover, member of the college media use team, excellent writer, ditto above on the piece's energy/enthusiasm, blog editor, one of the leading contributors to the company blog);

- Then Bob Carter (the very epitome of music lover, mention in the piece of needing to be "decades younger," the experience to connect the dots between personal experience and the full body of our work).

Then I clicked on the link and went directly to it on the website and saw--it was PETER!

Part of me said, Peter, of course. Makes perfect sense--for the writing, the energy, the professional insight (and certainly the "decades younger" line).

But then I thought to myself, "Karma Police"????? . . . Radiohead????? . . . Peter?

(No way.)

I admit it. I couldn't sleep last night. I kept waking up with the Super Bowl outcome on my mind, and I couldn't go back to sleep. My skin was having a hard time keeping the rest of me inside. I kept replaying different plays in the game. I kept thinking that what happened hadn't happened. It wasn't supposed to be this way. It wasn't supposed to be even remotely possible that the Patriots could lose to the Giants.

Everything was in place. Ordained. There was a script. Even though the first three quarters and nine minutes into the fourth quarter hadn't followed the script, when the Patriots took over with roughly six minutes left, deep in their own territory, and began the long drive, I began to see that finally both teams were back in line with the correct script; and when the Patriots scored with just over two minutes left, all was right with the world. Brady standing cool in the pocket on third and goal. Randy Moss wide open in the end zone. Touchdown Patriots! Patriots lead 14-10!

Just over two minutes left. Just the way it should be. Brady does just what he always does. A long, meticulously crafted drive at the end of the game to win it. Picking apart the Giant secondary. Showing them who's boss. Ending with a touchdown pass to Randy Moss! Of course. The stars back in alignment. Justice prevails. The perfect end to the perfect season.

Nothing to worry about with a final Giants possession. Especially after that beautifully vicious hit at the 13 on kickoff return -- by a Patriot whose name I had never heard. But of course that's the way it should be with the Patriots. A no-name special-teamer crushes a supposedly dangerous kick returner to make any chance of a miraculous Giant comeback impossible from the start. And after all, Eli Manning is the Giant quarterback. He's going to blow up in the final two minutes. Everyone knows that.

This last Giants possession is merely a climactic countdown to the end of a perfect Patriot season. Starting at their own 13? Ha. I saw a four-and-out. I saw a Rodney Harrison interception. I saw Jarvis Green strip Eli of the ball and Junior Seau fall on it. I saw the final Patriots possession doing what they do best -- closing out the game. I saw Lawrence Maroney take handoff after handoff, driving for a first down, and then Brady taking a knee three times.

I saw the confetti raining down on smiling Patriots with their kids on their shoulders. I saw the Lombardi trophy held high by Robert Kraft, who graciously congratulates the Giants on being such a worthy opponent and thanks Phoenix for being such a gracious host for Super Bowl XLII. I saw Brady humbly accepting the Super Bowl MVP award. I saw Bill Belichick smile. I did.

Somebody obviously gave the Giants the wrong script. Somebody really screwed up.

I thought I was past the anguish and despair I remember so well feeling -- when my high school basketball team lost in the quarterfinals of the state tournament in 1966, when the Reds beat the Red Sox in the '75 series, when Bucky "F." Dent hit that home run in '78, and when Bill Buckner let that ball roll through his legs in '86.

I'm not a kid anymore. I'm supposed to be mature about such things. I don't play for the Patriots. I don't have a financial stake in the team. I'm not even a season ticket holder. Heck, I have gone to only one game at Gillette Stadium. I'm just a regular fan.

It troubles me that I'm troubled about this. But that doesn't stop me from being troubled.

It wasn't supposed to be this way!

Somebody gave the Giants the wrong goddamm script!

Last Tuesday evening, the night of the New Hampshire Primary, I called my sister. She's home from college on winter break and staying at my parents' house. "Hang on," she said mid-call, "someone's on the other line." She returned a minute later. "It was Hillary's people again," she said. "That's the third time they've called today."

I laughed but wasn't all that surprised. I had done a little volunteering for one of the candidates, and while knocking on doors (or "canvassing," in campaign-speak) and calling strangers isn't really my thing, I had made a few calls of my own and knew how much these campaign workers depended on phone calls to help their candidate. Plus, I wasn't jaded from receiving phone calls myself.

While most voters received dozens of calls a week leading up to Election Day, I didn't receive a single one, and for one specific reason -- I live in a cellphone-only household. And though 95% of the time I am grateful to not be badgered by telemarketers or (pretend I didn't say this) researchers, I almost would have liked someone to say, "Hey, who are you voting for?"

I'd decided on my candidate pretty early in the Primary season. I'm not one to aggressively debate politics, but I feel strongly about certain issues, and, if a campaign worker had called me, I would have had no problem proudly declaring, "I'm voting for Candidate X!"

Additionally, there's a certain camaraderie that forms when you find out someone else supports the same candidate you do. I'd find myself smiling at a car sporting my candidate's bumper sticker, or at an old lady wearing my candidate's pin on her coat lapel. It's this strange way of connecting with total strangers -- something that says, "Hey, I agree with you!"

I don't think getting phone calls would have affected my vote, but I do think all those little things (phone calls, yard signs, etc.) tend to add up. For example: if I was deciding between two candidates, and I got calls from only one of them expressing interest in my vote, maybe that would sway me. If I was thinking my candidate didn't have enough support to make him viable, but then I saw five yard signs on my street supporting him, I might change my mind.

From a research standpoint, I'm not sure how much cellphone-only households are affecting polling accuracy. We know that around 16% of American households are now cellphone-only, and that number is only growing. But I don't think that's a factor in why the polls were so off in calling the New Hampshire election.

So, do I appreciate the privacy I get from not having a landline phone? Absolutely. Do I still want to feel valued as a potential voter? Yes!

What do you think? Did you (or would you) proudly declare your stance when you got phone calls -- or did you just want them all to shut up?