Two of the more deflating experiences of my journalism career were the fortnights I spent covering Wimbledon, in 1985 and 1986.

Not because of the tennis. Not because covering the event overwhelmed me.

But because of what I was reading in the English newspapers.

English newspaper writers are good. Very good. Often very, very good.

Any of the columnists (or even beat writers) in the London “quality” press (The Times, the Guardian, the Telegraph, the Independent) can knock out something two or three times a week that rivals anything you’ve done. Ever.

When you’re covering Wimbledon, which has plenty of rain delays, you can sit in the media room and read the London newspapers. All of them. And, eventually, sink into a funk at the idea that you will never be so droll, so amusing, so insightful and elegant as a half-dozen sports hacks you’ve just read in that day’s English press.

(What put me in mind of this? I’m re-reading some John Le Carre, one of the best English-language writers of the last half-century, and trying not to compare myself to him. Because the result is far beyond “unflattering”.)

I actually had settled into a siege of self-loathing, one of those days at the All-England Club, 20-some years ago, when I happened to mention to Edwin Pope, the Miami Herald columnist, how daunting it was to read the prose of the English sports writers.

I didn’t fully appreciate, back then, how good and how accomplished was Edwin Pope (who is still writing regularly for the Herald, in his late 70s). But I could have figured out that his mind was a very deep well by what he said to me that day.

“Never compare yourself to the Brits,” Pope said. “It’s not fair to yourself. They invented the language. We’re just trying to pick it up.”

Perhaps we should have picked it up by now, but Pope was/is right. There is something about English society that generates elegant conversation as well as writing. In certain classes.

Perhaps American writers are simply more egalitarian, and tend to write to Every Man … and thus find ourselves sunk in mediocrity. That’s my excuse, anyway.

For a little on Edwin Pope, see the second item in this string of stories from the University of Georgia alumni magazine.

So … I’m still trying to take Edwin Pope’s advice, and not compare myself to the Brits. I do a fairly good job of it … until I pick up The Times or John Le Carre.