You could be forgiven for thinking so much is going wrong in sport that there cannot be anything to look forward to. In Britain, we have certainly got that impression after another week of fallout from last month's shock European Union referendum result. Politicians from the ruling Conservative Party have been pulling Night of the Long Knives-esque machinations to outmanoeuvre their principal rivals, while the leader of the opposition is stubbornly refusing to quit despite two thirds of his Cabinet colleagues having resigned in protest.

But all that was needed to convince me all is not wrong with either Britain or world sport was an early morning trip to Wimbledon at the weekend. 

Unlike those who had managed to navigate the complexity of the ballot system, we did not have a ticket so were forced to set a 4am alarm and take our place in what, according to a steward, is the world’s longest queue. It was one of the most bizarrely British situations I have ever been in.

Thousands of people zigzagged their way around a specially designated field, with those at the front hastily packing up the tents they stayed in since beginning their wait the night before. It took us five hours to leave this field, at which point we found our long wait was to join another queue, a more snake-like one this time taking us into the hallowed grounds, before another one for an increasingly thorough security check.

Not put-off, everyone spent the time by patiently tucking into picnic hampers and cracking open bottles of pimms and prosecco, embracing a peculiarly British penchant for early morning drinking.

Wimbledon umbrellas and rugs were on sale, as we were herded with impeccable organisation around and eventually out of our field, spirits high despite spending the amount of time waiting that it would take to fly from London to New York.

Once inside, we were treated to another concept seemingly unique to Britain: of raindrops falling from an apparently clear blue sky. Every time we were beginning to settle, rain would fall again, and the arduous process of reapplying covers and closing the Centre Court roof would take place before the sun would swiftly re-emerge. 

We took our place on “Henman Hill”, the spectator-position forever associated with the quintessentially plucky British loser of the 1990s and early 2000s, “Tiger” Tim Henman.

Our movement and position on the hill was ruthlessly controlled by an elderly female security guard. “What a stupid thing to do in this day and age,” she barked at a couple who had momentarily left their bags to go to the toilet. “If you do that again, I will notify the bomb disposal squad.”

The sun gradually became more consistent as we watched a huge shock play out on Court One, with Novak Djokovic, the world number one and holder of all four Grand Slam titles, was humbled in four sets by big-serving American Sam Querrey.

Action then continued long into the evening, with some of the biggest cheers coming on court nine where the evergreen 35-year-old Leyton Hewitt saved eight match points before winning an epic doubles clash with fellow Australian Jordan Thompson, 19-17 in the decider over Spaniards Nicolas Almagro and David Marrero.

There were several thoughts I had while absorbing all of this.

One was the importance of tradition, the reason why so many thousands of people were willing to get up in the middle of the night to queue. In an Olympic sense, tennis lacked this tradition when it returned to the programme for Seoul 1988, and many top players consequently stayed away. Gradually, it has gained a more established place on the calendar and leading stars of today, like Novak Djokovic and Roger Federer, are desperate to gain a so-far-elusive singles title in Rio.

Golf must be desperately hoping that the Olympic competition can one day gain a similar foothold. And in 20 years or so time, perhaps it will have, Zika concerns notwithstanding.

A second point which occurred to me was the need to play to your strengths. Wimbledon does this so well, emphasising traditional British quirks like queuing, dress codes and strawberries and cream, but without neglecting other aspects. This is, presumably, what Rio must do to ensure a successful Olympic Games. Ensure nothing goes spectacularly wrong with security, protests and transport, while making sure Brazil’s Games reflects its traditional strength of organising a massive party.

In fact, if the order and efficiency of Wimbledon could somehow be combined with the colour and vibrancy of Rio, then you would surely have the perfect event.

It is interesting to see which sporting stories are most popular. Many people had come to watch Andy Murray, Britain’s world number two and best tennis player since the days of long trousers and wooden rackets 80 years ago. Nothing beats a local favourite, I thought, until Querrey started beating Djokovic and people were suddenly calling for the screen to be changed on Henman Hill. By the time Querrey won the decisive fourth-set tie break, we were in yet another queue, this time to enter court 12.

The fastest way to keep up to date was by stretching our necks to see the distant scoreboard on the outside of Centre Court, which was automatically updated after each point. When it finally flashed up to see the Serb had been vanquished, there was a spontaneous, if slightly restrained, celebrations, as people comprehended that Murray had now become the favourite with the feeling that it would not be “proper” to cheer the defeat of a rival.

Iceland’s remarkable serious if performances at Euro 2016, finally halted by the French hosts last night, was another example of an over-performing underdog, and other shock victors are set to provide some of the highlights of Rio 2016. Great comebacks, like that produced by Hewitt, are another example. 

We must up that it is these underdogs, home town heroes and comeback kings who come to the fore at Rio 2016, in a Wimbledon-esque celebration of the good rather than the bad aspects of a national culture.