By Simon Lansley, PA Sport

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So exit Pete Sampras and enter Lleyton Hewitt, it would seem.

How Tim Henman must wish he could turn back the clock and replay his semi-final against Goran Ivanisevic.

Because however many times the pundits - and even Hewitt himself - might tell you 'Tim can still win it' surely last year was the Oxford lad's best chance to win a Grand Slam on home soil.

The flags were all out for Tim, perhaps never put away in the wake of the World Cup, to be honest.

And a nation that lived in hope for a first men's champion since Fred Perry in 1936, dared to think: '1977, silver jubilee, women's champion.... 2002, golden jubilee.....?'

Like we all dared to think we might win the World Cup, we all dared to think Henman might win Wimbledon.

So for Brazil v Germany, read an Australian versus an Argentinian. Ouch.

However, those who hadn't been drinking their fill during a liquid breakfast while Sven's men bowed meekly out to Brazil, could see that it didn't quite figure that Tiger Tim had an easy prowl to the title.

Yes, the seeds fell, but dropped sets in the second and third rounds against Scott Draper and Wayne Ferreira - plus a poor line call in his favour which totally threw the impressive South African - suggested all was not quite hunky dory in Henman's armoury.

And those with any foresight could see the immovable object as Tim moved closer to the last four, like Ayers Rock on the horizon.

And so it was to prove. Henman got flattened in straight sets by the Aussie who can't keep still, who leaps around the court like a wound-up wallaby and whose neck veins threaten to explode when his opponent has the gall to win a point.

The way he blew away David Nalbandian in Sunday's final - particularly the early stages of the opening set - proved he was a cut above.

The fact is we shouldn't have been surprised. Hewitt, like Goran Ivanisevic before him, was a man hell-bent on making that date with destiny.

Only once - in the quarter-final with Sjeng Schalken, as if to deliberately raise the hopes of those on Henman Hill before cruelly dashing them - has he stumbled, dropping two sets before biting back like an agitated croc.

Otherwise, it's all been 'no worries, mate', as his great friend and last year's beaten finalist Pat Rafter would no doubt say. Sadly for Tim, even Hewitt's phenomenal fist-pumping celebrations leave our boy in the shade.

And so it would appear, with the US Open and Wimbledon safely ensconsed in his tucker bag, the 21-year-old from Adelaide is ready to rule the world good and proper.

The youngest player ever to finish the year as world number one - only the after-effects of chicken pox prevented him putting on a serious challenge at the Australian Open - he will surely improve on his fourth-round exit at the French Open sooner or later.

Winning Wimbledon puts the icing on his cake as well; every great baseliner fears ending up an Ivan Lendl rather than an Andre Agassi and failing to win tennis' greatest prize on the lush lawns of SW19.

That Hewitt has put that myth in its place at the age of 21 does not augur well for the likes of Henman.