Saturday, September 12, 2009

Poor Fernando

I'm not going to blog my way through the U.S. Open the way I tend to with other tourneys.

I'm not.

I'm really not.

It's just that no one in Marlinspike Hall (not even the Feline Four), deep, deep in the Tête de Hergé, will watch tennis with me. College basketball?* You bet. Tennis? No one. That leaves me with but two choices: rapidfire email exchanges with Grader Boob, my darling brother-unit or blogging away my anxious excitement and forcing strangers to live my vicarious angst.

[Truth? Since I lost my mobility, I am often overcome with my many fond memories of spending entire days on the tennis court, and I tend to fall into a big puddle of self-absorbed regret. And don't talk to me about wheelchair tennis. Just don't.]

But I just gotta say: Imagine the difficulty of having to begin play, after two days off, with the score 6-7, 6-6, and in the middle of a tie-breaker! Now imagine you're playing Rafa.


I really feel for Fernando Gonzalez -- but I do wish folks wouldn't smash their racquets. And he does it entirely too often. [When did I grow old?]

Okay, one last thing. I hope it isn't the kiss of death, as my rooting tends to jinx the objects of my interest. Don't assign me some anti-American sentiment, but I do hope Kim Clijsters beats Serena.

Okay... bye now!
f'blasticball! f'blasticball! allez, dooook-uh! allez, dooook-uh! [shuffle shuffle]
f'blasticball! f'blasticball! allez, dooook-uh! allez, dooook-uh! [shuffle shuffle]

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