Eagle-Hearted Friends, I’m missing this fortnight that ephemeral tennis magic and shotmaking joie de vivre only the Maestro can summon. I know you are, too. It's been a tough year, within tennis and without, and this tournament had the promise of a tennis vaccine, but has transformed into a cocktail of bleach and horse dewormer.
Selfishly, I'm missing, too, Thiem’s sweaty, grunting form on court and Borna’s moaning, shirtless massages on the sidelines. I am missing Venus and her stoic facade that masks a deep passion for tennis. I'm even missing Rafa and his myriad, bizarre rituals, that possibility of an embarrassing beatdown. I yearn for a time when I wasn’t forced to root for Zverev — the lesser of two super-spreaders this COVID season. But it's emblematic of a year marked by pandemic, climate disasters, conspiracy-fueled insurrections and knee surgeries.
In the meantime, I'm quite enjoying the cultists distracting themselves from a certain achievement — looming like a cloud of misery and disease —by being outraged by a compliment given to their mechanical messiah. Their lack of humor and common sense is perfectly symbolic. Inspired, I thought I’d share a new ditty with my BOTE family….
Then He Takes Your Soul
That first set was all roses, the match a rotting bouquet.
But that’s Novak. He takes your soul, I heard Andy say.
His followers clutched their vials of healing water in contemptuous display.
As if they didn’t know a Faustian bargain allowed him to play this way.
Yes, facing off against Novak Djokovic can take its toll,
When you feel like the shots are all out of your control,
Then a robot is offering the crowd the heart from the human flesh it stole.
As Mr. Roddick said: First he takes your legs, then he takes your soul.
And what of Rafa Nadal — a bullish beast in his prime?
No court is immune, none so esteemed he dare not begrime.
Some laugh off his butt-picking antics like they’re simply a victimless crime.
But he takes that most precious thing of all: your irreplaceable time.
And the sorely missed defending champ can’t be left off this list.
Thiem is suffering from injuries. He also made me hurt my wrist.
When he plays from behind, he turns every match into a sordid, sweaty tryst.
First he imprisons your eyes, then he takes your breath away. Don’t resist!
How about old Andy Murray? He’s past his best, it’s true.
But he has a second act: a social media troll to rule the loo.
He’s keeping track of Stefanos’ bowels — a dirty job that someone has to do.
Watch out, Nick: He’ll take your title and your precious followers, too.
Finally there’s the Maestro, and I’m sure you’ll be agreeing:
At his best, a rival’s only option is tossing the racket and fleeing.
Or watch the master at work — this match is solely an afternoon of sightseeing.
First he takes your self-esteem, then he consumes your entire being.
In the end, have some sympathy, like the Stones said in their rock-'n'-roll.
And understand the desperate, empty neediness that plays a role.
Gather ’round the dead souls of this spirit-eroded court, so that we might console
Both vanquished foe and the champion, entombed in his corporeal black hole.
That's why he takes your legs, then he takes your soul.
