Federer vs Laver

[tennis_chiro]

Robbie Koenig shared this link on Facebook. I thought some of you might enjoy if if you haven't already seen it. It's well worth the 6 minutes that it runs.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HXR9c_SksLI

don

[stotty]

I liked it. Robbie's bright and pulled it off well. It's a little gushing interspersed with a little tongue in cheek...liked it...clever.

[tennis_chiro]

It's Rupert Macall

I liked it. Robbie's bright and pulled it off well. It's a little gushing interspersed with a little tongue in cheek...liked it...clever.

Robbie just posted the link. We have to give the poet, Rupert Macall his due!

don

[stotty]

Robbie just posted the link. We have to give the poet, Rupert Macall his due!

don

Yes, I fully understand that...and agree. I was referring more about Robbie's delivery. It's not easy to get up there and recite with such panache. I'm darned sure I couldn't do it.

[dimitrios]

Don, thanks for posting this. Very moving. Another reminder of how lucky we are to have had Laver and to still witness Federer. Very cool too that the poet was able to state this sentiment to both men in their presence.

[don_budge]

The Masterpiece...Rupert McCall

The Masterpiece...by Rupert McCall

In my wild imagination
High above the earthly field
With the sum of all my fantasies
Somehow merge as real
Where the winds of greatness whisper
And superlatives go swain
In my wild imagination
It is there that they are playing

I can feel it down my spine
As they prepare to take the court
It’s a shiver that acknowledges
The simple joy of sport
A match of true magnificence
A masterpiece to savor
The match where Roger Federer
Is up against Rod Laver

Both men at their optimum
Presenting in there prime
Young and fit and fearless
At the summit of their climb
A look at towards the lefty
Where his volley spit and skid
I look into his eye
And see that shy, redheaded kid

The boy of Roy and Melba
From the ant-bed courts of Rocky
The charge of Charlie Hollis
Not a single freckle cocky
From the Malge scrub to Milton
Mr. Hopman caught the gun
On the planet known as tennis
Here he was...the rising sun

Then a kindred blur of brilliance
On the other side I spy
I look across the net to find
That no one can deny it
Yet beneath that famous headband
In that gaze of no regret
There I see the quiet son
Of Robert and Lynette

An eight year old in Switzerland
No Grand Slam no siree here
And yet a dreamer with a vision
Turns convention on it ear
Exploding through the junior ranks
The world in time would swoon
On the planet known as tennis
Here he was...the mighty moon.

And the constellations gathered
Every star stood at attention
As the masterpiece was served
Without a hint of apprehension
In a crack collaboration
With a license to inspire
Laver like a lightening bolt
On legs that wouldn’t tire

Federer the predator
Caressing each ball sweetly
What a privilege to be here
I was mesmerized completely
Every gift the game could offer
Every celebrated talent
The Swiss as supernatural
As the Queenslander was gallant

The precision of Rod’s placement
Carves a devastating trail
Reminiscent of the glory
In that double Grand Slam grail
When the measure of his dominance
Was too large to define
In sixty-two he nailed it
Then again in sixty-nine

That timeless topspin backhand
Pins a bullet proof approach
There are some things in this universe
No manual can coach
Like the will to go the distance
Like the seizing of a moment
The very same ingredient
Instilled in his opponent

With an action almost effortless
“Rog” positively pounces
It is then the baseline trembles
As his forehand bomb announces
The same way he unleashed it
In that record breaking streak
Three hundred weeks at number one
A pure and honest freak

Gliding gracefully and tastefully
A wing on every pocket
Yes, the Fed Express is roaring
But he can’t bring down the Rocket
Their magic is meticulous
Their class is off the map
Every weapon in their arsenal
The gods of thunder clap

As green grenades go whizzing
In a scintillating racket
The modern graphite guru
Versus the good old wooden racquet
There are rallies in their tallies
That defy all sense of thought
It’s poetry in motion
The immortals of this sport

And the audience is bowing
Their appreciation cast
Five sets not in any doubt
A tie-break in the last
But just before the final smash
Sealed everybody's thrill
As that ball hung in the heaven’s
Well...I swear time stood still

I glanced towards the gladiators
Gilded to their fate
And suddenly it dawned on me
The thing that makes them great
For beyond the calm heroics
That ignite their winning score
In the legend of this legacy
Their echoes something more

Written in their smiles
As if the fact cannot be surer
Humility, the quality
That dignifies their aura
Humility the winner
When those champions embrace
For history, for destiny
For dreams that young men chase

Men who rose undoubtably
To take their role as kings
Modest men, respectful of the sport
That lent them wings
Loyal men who never shunned the home
From whence they came
Gentlemen who truly loved
The blessings of their game

It came as no surprise
To those who watched with inspiration
Tears were cried by Roger
At the trophy presentation
For in triumph there is much hard work
And men are not machines
In every heart emotions spoke
Yes...this is what it means

In my wild imagination
High above the earthly field
With the sum of all my fantasies
Might somehow merge as real
It is there I witness greatness
And the memory I will savor
The undisputed masterpiece
Of Federer and Laver.

My thoughts to follow...as if anybody cares.

[bottle]

Most favorite of many great turns of phrase: "on the planet known as tennis"; "the mighty moon"; "a look at towards the lefty/where his volley spit and skid." Least favorite: "poetry in motion."

[don_budge]

Rupart McCall's "The Masterpiece"...

The key phrase...

The modern graphite guru
Versus the good old wooden racquet

The combination of the corny music and the over the top delivery sort of ruined it for me. The verse...is passable. I used to like the Aussie accent until I heard this poem...being read by the author.

But it only succeeded in making me a bit angry. The problem is that we will never be able to compare the players of the classic game of tennis with the modern game. It is sort of like when I critique a movie...the most important criteria is "how close is it to a plausible reality?". Sadly it is not possible.

Baseball had the sense to spell it out regarding the bats. Too bad the steroid thing got out of control. You see...the same problem exists in baseball. The record books are askew. Tainted.

So tennis didn't even bother to try and disguise it...the game is now tennis on steroids. The oversized racquet sort of took care of that shitty piece of business. Plus there is the question of performance enhancing drugs.

Not that I don't have the utmost respect for Mr. Laver and Mr. Federer. The sport of tennis has failed itself in the long run though. At least historically speaking. But to play out this imaginary match in an attempted epic of a poem doesn't work for me. Sun and the moon...my constellation.