Yesterday at the 2015 French Open…The Journey
Yesterday I watched a lot of different matches and it left me feeling tired like I have never felt tired before. Granted…I have not had a day off from the tennis court and the golf course in who knows how long. Granted…I have a four month old Chocolate Labrador Retriever named Puntzie who has been getting me up for the past two months between 3.30 AM and 4.30 AM. Usually it is 3.37 AM…it's amazing how many times I turn on my phone to see that time…it's when he gets the urge to get up and go outside. It's no accident. There are no accidents…are there?
But anyways working my way down the draw sheet that I have found on Wikipedia…I will never forgive the Roland Garros website for their ridiculous view of the actual draw sheet. Totally inefficient in the day of efficiency is King…it's inexcusable. Off with their heads. Anyways…here is a better view.
I watched Novak Djokovic take down Kokkinakis. One break each set...but it wasn't as close as that. Total control. Djokovic was in total control of the whole entire match. He let the kid into points just to show the tennis world how in control he is of everything that goes on when he is on the tennis court. He let's the game come to him…or he goes and seizes it by the throat…whatever he pleases. Mats Wilander asked Novak…what must I do if I am to beat you? Novak sort of chuckled and did a little shuck and jive…Serbian style of course…and he said that he doesn't feel that sort of control that people perceive in him. He has his element of doubt too…and I believe him. But the difference between him and the rest of the crew is that doubt only serves to make him play so much better. It's as if the doubt is the final piece of the puzzle for him…just enough to make him doubt himself just a tad before he slips into super cosmos drive. Nobody seems to be able to stay with him. Certainly not a teenager from Down Under.
I watched Richard Gasquet and Kevin Anderson and Richard certainly pleased the partisan Parisian crowd. They were oohing and awing at the Gasquet splendid one hand backhand…but you know…his forehand is nothing to sneeze at either. Richard will need the French crowd and so much more in his next match…against the Serbian Grim Reaper. Novak Djokovic. Jack Sock made hash of Borna Coric. The straight set score was indicative of the reality of the situation. Sock had Coric on his heels the whole match and it didn't look as if Coric had any answer or any weapons that could match the forehand of Jack Sock. stroke has been an admirer and he has posted early on about this "Sock it to 'em" forehand…John McEnroe paid homage to it as well yesterday on Game, Set and Mats…the Eurosport Sport channel sort of like the American ESPN. Without the hype.
I even turned on the Andrei Kuznetsov versus Fafa Nadal match. I have a funny feeling about things…and especially about Nadal. I'm not saying I am right but it's a funny feeling. It is almost as if we haven't seen the real Nadal for the past couple of months. It's all tied in with his frequent AWOL's from the tour. Whether it's drugging…just resting? Pacing himself? We'll never know. But wouldn't it be strange if he all of a sudden finds his form just in time to win French Open then we can witness all of his fake and pious humility. Speaking about fake and pious humility…I watched Serena Williams and Victoria Azarenka. I can honestly say that I have never seen a woman hit the ball as hard as Serena was hitting it yesterday. Azarenka was actually playing out of her mind as well but she couldn't match Williams in the strength department. Not even close.
I even saw bits and pieces of the following…Murray and Kyrgios, Goffin and Chardy, Cilic and Mayer and Bolelli and Ferrer. In short…I saw the whole enchilada. You know…the whole thing left me feeling extremely tired. Granted…it was the first day off that I had in some weeks. But the tiredness was almost other worldly. I guess a lot of it can be attributed to all of the things in my life that take their toll naturally on my life force…my energy. But the tennis was taxing. Need I say that the whole of it was so one dimensional that it was if every match was virtually indistinguishable from the other. Every single point was virtually indistinguishable from another. It cracks me up. Literally. It fractures me to pieces. This cannot be happening. You cannot be serious.
But trust me…none of it matters. Least of all my feelings or my perceptions about things. It is what it is. So utterly beyond my control…or even my understanding. How did it get to this? How did I know that it would back in 1980 when I first discovered the the fix was in? When I first saw the Prince Graphite…I screamed "they ruined the game!!!". 1984…the Orwellian year. The first year that all four semi-finalists at the U. S. Open used oversized racquets. If you count Lendl's as oversized. It's strange…you know. People are strange. The whole thing is so strange. When you are strange…when you are a stranger.
None of it matters though. The only thing that matters is Roger Federer. Yet even he is out there for the money…and for the thrill of being there. Nobody in their right mind gives him a chance to come away with another title. Another Grand Slam. No matter how it is tilted…he will have to contend with one of his younger adversaries…one of his nemesis with younger legs. But he is still in the game…he is set to play "The Amazing Mr. Monfils" a bit later today. Existential tennis. Parisian tennis. The home of the existentialist. The home of Ferdinand Celine.
There was a rain delay in Paris today. Everything was put on the shelf for a couple of hours. Did you know that Jim Morrison died in Paris? Supposedly so drunk that he choked to death on his own vomit. In a bath tub no less. So the story goes. So the legend goes. He wrote a song called "End of the Night" that was coined after the novel by Ferdinand Celine called "Journey to the End of the Night". The G. N. O. A. T.. The Greatest Novel Of All Time. How do I know that? Because I just said it.
Come on Roger. Come on "The Living Proof". Where there is Roger there is still tennis. Tennis exists. Even Santa exists if you believe in him. You can have the rest of it. After watching all of that tennis yesterday it felt like I had some kind of hangover. A real bummer of a hangover. Totally crapped out. Bummer. Bummed out. It was numbing…I remember being there a year ago. It was the same thing. Live…six cups of strong Parisian java just to stay conscious. Djokovic versus Raonic in the quarterfinals. Sharapova versus Garbine Muguruza in the women's quarters. Canadians to the right of the "Ugly American"…my buddy Greg. Russians to the left of me…still…I couldn't…stay…awake. ZZzzzzz….Ladies and Gentlemen…The Doors!!!
Yesterday I watched a lot of different matches and it left me feeling tired like I have never felt tired before. Granted…I have not had a day off from the tennis court and the golf course in who knows how long. Granted…I have a four month old Chocolate Labrador Retriever named Puntzie who has been getting me up for the past two months between 3.30 AM and 4.30 AM. Usually it is 3.37 AM…it's amazing how many times I turn on my phone to see that time…it's when he gets the urge to get up and go outside. It's no accident. There are no accidents…are there?
But anyways working my way down the draw sheet that I have found on Wikipedia…I will never forgive the Roland Garros website for their ridiculous view of the actual draw sheet. Totally inefficient in the day of efficiency is King…it's inexcusable. Off with their heads. Anyways…here is a better view.
I watched Novak Djokovic take down Kokkinakis. One break each set...but it wasn't as close as that. Total control. Djokovic was in total control of the whole entire match. He let the kid into points just to show the tennis world how in control he is of everything that goes on when he is on the tennis court. He let's the game come to him…or he goes and seizes it by the throat…whatever he pleases. Mats Wilander asked Novak…what must I do if I am to beat you? Novak sort of chuckled and did a little shuck and jive…Serbian style of course…and he said that he doesn't feel that sort of control that people perceive in him. He has his element of doubt too…and I believe him. But the difference between him and the rest of the crew is that doubt only serves to make him play so much better. It's as if the doubt is the final piece of the puzzle for him…just enough to make him doubt himself just a tad before he slips into super cosmos drive. Nobody seems to be able to stay with him. Certainly not a teenager from Down Under.
I watched Richard Gasquet and Kevin Anderson and Richard certainly pleased the partisan Parisian crowd. They were oohing and awing at the Gasquet splendid one hand backhand…but you know…his forehand is nothing to sneeze at either. Richard will need the French crowd and so much more in his next match…against the Serbian Grim Reaper. Novak Djokovic. Jack Sock made hash of Borna Coric. The straight set score was indicative of the reality of the situation. Sock had Coric on his heels the whole match and it didn't look as if Coric had any answer or any weapons that could match the forehand of Jack Sock. stroke has been an admirer and he has posted early on about this "Sock it to 'em" forehand…John McEnroe paid homage to it as well yesterday on Game, Set and Mats…the Eurosport Sport channel sort of like the American ESPN. Without the hype.
I even turned on the Andrei Kuznetsov versus Fafa Nadal match. I have a funny feeling about things…and especially about Nadal. I'm not saying I am right but it's a funny feeling. It is almost as if we haven't seen the real Nadal for the past couple of months. It's all tied in with his frequent AWOL's from the tour. Whether it's drugging…just resting? Pacing himself? We'll never know. But wouldn't it be strange if he all of a sudden finds his form just in time to win French Open then we can witness all of his fake and pious humility. Speaking about fake and pious humility…I watched Serena Williams and Victoria Azarenka. I can honestly say that I have never seen a woman hit the ball as hard as Serena was hitting it yesterday. Azarenka was actually playing out of her mind as well but she couldn't match Williams in the strength department. Not even close.
I even saw bits and pieces of the following…Murray and Kyrgios, Goffin and Chardy, Cilic and Mayer and Bolelli and Ferrer. In short…I saw the whole enchilada. You know…the whole thing left me feeling extremely tired. Granted…it was the first day off that I had in some weeks. But the tiredness was almost other worldly. I guess a lot of it can be attributed to all of the things in my life that take their toll naturally on my life force…my energy. But the tennis was taxing. Need I say that the whole of it was so one dimensional that it was if every match was virtually indistinguishable from the other. Every single point was virtually indistinguishable from another. It cracks me up. Literally. It fractures me to pieces. This cannot be happening. You cannot be serious.
But trust me…none of it matters. Least of all my feelings or my perceptions about things. It is what it is. So utterly beyond my control…or even my understanding. How did it get to this? How did I know that it would back in 1980 when I first discovered the the fix was in? When I first saw the Prince Graphite…I screamed "they ruined the game!!!". 1984…the Orwellian year. The first year that all four semi-finalists at the U. S. Open used oversized racquets. If you count Lendl's as oversized. It's strange…you know. People are strange. The whole thing is so strange. When you are strange…when you are a stranger.
None of it matters though. The only thing that matters is Roger Federer. Yet even he is out there for the money…and for the thrill of being there. Nobody in their right mind gives him a chance to come away with another title. Another Grand Slam. No matter how it is tilted…he will have to contend with one of his younger adversaries…one of his nemesis with younger legs. But he is still in the game…he is set to play "The Amazing Mr. Monfils" a bit later today. Existential tennis. Parisian tennis. The home of the existentialist. The home of Ferdinand Celine.
There was a rain delay in Paris today. Everything was put on the shelf for a couple of hours. Did you know that Jim Morrison died in Paris? Supposedly so drunk that he choked to death on his own vomit. In a bath tub no less. So the story goes. So the legend goes. He wrote a song called "End of the Night" that was coined after the novel by Ferdinand Celine called "Journey to the End of the Night". The G. N. O. A. T.. The Greatest Novel Of All Time. How do I know that? Because I just said it.
Come on Roger. Come on "The Living Proof". Where there is Roger there is still tennis. Tennis exists. Even Santa exists if you believe in him. You can have the rest of it. After watching all of that tennis yesterday it felt like I had some kind of hangover. A real bummer of a hangover. Totally crapped out. Bummer. Bummed out. It was numbing…I remember being there a year ago. It was the same thing. Live…six cups of strong Parisian java just to stay conscious. Djokovic versus Raonic in the quarterfinals. Sharapova versus Garbine Muguruza in the women's quarters. Canadians to the right of the "Ugly American"…my buddy Greg. Russians to the left of me…still…I couldn't…stay…awake. ZZzzzzz….Ladies and Gentlemen…The Doors!!!
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