Saturday, September 6, 2008
It just happened in the past five years. I don't believe you can play in a tennis major unless you've won an international beauty contest first. Especially the men.
I like the trend. If I'm going to spend a weekend watching a sporting event, so much the better if it's aesthetically pleasing on all levels. Look at the evidence: Federer, Blake, Gonzalez, Haas, Safin. In the past there was the occasional Adonis --Boris Becker was kind of hunky. Sampras, if you liked that sort of thing. But there were lots of frogs. Ivan Lendl springs to mind. Todd Martin looked like a school principal, for god's sakes. Prior to 2003, anyone could play. The US Open allowed the short to challenge the gangly; the pale to smash serves to the sun-damaged.
But not anymore. Or, wait a minute, so I thought. Who let Andy Murray in? Who thought it was a good idea to let a 70-year old Scottish sea captain play in a major? He's dour and awkward, and has a beard growing from his neck. And he just may beat Rafael Nadal. Jesus will weep.
If I were 13, I'd spend my time cutting up tennis magazines to make a Rafa collage. I'd put up a Rafa screen saver. I'd belong to a Rafa ring. And because of what transpired today, I'd light candles at my Rafa shrine.
He's the perfect adolescent fantasy boyfriend. Body of a Greek God, face of an angel, sexy accent. Everyone loves him. Even McEnroe is not immune as he gushes, "Incredible physical specimen." Get a hose John.
When we were kids, my dad equated the word "cute" with effeminate. So when we called a boy cute, as in "He's so cuuuuuute," Dad would screw up his face and mutter something in Norwegian, it might have been frukt kake.
But Rafa is cute. And if they think I'm going to watch stringy old Mr. McGregor hit it out in the final instead of Nadal, they can think again. Find someone else to flesh out your dismal ratings CBS. I'm going to...I'm going to...Oh, to hell with it, hand me those matches and where are my scissors?
Adendum: Shrines don't work