Federer’s sliced cross-court backhand is like Sushi when it’s meticulously prepared and served in Tokyo.
(Strikingly simple, a magical asymmetry).
Even the most hideous figures will tower on a pedestal.
Few will look exquisite.
You’re a teenager and you have pedestals everywhere. Get older and you’ve discarded them. Rejoice at looking at everyone at eye-level, flattening your world.
Mirca looks vaguely worried when he plays, distracting herself typing sms’s, her hands hidden behind her purse. When Federer fails, the next few weeks are painted in fierce dark grays. Off-court, Roger’s human. On court, he’s a demi-God.
Whomever is on the other side of the net, Federer’s opponent is Federer.
Can he win? If he doesn’t, what hope for the rest of us?
Today, he played like the old version of himself, I mean the young one. The broken pieces glued together.
Will it ever become seamless or at least, as they say the Japanese do, will the cracks be filled with gold?
