The Australian Open ended in tears yesterday as Roger Federer broke down while giving his runner-up speech.
For fans of the man Bud Collins calls "Lord of the Swings," it has been heartbreaking to watch him play Rafael Nadal, the Tim Tebow of tennis: a pumped-up superhero with a heart as big as his biceps who, as talented as he is, wills himself to victory.
Federer is cool and elegant, with a surprisingly thin non-hitting arm and, as shown yesterday, an incredibly fragile emotional state. Which makes his success over the years - 13 Grand Slam titles - all the more impressive when you consider the strength he's needed to keep his emotions in check while hitting precisely timed and perfectly placed shots at crucial moments in countless matches.
Nadal came along just as people were about to anoint Federer "the greatest ever" - a title difficult to confer now after he has been beaten by the same man on three different surfaces. But somehow I doubt that Nadal will win 13 Grand Slam titles. And I doubt that we'll ever see a player as graceful and seemingly effortless as Federer again. He makes everyone else - including the man he's chasing, Pete Sampras - look like galoots.
This is not to write him off. The year has just begun, he played an excellent tournament, and his tearful moment on the stage may inspire him to even greater brilliance.
Inspired by Bibi, and the free tickets Hania got from a co-worker, we went last night to see the Panthers. I hadn't been to a hockey game in over two decades, and was surprised to see the inroads advertising had made. It not only ringed the rink (not the case when my grandfather took me to see the Hershey Bears), it ringed every level of the arena. Ads glowed above the exits on the lower level and covered every available space on the jumbotron. When the players came out, I noticed an ad for Bud Light on the ice.
At the end of the first period, the AdMed zamboni appeared. This didn't seem right - it was like putting an ad on the Popemobile.
I went out to get a Reuben wrap - my favorite baseball snack until the Marlins took it off the menu in 2007. (I had seen it listed on a directory of foods on our way in.) I circled the arena - both levels - before I found it. Midway through my search I stopped in the men's room. "Injured?" the sign above the urinal asked, before directing me to "Schiller, Kessler & Gomez, PLC, at www.injuredinflorida.com."
It took me about twenty minutes to reach the counter. The young woman had never heard of a Reuben wrap. "Do we have a Reuben wrap?" she asked a co-worker. "We don't carry it anymore," the woman replied. Hurt, but not injured, I ordered a Cuban sandwich, which seemed no more illogical than watching ice hockey on the edge of the Everglades.
Back in my seat (the Cuban was delicious, by the way) I thought that, of all the professional sports, hockey is the one at which I'd look the most pathetic. (Over Christmas I had read an oral biography of Plimpton, titled George Being George.) Then I imagined myself trying to return a Federer serve, or going one-on-one with Kobe. But hockey was unique in being the one sport in which I'd look ridiculous as a referee.