It took me a day to figure out my bearings between Zen and devastation, but I am miraculously still alive after the US Open men’s final. You just learn not to sweat the small stuff – marriage (boo hoo!), Roland Garros, Wimbledon, Grand Slams record, Career Slam, World Number 1, fatherhood; everything else is icing on an already sweet cake. It helps that I have gained impenetrable armour over the past year and if I can survive those setbacks…
What can I say? Composing this will either serve as much-needed therapy, or plunge me into severe melancholia (skyrocket or nosedive, remember?). I read match analyses and reactions; I do not write them. I am neither a commentator, nor a journalist (yet) – I am a die-hard fan. Just as how the wind kept shifting during the match, both literally and figuratively, so did my emotions. By the end of it, when Juan Martin Del Potro (his name appears first in this post, because his win was deserved) collapsed on the court, I reached a new spiritual plane… That, or I must have taken a chill pill some time between the fourth and fifth sets.
Roger Federer remains superhuman, so there’s no reason for my fandom to take a turn for the half-ass. Even so, waking up at 5 am to make a trip to the casino counts as one of the crazier things I have done in the name of ‘Fedophilia’. Do I regret putting in such effort only to see him lose? Not in the slightest! Will Federer make it 16 Grand Slams? You’d better believe it, baby! Allez!
