Mornin' As has become our custom, TennisWorld poet laureate Madame Highpockets has mined her fecund imagination to craft yet another glorious verse tribute to our most recent Grand Slam champion. As you know, here at TW have exceptionally high standards when it comes to poesy. You can spare us those faux poems that don't rhyme, or are rendered entirely in the lower case.
We have no use for verse that's as depressing as some stupid emo ballad. Spare us poems with words that make us rush to the Thesaurus, or goad the gullible into heated arguments at the Starbucks because of the perverse obscurantism of the text. We like our poems simple and clear, with (preferably) pleasantly rhyming couplets - something that can get stuck and play over and over in your head, like the words to the late Michael Jackson's hit, Beat It.
Personally, I think 'Pockets is on track for a Nobel prize with her body of Grand Slam work, but you know that committee - I'm sure they'll unearth some beaten-down Icelandic or Bangladeshi depressive to give it to instead. . .
I'll be back with a Roger Federer post later today, and you can use this post as the Your Call to discuss tennis - and anything else you want - during the day.
- Pete
DRESSED TO KILL
by Highpockets
Floating on high like a huge Luna Moth,
It was made of translucent, water-proof cloth.
As the crowd stared in awe, transfixed at the sight,
Wimbledon welcomed another fortnight.
When asked what he thought of the wondrous device,
“Compared to most roofs,” Murray said it was nice.
This young lad from Scotland, the UK’s new man,
A wordsmith he's not, but play tennis he can.
With bittersweet longing, we welcomed the rain,
When the Wimbledon champion went back to Spain.
Then Roger took Centre Court, dressed like a dandy,
And we got us a night match with Stan and with Andy.
The stories unfolded; some matches were great,
And five seasoned vets made it to the last eight.
The weather was warm, but cold was the Pimm’s,
No champ yet for Britain; the Hill is still Tim’s.
After Murray went down, all of England deflated,
And Roddick said humbly that he was elated.
He played with a purpose; he played with tranquility,
And a camera caught him showing vulnerability.
He's smart and sarcastic, twitchy and lanky,
And he’s trimmed down since he hired Larry Stefanki.
He’s been in the Wimbledon Finals before,
Two times facing Roger, who showed him the door.
The contest on Sunday was a true grass court fest,
As Andy and Roger showed us their best.
The fifth set was tense; many points saved by aces,
And the strain of their effort showed in their faces.
In the end, though, the dude with the gold lamé trim
Strolled straight into history, his fifteenth slam win.
And there in the stands was a sight we could savor:
Sampras and Borg, Santana and Laver.
What is it about this oasis of green?
That makes everything drab in the space in between?
Well, Pete said it best; he summed up what it does:
“There’s no other place like it—it just gives you a buzz.”