On his 29th, an open letter to Andy Roddick

Dear Andy,

Welcome to age 29. I'm departing from it in all of 10 days, and your chum Serena Williams will do the same later in September. But for now the day is yours. Embrace it. You're as old as you act—and we all know how you like to operate.

So just pretend you're 21. Because, well, you are—the 21st seed, that is. Yes, for the first time since 2002, you are out of the Top 20 in the ATP universe. Still, it's okay. There's another guy, name's Roger Federer, who is in peril of marking a personal first since '02 soon also, if he should leave New York sans singles title. The difference is that he's won at least one Slam each year since 2003. And that was the year you took home your virgin U.S. Open title. And at the same time you were dating that doe-eyed virgin pop star, Mandy Moore. My, how time flies.

These days you have a lovely wife, one prone to tease you amiably, whether on the couch or on Twitter. And you were "annoyed" enough times to eventually spawn a son—err, a mentee—who is himself going on to challenge your allegedly "ugly American" mantle:

Truth is, he'll never hold a candle. Ryan Harrison is no Andy Roddick. Won't be, at least not until he wins a big one. And let's be real: A fleet of players out there would sacrifice a sibling or parent to be able to say that they won any one major. Oh, to be a one-Slam wonder—there's absolutely no shame in that game. Especially not when you've stared down Federer three other Wimbledon finales—losses in three, four, and five sets, respectively—and in the '06 U.S. Open denouement.

So maybe you could have done without Fed and Rafael Nadal. Small matter. You're in a different league entirely, really. You're "the other A-Rod." If we're honest—and we're always honest—your life is lush. It's charmed. You weren't spoonfed, and yet you dine now from what's basically a silver spoon. Lacoste called, as did scads and oodles of other sponsors and celebrity tie-ins. You'll never be confused with, say, your neighbor to the north, Mr. Frank Dancevic, he who became this late summer the first player ever to actually qualify for all four Grand Slam events in a calendar year. So remember Dancey and his own makeshift "Grand Slam" the next time you're despairing over that botched volley from your timeless Wimbledon marathon against Fed.

The beauty and the reality of you, Andy, is that you don't seem to wax emo over such gutting losses at all. When and where the rest of us would be torn up about it, raw and ready to bite Sue Barker's head off, you always have classy cool after the fact. It's in the heat of battle that you struggle. And, oh boy, do you struggle mightily.

So let embarrassing former politicians say their piece. Consider scientifically why you never made a dent on red clay. But please keep being you. You're hot and cold, a statesman and a Scud missile. It depends on the day.

You have American journeyman Michael Russell in the first round of the Open. And then, should you prevail, you may see young American Jack Sock in the second round. He's the future, such as it is, that Sock kid. But he'll never be you. We're both happy and sad about that, as is the rest of America. And so you must mow down one or two of your own just to reach the third round at this Open. What's so wrong with U.S. tennis, they say? Well, these guys have to cannibalize each other, for one. And that is always uncouth.

The day will come when you do not, in fact, play professional tennis anymore. And then whom will the tennis media have to knock around stateside? They will miss you. And you'll have the last word, that last laugh. For better and worse, you always do.

—Jonathan Scott (@jonscott9)