Howdy, everyone, I hope you all had a great Thanksgiving and a less than sinister Black Friday; the only thing I bought today was a simple glass and steel desk for Cowboy Luke, who's now going to have to start doing his homework in his own room. I say it's empowering - he says he dont need to do no stinkin' homework. The little shaver's been begging for a Wii for his birthday (on Monday) for two months now and I'm wondering what I'm going to do starting Tuesday, when I can no longer holler: If you want to have any shot at getting a Wii, you'd better take the cat out of the washing machine - NOW!
I did manage to catch some of the tennis action these past few days though, and I'd say this tournament has been full of unsurprising surprises. Is anyone shocked that Nikolay Davydenko has found a way to sneak into the semifinals through the back door? Maybe I'm prejudiced, but that just seems a very Kolya thing to do.
One thing I love about the guy is that he's a little bit like Monica Seles - acutely aware of his earning opportunities, and taking every advantage he can to exploit them. Nothing wrong with that, in my book. Players who are driven to earn don't tank matches or waste chances, because every one of them has a dollar sign attached to it. I get the feeling that he's going to end up one very rich bald little dude - the opposite of someone like, oh, Marat Safin (a moment of silence, please), who I can see at some not too distant juncture broke, happy - and about 60 pounds overweight. Like his old running buddy, Yevgeny Kafelnikov once was.
Did you catch the way Roger Federer handed Juan Martin del Potro that critical match the other night - the one that enabled del Potro to advance to the semis? Oh, we'll see Federer at his best again, maybe even this weekend. But the theme is developing as expected; the fire in Federer leaps and dances now, it's no longer a steady flame. He just doesn't seem to want it badly enough at the natural, gut level. It happens to every great player who sticks around long enough to decompress from his most intense peak. Even a gourmand reaches the point where he can't cram yet another truffle down his throat.
And I feel genuinely sympathetic for Rafael Nadal. His year ended on a really dissonant note, and whatever he said in his press conferences, I don't think his heart is in it. I think he wants his heart to be in it; he's enough of a competitor and a sufficiently principled guy to feel that way. But at around the time that he's unwrapping his new Wii, his new Maserati, or whatever he gets for Christmas from his girlfriend, he's going to get knocked in the head by a thunderbolt: Where was my mind? Where was my game? What the hail happened, these last few weeks?
Which means, I reckon, that he's going to blast out of the gates in January as if propelled by a jet pack. A Jet Boy pack.
By the way, while I'm glad to see such terrific crowds and apparent media and fan interest in the Barclays ATP World Tour Finals, I confess that unless the problem is the broadcast values and technology of Tennis Channel, I find the general ambience of the 02 Arena somewhat depressing. It seems awfully dark, and too blue, too much like some stupid nightclub. But maybe I'm just too conservative, and wedded to the idea that tennis is a game best played in the sunshine, and even indoors against a visible, colorful backdrop of. . . people.
I guess the atmosphere is meant to be "dramatic," but if I want that I'd just soon go see an Edward Albee play in some off-off-Broadway theater. What next, Rafa holding aloft a skull before the men's final and mourning, Alas, poor Yorick, I knew thee well, no?
Have a great weekend, everyone.