Remember, I have my ways of getting the real story. I can easily sneak past security, into locker rooms, hotel rooms and, yes, editorial offices. That's the upside of being a rather diminutive, wholly innocent, for-charity stuffed animal. A bear, to be precise. Can those Tennis magazine scribes manage the same? But let me use this precious on-line real estate to do what I do best - grumble.
*
B-b-b-bbbboring. . . A few of my dear, dear friends here at TW - you know I love ya, kids! - occasionally dip into the GEs and rail that the The Mighty Fed - my namesake, Roger Federer, who's also famous in his own right - is. . .gulp. . .*gag. . .um. . .boring. I know, this particular crowd is adamantly opposed to eye-popping groundies, silken drop volleys and similar "sleep-inducing" stunts. A three-set tussle featuring, say, Retro Robredo vs. Tommy Haashole, apparently excites their senses more than a visit to, and peek into, Fed's Breadstick & Bagel Bake Shop (an establishment frequented by none other than Rafael Nadal, Andy Roddick, James Blake, David Nalbandian, et al. Must be the smell wafting into the street!). I say, so be it. To each his own.
But If I had my way, I'd punish all future transgressors with the ultimate wake-up call: They would be strapped into achair and forced to watch a continuous loop of Dementieva three-setters, those especially rich with double-faults and service breaks!
*
The Rafa Kids. . . While I was locked away--shackled mercilessly and with no honey to boot!--at an undisclosed location, do you know how many times I was forced to watch the 6-5, 15-40 game in the fifth set of the Nadal vs. Federer final in Rome? The pained smile on poor Tony Roche's face, growing wider with each, accumulating TMF forehand breakdown, is still hard-wired into my delicate bear brain. But, as they say, 'tis the season of forgiveness, and anyway - The drubbing Jet Boy took in Shanghai has taken a lot of my pain away. (“He is the greatest in the history, no*?”) So I can open my big bear heart and let bygones be bygones. Of course, a big fat donation in my name to UNICEF wouldn't hurt, guilty ones. Make the check out to R.F. Federbear, I'll make sure it gets to the right people.
- And the Winner Isn't. . . I got wind of this impending Sports Illustrated* Sportsman of the Year disaster ahead of time, and made my way to the Big Apple to play possum (so to speak) in SL Price's office as the SI staff hatched its wicked plot to sell magazines at TMF's expense. I already posted the entire transcript of this charade on the An Incomparable Six Weeks blog.
To summarize, TMF needs to look like Sharapova and win the Grand Slam, or he's toast. Let's face it, a nicely cripsed piece of multi-grain doesn't exactly make a big blip on the American sports radar. But here's the proverbial Pot ' Honey aspect of the story: You should see the gnashing of teeth and red faces around SI these days (and boy, is L. Jon Wertheim gloating!)! The guilt is overwhelming, so watch for Fed to make his debut on the cover of SI in 2007, kiddies. Special thanks to Pat don't insult my intelligence, guys! Mac (whose own namesake, John McEnroe, also famous in his own right, is of the same opinion). Pat can expect Fed-Ex (get it?) a deliver special edition Federbear to his home, for the courage he showed incalling out and taking jabs at those idiots on sports talk radio. Nothing at all against that Wade kid, mind you, but even Rafa would say this was the greatest robbery since Brinks, no?
There's much, much more to address--that hideous French Open debacle, The Jacket Flap, even Gonzo's seemingly innocent attempt to blind TMF by spraying champagne in his eyes (a diabolically clever plot, that). But going there would be to dimish TMF and the amazing year he had in 2006, perhaps even make it seem as if I have to justify him. Besides, much as my species likes fruits and berries, we have no taste at all for sour grapes.
Instead, Ill just say happy holidays, especially to the Rafa kids (let's be friends, ok)? In case you're wondering, I'll be safely hibernating through the season somewhere near the Swiss border, visions of a Grand Slammin' 07 dancing in my head - not mine, BTW, but the other Federer's. . .
- Federerbear
P.S. - Another GE please, and a side order of carpenter ants with a blueberry glaze. Put it on that nice fellow Tim's check!
Hi there. Pete here. Lots of interesting comments over the last few days, especially on the generational debate. I'll share some interesting stufff Brad Gilbert told me a few days ago in one of my upcoming posts, probably after the New Year. And we definitely will look at the great surface speed debate. I'll remind you again - get ready to tell your most humiliating, triumphant, mortifying, glorious, craven, archingly poetic alcohol consumption-related tale (IOW, drunk story, and it would be nice if all of those adjectives apply to the saga) for our special TW New Year's Eve celebration. It's my way of getting even with my least favorite holiday, on the grounds that it's Amateur Night. Oh. You know the difference between a drunk and an alcoholic? An alcoholic goes to meetings.
Speaking of which. I managed to pry the fingers of one of the Tribe's most intrepid correspondents off the Gringo Especiale he was holding, and onto a keyboard. Herewith, his special report:
Alright, the gears are starting to turn again, now that we're back in New York City girding up for Cowboy Luke's fourth and final Christmas freakout (he's not spoiled, honest!). This will take place tomorrow morning, when he wakes up to find an electric Lionel train set, complete with an engine that actually puffs smoke, doing laps of our suddenly very popular fake Christmas tree. The train set, BTW, is from Steggy. Gets socks and gives trains. The kind of girl she is.
