An Ode to the Maestro
The last 14 months seem like a big cosmic joke that you've been playing on tennis lovers. The enormity of what you've been accomplishing is difficult to put in words. I'll give it a try.
When you first achieved the #1 ranking in 2004; Facebook, YouTube and Gmail didn't exist. Friends was still running on NBC. Arsenal was dominating the Premier League. Alexander Zverev was six.
A 36-year-old father of four isn't supposed to dominate a sport that is physically one of the most demanding.
He's supposed to bask in the glory of prior achievements and milk cows in the mountains of Switzerland.
We worshipped you for different reasons back then. While others grunted and flexed biceps, you glided on the court with the grace of a ballerina. You churned out ridiculous winners and then smiled at us. We fawned. You obliged.
This time though, it is a triumph of sheer doggedness. Of a maniacal work ethic. An epic saga of a man so consumed by his craft, that he is pushing the boundaries of a human body to explore uncharted territories.
The fact that you still make it look effortless makes you a freak.
Every dream ends with a rude awakening. Enchant us till then. Keep brushing magical forehand groundstrokes like a possessed Van Gogh painting a masterpiece.
Till then, we will keep acting like enraptured kids at a magic show.
An eternal fanboy
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