There was a time when tennis was still the Tennis. A time when there were still Fognini, the cuttlefish, Bolelli and Starace, unspeakable talent blossomed and got only few decades later, a time (it is already the third time that I write, if you want to suggest a synonym can also answer below) in which every boy or girl had not spoiled for choice as to which standard to choose to identify with and cheer. About the coldness exciting Edberg, who cuffs Sweaty Lendl, who dresses the color of Agassi and who, coming to me, the elephantine elegance of psychopathy Bum Bum Becker. Years pass and 10 are long. Some samples are unknown, others have become writers, others have given to the commentary, the other crafts.
Everyone did a decent short order. Everyone, with few exceptions. Few exceptions including him, what's left of him. The blond-reddish (or red to blond) diving on any field, and lake place to pierce the opponent. The awkward elephant who could not stay away from the network and with a touch unthinkable. The impatient monological psychopath for hours on the sideline by himself looking for because of their dramas. The Brave against whom he had married a black girl in a country not exactly loving towards the unlike German. I sighed several times reading of his divorce, his children scattered like a Cristiano Ronaldo all, their suitcases on the bed for those long trips to the chilling commercials for poker tournaments (a bit like seeing Tyson advertise tournaments Trivial ). But the last straw that broke the pint of my discomfort was his image, swollen like a skin, sitting in quell'Ocktober fest did not think to drain the tenth liter of beer. A sad picture, I knew of more than a muted, more than 10 Grand Slams in a row to Nadal, more than "we are a very strong team" after losing two singular in two hours doing little more than 10 games, more than ever, as before I will love you, bum bum.
0 comments:
Post a Comment