My breakfast at Wimbledon
At 9am sharp the champagne was poured, the strawberries washed and sliced and I was ready for tradition. It was going to be great tennis, made epic. Andy Murray was the first Brit to make the Wimbledon final in a million years (not an exact figure) and if Roger Federer won he would regain his #1 ranking. So a lot was on the line.
Roger is probably the greatest tennis player of all time and he’s definitely my favorite:
*He never grunts (unlike his opponent Andy Murray who had several styles of grunting throughout the match, with the worst being a feminine orgasmic-like sigh.)
*He always looks perfect, as if he stepped out of a Tennis for Gentlemen magazine issue from the Gatsby era. (I made up that publication, please do not attempt to find it or correct me.)
*He’s totally confident about how amazing he is, except when he loses and then he cries and carries on in a way that endears him to me. Losing seems to shatter his ego and I always imagine him going home to the hotel where Mirka (his wife) takes him through Stuart Smalley-esque self-esteem exercises until he’s back to believing he’s awesome.
*And of course there’s his actual style of play which is so beautiful and graceful and innate…
Andy Murray showed up unshaven, hair askew, wearing what looked to be an old workout outfit. He fell down a lot, hit himself in the face when he screwed up, and generally had a bad attitude. He was easy to root against. Until he lost and let down his country and bawled into the microphone while trying to express his gratitude to those who believed in him along the way. And then I cried for him and with him and his lack of grooming was forgiven.
The crowd shots were entertaining too. Posh and Becks looked beautiful and very serious. The Middleton sisters were having a great time and were totally into it. Bringing out Federer’s twin daughters at the end of the match was delightful, especially the one that kept waving to the crowd. And I loved that the only fact the commentators could come up with about Andy Murray’s seemingly made of wax girlfriend was that she lives in his 7 million dollar mansion.
So now we head for the Olympics and I must switch my allegiance to the Americans. Sorry Roger, for the next month I’m Team Roddick. (But don’t worry, I’ll be back in plenty of time for the US Open.)