I wanted to write something about what I saw transpire in the men’s Wimbledon final yesterday but I’ve been having a tough time figuring out what to say. Posting a picture of Andy Roddick’s visage as he sat absorbing his loss after the 30th game of the 5th set (yes, 30th game; there are no 5th set tie-breakers in Wimbledon) would be the easiest way for me to capture the experience, I suppose. But I can’t find a picture of Andy sitting in the chair, dead racquet by his side, with that eerie, expressionless, pallid gaze trained on some unpresent object off in the distance across the court. I’m kind of glad, actually. Because like a car wreck you pass on the highway, no one needs to see that kind of thing again.
I’m being a little overly dramatic here, for sure, but there was something really tragic about the match. First off, I don’t think Roddick has much to gain from second places at Grands Slam at this point in his career. As in, this loss certainly has the potential to mess him up beyond repair as far as tennis is concerned. Like golf, Tennis has a massive mental component. And when you start looking at elite athletes in those sports, you see that history is littered with examples of players who were done in by, or never quite got over, that big loss. I hope this doesn’t prove to be the case for Roddick. Despite what some people think, he’s not a cocky d bag. In fact, from what I’ve seen, he’s a bit of the artist-tortured-soul version of a professional athlete. In interviews you get the sense that he’s always asking himself if the sacrifices he made for his career were worth it, and what does playing professional tennis mean, anyway.
My point is, I hope he doesn’t quit, and this loss wasn’t his Baumer moment. But I’m afraid it might have been.
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