Dear Roger,
There was a time when I could enjoy your ghost-like float across the soft lawns. I’d be with you every step, relishing in your elegant glide as you sped atop the grassy blades on your way to an explosion of power and feel. Your grace made me feel exalted, as though I could rise above my current state and join you in your higher world. I remember those balletic strides you took from the baseline to the net, the balance and flow of your sprint to the sidelines, the explosive reduction of your opponent’s time as you stepped up to the short ball.
In my dreams, I relive your glorified gait to the trophy presentation, the three steps to grandeur as you stride up to shake Laver’s and Borg’s and Sampras’ hands. Roger, I even remember the unseemly blisters that accompany such elegance, the stench of sweat that no one witnessed, the subtle slips and re-captured balance that your average viewer would never catch.
Not me, Roger, I have been with you on every journey, through every tournament quest, and in each quarterfinal. And now….now they betray both of us. They make you remove me from your life, and in so doing, they remove you from your dignified place in history. It is ok, my lord. Come back and redeem your magic – I am sitting in your locker, awaiting our redemption at the US OPEN.
Your humble servant,
Your shoes.
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