king rog

On an overcast, rainy Sunday after a too-beautiful-for-words Fourth of July, there was simply nothing else to do but sit around the television and watch a four hour Wimbledon final.  Based on comments and phone calls from friends, we were not alone in this activity.

My husband, as you may know, has had a severe crush on Roger Federer for years now and almost had to retreat to the kitchen during the fifth set.  As Roger Cohen said in the New York Times today, “People develop Federer obsessions the way teenagers have crushes. They can’t get the guy out of their heads.”  And W. was grateful to Federer for winning on Sunday so that the GOAT talk can cease.  Now Fed is freed up to gain 20 pounds in sympathy weight for his poor preggo wife Mirka on whom the stress of watching that marathon match cannot possibly have been a good thing.

Cohen’s editorial in the NY Times, however, got to a point about Federer that has long troubled me.  If, as it was for Andre Agassi, image iseverything, what does mean for the likes of Federer?  He has perfected his image with his crisply tailored synthetic tennis shorts and his tendril of hair that gracefully falls over his headband without ever daring to obscure the Nike swoosh.  For Federer, this perfection of image mirrorshis elegant game or perhaps his beautiful game necessitated Federer refining his image.  For the rest of us schlubs, however, who are playing tennis in ratty old t-shirts, mismatched shorts, and college day ball caps, the take home message might just be that to elevate our games we need to first elevate our style.  Perhaps it’s time to pony up for Rog’s French Open shirt, conveniently on sale this week…

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