I know several readers out there are tired of tennis, but we are in the middle of Wimbledon. Either that or ESPN's boring sixty minutes of baseball.
The players I like are still alive, except for the dead ones.
Here is what Agnieszka Radwanska is thinking in her hotel room:
"How do I beat the russian bear?"
This is before she cleaned out that little refrigerator.
All I got from my interview was a hiccup.
Svetlana Kuznetsova, just another masculine woman whose unpronounceable name ends in "a." No amount of mascara is going to help her, and she knows it, which is why she is so dangerous.
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<--- Back to Agnieszka's inner thoughts:
"I don't think I can win. But I have my black dress all picked out for the champions dinner and dance with Roger.
I wonder if he'll propose.
Ten minutes with me and his longstanding girlfriend will be history.
Perhaps that's why I'm never invited over.
Don't tell me that girlfriend for fifteen years has that much of a hold on him.
Maybe I should try a different look, or wax one of the Williams sisters for emphasis.
First things first. If a Wimbledon 4th-round match were to fall in my favor against Ms. Testosterone, guys will emerge excitedly from the woodwork.
Then I'll have to decide which ones to disappoint.
If I win one more time, Mark might quit his infatuation with Kristin Chenoweth and Stevie Nicks, midwestern romances, and devote more time to my favorite sport, which is actually chess."
Stop thinking too much, Agnieszka. I've seen your legs and also your driver's license. The birth year is shockingly recent. You are very pretty, but that's not enough.
"Why?"
"Just, you know, grow into your twenties for starters."
"Fine."
"And what's with this Roger, Roger, Roger stuff? Don't you like middle aged rocket scientists?"
"I suppose they are fine as long as they last."
That's it:
Sob into a pillow. Get back to me in fifteen years. Relieve your father from that sawed-off shotgun.
Maybe better to remember your homeland's heritage of being invaded from the East ten thousand times.
Seek revenge.
Win something. Turn up on a Wheaties box. Try escalating from the top fifty to the top ten.
"Oh Mark, you just don't care about me as a person."
Yes I do, if you'll be so kind as to dismiss a Williams sister. That's all I request of any deity with the slightest sense of mercy.
"Fine."
Fine.
"Get mad now."
"I am."
<---- Ya know, she's really pretty good.
If this coolest chick from Krackow somehow manages to sneak in a victory and get to the quarterfinals, watch out for classic chokers, such as Elena Dementieva.
She will ruin your day every time.
Don't let me be the one to advise Poles to guard their backs, what with that stellar history in terms of not being surprise attacked.
I don't worry about Agnieszka's poise. Not afraid of Russian choke jobs.
Oh, did I mention russian puff cakes for choke jobs?
------->
I can't let a demeaning comment go when the lure floats in front of my nose.
Poor Elena Dementieva. I've never felt more sorry for anyone in my life. God bless her, she hits a great shot then double faults. Every time for ten thousand years.
Her misery, in the Greek archetype sense, persuaded me to develop a derivative of her name as a passport to a password for poor online investments.
It's sick because I like her, want her to do well, and I hate tennis and why do you keep bringing it up?
We return you now to your regular blog reading.
Because you don't need a sports inside reporter's claim on the state of the Women's Tennis Association, although I should get paid for the golden nuggets I hold under my mattress.
I refuse to close this post before uttering the hope that Agnieszka might americanize her name.
But that would turn her into an Aggie. I dunno. College Station, that white hat. Predisposition for always coming out on top.
As a University of Texas Alumni, I, and certainly my brother and sis-in-law, would find that unacceptable.
Back to Krakow, baby.
<--- Miss Radwanska has a pretty ball toss, and a little extension goes a long way.
Cool customer too. Composure can't really be taught. You either have it or turn into Joan Cusack, the controlled crazy.
If Agnieszka could simply mangle syllables into vowels, give a guy's jaw room to breathe, garner one or two big wins...
Stop being so hard on the eyes.
Not saying she looks like Maria or Ana, but THEY ARE BOTH OUT AREN'T THEY? Losers.
Ag's implacable coolness on court drives me crazy, as if we were not discussing how hard her name is to pronounce.
All kidding aside, the kid is cool under pressure.
Calmer than me screaming from my living room, "hit the backhand up the line and go to net!"
I know she's just brimming inside, desirous of a polka.
I tried to polka once.
I fell down.
You may say to me,
"Mark, Mark, Mark - she's a young Polish girl, applauding your Dennis Miller T-Shirt."
I say, I've always wanted to be a potato farmer, as long as the wife earns $500,000 per year and comes home every night.
