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It’s official.
This year’s French Open is not about Roger Federer. Was it ever? Except for that little aberration in 2009, with Rafa missing.
It’s centres on that Serbian upstart Novak Djokovic and that muscled monster, Rafael Nadal.
Who’s Roger, indeed?
So quickly, so easily are 16 Slams relegated to the dustbin. Past glory counts for nothing, it’s form that makes the tournament finals.
Roger, there’s no one else to blame but you. Oh well, maybe, Father Time.
The way commentators have been signing off on epitaphs to Federer’s tennis career, we might as well hand them spades instead of microphones.
The pit’s dug. Fed, won’t you do the honours?
Should the media press “Age before beauty”, can the great retort “Pearls before swine”?
In the women’s draw, it’s “Will they or won’t they?”
Serena and Venus Williams. No, they won’t play.
Kim Clijsters? Yes, she will.
Point to be noted, wedding dance floors are hazardous to players’ health. It can curtail your on-court activities.
Caroline Wozniacki can run around the court all-day. She can be No.1 for as long as she likes. But if she gets no Slam satisfaction, you know who’s gonna be humming the blues.
What can Caroline do or say when Maria Sharapova suddenly wakes up and says, “Come clay or clay water, I’m playing to win.”
The plot gets even deeper.
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Victoria Azarenka lurks around the corner. Samantha Stosur has a point to prove. Francesca Schiavone feels she’s not a single Slam wonder.
Julia Goerges? The new German Fraulein?
And finally there’s that dancing Andrea Petkovic.
The list goes on.
The French are throwing a party, guys and gals. Come as you are.
Quote of the day:
Most people ignore most poetry / because / most poetry ignores most people. – Adrian Mitchell
Make Time For Sports. 
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