My Sam


They say group therapy is one of the most effective forms of getting over trauma. You’re supposed to shift your weight on uncomfortable plastic chairs, drink tea out of a styrofoam cup, and bare your soul to a group of strangers. In the absence of such a warm and inviting outlet, I thought it might be more appropriate if instead I snuggled up on my comfy chair, with my lovely Macbook in front of me, and poised my fingers for some blogging admissions that would serve the same purpose. I need therapy, peoples, and the PTSD is intense. Here’s why:

I didn’t see Sam.

Samantha Jane Stosur, one of the loves of my tennis-watching life and a woman I admire, respect and, dare I admit, love, was in my town for the last week and a bit. She practiced on tennis courts merely kilometres from my home, and showcased her lovely brand of tennis in an arena only a short train ride away.

I was stupid, I admit. Forgive me, friends, for I have sinned. I hoped too highly. I had grand plans. I counted my chickens before they were hatched, and for that I have been punished.

I did not go to see my Sam, and I see the error in my ways. I looked at her draw, peeked being the more accurate word. I thought she’d have no trouble, and I could save my pennies for the inevitable splurge on Rod Laver Arena tickets for another week.

It was those Australian schedulers! I cry. Damn them and their money-squeezing ways, placing our lovely girl on the big screen too often, in a part of a tournament I prefer to haunt the back courts instead. I thought she would wait for me, I really did. I thought our love would be enough, and she would know I was there waiting.

I only saw her back

I thought I would see her in the finals, I really did.

The only way I can gain any absolution is in the small comfort that I did see Sam playing a strange mix of exhibition tennis and RogeKim oneupmanship at Rally for Relief last week. For a few moments, at least, I saw my girl. But oh, the scent of the match, the sweat of the fight, the thrill of the battle: none of that was there. The support was not there. The shouts of “COME ON SAMMY” still remain in the back of my throat, unuttered. The loud roars, the “THAT’S THE WAY!!” lie still at the edge of my tongue. And there they will remain, until, who knows when?

I did not see my Sam on her Australian adventure.

And for that, I beg forgiveness.

Let the therapy begin.

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