Infirmary Update: Miss You

May 3, 2010

Once upon a time, when man was first created, G-d gave them bodies, and fingers, and toes, and arms, and legs. The bones were covered in skin, and muscles, and sinews, and all kinds of other important things that helped man do what he does best.

But there was a rule to having bones, and skin, and sinews, and muscles and other stuff. That rule was that you needed to look after this body of yours, and if you wore it out too much – it would start to break.

Your muscles could tear, your bones could break, your skin could blister and bruise, and worst of all, if you used them too much, your tendons could seize up and give you that dread itis.

Which was all well and good if you were a farmer and needed to look after your land, cos the nice man next door might hop over and take over. Or if you were a hunter gatherer, because you could stay home in your cave and get tended too by the ladies while your next door neanderthal brought home the beef.

But if you were the champion javelin thrower, or gladiator, or fencer, you were in a spot of bother, because it meant time off your beloved sport, and thousands of disappointed fans who’d fill the ampitheatre only to discover it was that second rate dude again instead of the drawcard.

And so it is in that modern game we like to call tennis. With an increasingly harsh and demanding season, the complaints against which grow stronger every day, we’re losing our best men, and the fans are crying out in frustration. You heard the guys like Andy Roddick and Rafa whinge about it in nearly every presser, and rightfully so – and you hear the good folks of the tennis loving universe moan in frustration over the buzz of the Twitterverse.

Bring us back our men, we shout! Let them fight the good fight, and prevail! Heal their aching wounds and repair their damaged flesh. Let them once again take to the courts of Gay Paris, or Olde England, or even just Grandma’s crappy overgrown grass court out the backyard. Let them play, let them show us the love, because for heaven’s sakes we miss them.

There’s my boy Juan Martin. Update from @TennisReporters today is that he may need wrist surgery and could be suffering panic attacks.



(Pics copyright by @mooshime, Aami Classic 2010)

Lovely Tommy, who took the time to get engaged, get naturalised, but not to get that new hip working the way it should.

My favourite Russian, who endeared us with his adorable pressers and then left us hanging. Guess Irina’s happy he’s around more.

Tiny pic, but that’s how he looked the last time I saw him. Losing 12 games in a row to Fed. In full chokage mode at the time. Dude, I don’t care if you keep choking, just come back to me!

Oh and honorable mention to Dima. Fix your feet, defend Eastbourne and try to stick around the top, say, 500? Otherwise professional cocktail making and DJing might be your bread and better.


Nole: It Must Be Love

April 14, 2010

Those of you who have been with me from the start may recall that my sisters, M & LP, are my premier tennis partners and in fact the original tennis fans of this family. They may not contribute to this blog physically, but they are influential in the tennis outcomes of this family, and the Nole Love is no exception.

LP will tell you the story of Nole hugging her but that is for a different day and time. This is about Kooyong, and a Day in the Life of Stalking Nole.

First of all, all Non-Nole Pics have been condensed into here

It started at his match, where we lined up to watch him walk in with Tommy. I was desperate for Tommy’s attention – LP was all over Nole.

He played Tommy, and then the stalkerage attempts began.

Signing her tennis ball did not suffice. LP was on a mission, and she found the perfect partner to join her.

After following Nole back to the clubhouse, he was discovered to be pumping those muscles in the gym upstairs. Note the one way glass up on the first floor? He was there all right, because a crowd soon gathered and the Djoker had a grand old time waving at his fans in a queenly fashion. (This was the grass of Kooyong of course, it totally fit.) Most people gave up after a few minutes (I did after a few seconds – Fernando was on court, I have my priorities) but LP and Miss Novak persevered. They even made the lovely signs you see above.

So it didn’t take long for the below video to happen. Yes, we are the girls yelling. And our accents are Aussie. And Nole, totally, loved us.

MVI_6861

As expected.

For more Nole pics, try this


Day 4… still no pics. If you read on, I’m impressed.

January 25, 2010

Day 4

I think it’s now become clear to all of you that I can’t stay away from the Aussie Open for too long. On Day 4, I’d decided to be a good grown up and head back to the day job.

That’s until the lovely folks at Betfair offered to send me to the tennis – again – if I tweeted for them. Being that tweeting to me is breathing, it wasn’t hard to make a decision.

This time, I was front and centre on all the action – Corporate gold tickets, four rows from the front on centre court, not far from the baseline. I had lovely views of Nole, Lleyton and Carlos Ramos. It doesn’t get much better than that!

Coming in to RLA was bizarre, it gave me that feeling I usually get halfway through week 2- and only on day 4. It’s that “get me a sleeping bag and find me a tent, I’m moving in kids” feeling. Seriously. Sometimes I go to Melbourne Park during the year for a concert or show and feel like I’m  home again. This time, I had been away less than 10 hours – from 2.30 am after Tomic match, to 11am in time for Novak.

Novak’s been waltzing around quietly for most of week 1, and that day was no exception. He lost it a little in the first set but then kept on waltzing. Or like, hip hop waltzing. I think he liked my Ajde Nole, but the corporates around me thought I was clinical. Do they not speak Serbian?

Chiudinelli has some really vocal supporters right across the way from me. They look like Team Roger with a name change, all red and white like inside out nurses. They’re singing “Q Dinelli” really loudly, which is good, because otherwise I’d have no idea how to pronounce the dude’s name.

I have the best seats in the house –  technically – but the scoreboard is really hard to see. I keep getting them wrong. I think it’s break point, but really we’re right on serve. How embarrassing.

Can’t figure out who’s in the chair. Is it my good mate Enric? I think I’m the only tennis fan who looks out to see who’s in the chair at matches, and a good ump means a good match. Please tell me I’m wrong. I’ll feel much less like a loser.

I’m checking on my phone and I can see Baghdaddy isn’t doing so well against Ferrer. This is not good. However, I’m in Rod Laver on amazing tickets, so I’m not making a sprint to Hiisense to see it. Even though there is nothing like a Hellas fan club chant to make your day.

Aussie Ana’s on Margaret Court Arena, and the shrieks are getting louder. The MCA crowd know how to party, and partying they are. A little check on my phone Scoreboard tells me it’s more like suicidal howls. Then again they may be Gisele fans, which could explain the cheering.

Novak’s finishing up the match but first goes for an “equipment” change. Yes, that means his shoes. Now, I worked in footwear for nearly five years, and last time I checked footwear would go in the “apparel” category. So please, next time, I expect to hear “apparel change”. Thanks, Tennis World. I knew you’d listen.

Novak’s about to  finish off the match, but he decides to take a pisstake at Hawkeye. Classy. I love it.

He clinches the match and it’s time for Aussie favourite Sammy. Now I followed Sammy through many a witching hour through her golden run in Roland Garros, but now that she’s on home soil she’s lost her allure somewhat. At Hit for Haiti, there we had all these glitzy and glamorous tennis players bantering and hitting with the best of the best, and Sammy was like the little lost girl on the edges. Doesn’t mean she isn’t fabulous, but I’m all for cheap thrills and she don’t give ‘em to me. So I bailed, and went to find the Hellas who were sure to give me a good show.

And I did. Now the rules at Melbourne Park mean that Hiisense is available with a  $20 upgrade from a ground pass – but no rules regarding Rod Laver tix. Turns out nothing would help as Hiisense was sold out. So what did this resourceful lady do? Swap tickets with a stranger of course!

All the ladies and gentlemen are sitting outside the food court, watching the match on TV. I start with a general public service announcement: “Is anyone not planning on going bck in to this match?” No answer.

I try again. “If you’re not going back into this match, I’d love to see it. I have tickets to Rod Laver Arena.” I know the Williams girls are both up in the next two matches, and most ticket holders for the day are after Venus and Serena. Not Baghdaddy and Ferrer grunting like old men.

One lady looks up. I start my sales pitch again. I kind of leave out I have RLA tix. She hears me and buzzes. “What if I want to go see Stosur on RLA?” I relent. She looks nice. I haven’t got my phone on me – it’s dead, and charging in the betfair tent. But she looks lovely, and I’m a trustworthy Australian. So we swap tickets and I go on my merry way.

Of course, the Hellas don’t disappoint. I go home that evening with “We just had a barbecue, nowe, nowe” in my head – and for those of you who know the greek words, please don’t ruin it for us – M and L have made up their own lyrics and they’re quite passable in a crowd.

Baghdaddy’s match finishes and I race back to RLA to catch L L L Lleyton. I’ve had a love hate relationship with the man for as long as I can’t remember. He was our golden hope but he was also annoying as hell. He got us in the papers overseas, but for all the wrong reasons. Then he married a soapie star and that just made him all the more irksome. But now he’s playing good tennis, so we like him again. Aah, I’ll never decide.

But the green and gold boys were out in full force, having cheered Sammy to her previous win, and they were gunning for Lleyton. The two rows of USA cheer squad in the house had not a chance. Their cheers reminded me of being in overnight camp. “What’s his name? Donald Young. Where’s he from? USA.” Puh-leeze! Oh, and the “boom boom, dynamite.” That’s straight out of year seven bunk competition.

After Lleyton cleaned up nicely, with a lot of loud COME ON’s making me feel like it was back in 1999, I wanted to head to MCA because beautiful Tommy was battling it out with Tipsy and I really love Tommy. I loved him since Lleyton made him cry, and if anyone knows which match I’m referring to please remind me? It would have been circa 1997-8 methinks. Tommy still won, but Lleyton made him cry. Good times.

Tommy was at Kooyong and I did try to do my stalkery “Tommy! Hi Tommy!” before he went on, but he was too nervous eyeing off Novak against the Channel 7 men. Then he went into his freaking out, talking to himself between points – of which the only word I could understand was a rude German word which shall not be repeated on this blog. I was unimpressed with his language, but agreed entirely with every word – Tommy Tommy Tommy!

Turns out the match was fraught with nervous tension but of course the MCA queues didn’t budget and I didn’t make it in until afterward. Oh wait, except for the two tweens who emerged right at match point. In their little shorts and Australian flag singlets with little handbags perched on their bums, they were all excited for their day at “The Tennis”. But they LEFT the court at MATCH POINT after an epic FIVE SETTER between TOMMY and TIPSY and as such, they should have their tennis watching license revoked from them. They deserve no such privilege.

It was Fenja’s turn on MCA next, but at this stage the exhaustion had set in. For some reason, living in the same timezone as a grand slam is more exhausting – for more details, see previous post. So I watched Fenja play nicely, and I made friends with a lovely Danish/Spanish gentleman sitting next to me. Then I spent a few moments in Hiisense to watch Jo Willie, pushing past all his tween fans but not making it in time for an autograph. Then I figured out what the irritating helicopter had been hovering over MCA – Prince Bloody William!

Turns out all my clever match chasing had let me head to the opposite end of the complex right when the Prince headed to RLA. But who am I kidding, I was still in a 500m radius, so I get something for it right?


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