January 18, 2013
It’s getting to me. The pink is getting to me. I beat Nikolay handily last night, but all I keep hearing about is the fact that I’m wearing hot pink shoes and a polo with pink accents. Really, Nike? I realize they’re paying me, like, $438 million this year (and, let’s be honest, I wear the pink better than, say, Juan Martin or Jo-Willy would), but I think my feminine side has had its moment in the sun, thank you very much.
It’s the end of another off-day, and I’m doing my best to soak in the final moments of relaxation. Speaking of which, Eddie came in last night to water my Wimbledon grass garden. He overdid it just a touch, soaking the carpet of our Royal Deluxe Superstar Celebrity Luxury Penthouse Suite here in Melbourne. Poor guy. He’s been the best for so long, though I can’t help but wonder if he’s losing his touch. At his age, you start to wonder if his body can take it. I mean, this may really be his last year on the job, and then what? There’s a real shortage of young groundskeeping talent out there. Wait a minute…that sounds familiar…
But enough about that. Tomorrow I finally get to dismantle Bernard Tomic after hearing about his distasteful trashtalking for days now. I’m not quite sure where the kid is getting his confidence. Last I heard, Pat Rafter (hair envy!) was kicking him off the Aussie Davis Cup team. Try to see if people can pronounce your name correctly first, Bernie – then you can think about being the next GOAT. I mean, is it Tomick? Tomich? No idea.
People are saying he’s the most talented player to come out of Australia in at least 272 years, but surely that’s because there’s nothing else to talk about. The first week of a Grand Slam can just be such a snooze! They ask me the same questions over, and over, and over again. And if Pam Shriver tries to tell me about her glory days one more time…
Yes, I’m feeling a little testy today, and when that happens, I know it’s time to put down my hand-whittled, Swiss birch pencil, give my silky locks a good brush, slip on my slumber mask, and head off to lullaby land.
January 19, 2013
It’s another late-night post for me. The Tomic defeat is complete, as anticipated. He gave me a good run there in the second set, but by the time he reaches his potential, I predict I’ll be enjoying my retirement.
The good news is that the compression undershirt I was wearing tonight wasn’t as uncomfortable as I anticipated. Mirka suggested I give one a try. She thinks I’m looking a little soft in my midsection, and she figured that might tighten things up a bit. It’s depressing, really. Once I hit 30, my metabolism really took a turn for the worse. Then I have to watch Novak rip his shirt off every other tournament and, well, ugh. He’s not even that muscular. Right?
Milos is next. This one could be tough. Talk tomorrow.
January 20, 2013
I headed to the courts early today to get in a nice, easy hit. Vika was practicing on the court next to me. RedFool (SP?) was fist-pumping from the sidelines. Not sure if he knew he was just watching her practice. They kept looking at each other and sticking out their tongues. Is that what the kids are doing these days? So distracting.
After my workout, I spent some time in the players’ lounge before fulfilling some media obligations. It’s been quite a while since I’ve lingered amongst my peers (if you can call them that), and it was interesting to observe. Unfortunately for me, Serena and her coach/boyfriend were sitting within earshot. He was whispering sweet nothings to her in French (though I’m quite certain she had no idea what he was saying). Don’t these people know I can speak 7.5 languages? Some things you just can’t un-hear.
Janko was sitting in the corner reading Dostoevsky. Nole was on the other side of the room imitating him (not his best work). I think Marion Bartoli lost in the third round, but that didn’t stop her from shadowboxing in the middle of the room. She almost nailed Serena in the face with a right hook as she walked by. Pretty sure that would have ended with a ball shoved down Marion’s throat.
After my interviews, I spent the afternoon getting a massage and a microdermabrasion treatment. It’s amazing what it does for my pores. Curse you, HD TV!
As I write, I’m watching Stanislas try to take down Novak. I keep expecting him to gag, but I see I’ve taught my fellow Swiss well. During commercials, I’m reading to the Charlene and Myla. I know they’re up way past their bedtime, but they wanted to see Uncle Stan, or Shushu, as they say in Mandarin. They’re so clever, my girls. Four years, four languages.
Well, the match just ended. Poor Shushu Stan. I'm thinking he'll need a good cry after this one.
Ah, c’mon Novak. Shirtless again? Seriously?
To read Roger's previous entries, see here: http://www.tennisnow.com/News/Featured-News/Roger-Federer’s-Diary-A-Magical-Journey-Begins.aspx
Blair Henley is a tennis writer and a proud owner of a one-handed backhand. That, and her silky locks, are all she has in common with Roger Federer. Follow her on Twitter: @BlairHenley
(Photo Credit: Mark Peterson/Corleve)