Not long ago, I characterized Roger Federer as a tragic figure. For one of our regulars, upon reading those words, the quarter dropped.
Just the other day, in the wake of smashing racquets, tossed water bottles, and delusional statements, another of our eloquent readers said the same thing.
Now, Savannah, in so many words, quoting Richard III and referencing MacBeth, says the same thing:
And then the walls came tumbling down. Handed a bagel at the 2008 French Open final. And the ultimate denouement, standing in royal attire while a guy with grass stains on his clothes held up the tennis equivalent of the Crown Jewels. Of course once the walls had crumbled the peons scrambled in each one taking their shot at the man who had been crowned king. Still the loyalists proclaimed that hard courts were sacrosanct, that no upstart could beat their god on them. When the guy in the sweat drenched tennis clothes exposed the king for all to see by outthinking and out playing him on the hard courts in the heat of a Melbourne summer there was no place left to hide. Could all of those people around him have been wrong? How could his status be taken from him by someone so unworthy? Isn't that what they had told him? Tears of anger and frustration couldn't be held back and flowed freely. "My horse, my horse, my kingdom for a horse."
(...)
I am truly sick and tired of reading the essays of those who created the FedGod who are now trying to tell him everything he needs to do in order to beat the upstart and regain his glory. They range in tone from maudlin to bathos. But even as they write these essays they're already looking for a white knight, someone more to their liking who can take the throne. And who is still by his side, as loyal as she was at the beginning? The same woman of whom it was, and is still being said, is akin to Lady Macbeth, another Shakespearian character.
Bathos. I love that word.
Yes, it's National Poetry Month after all. Shakespeare all over the place.
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