Sort of.
Is Roger Federer part of a Matrix-like artificial reality or is he flesh and blood?
During the final, I couldn’t help focusing on three things. The first was the button on Federer’s Nike shirt. Through more than four hours of punishing tennis, sun-baked by British standards, it remained buttoned up. I mean, come on!
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The second was the absence from Federer’s face of even a bead of sweat as droplets poured from Roddick’s forehead and slid from the underside of his endlessly adjusted cap — further evidence for The Matrix theory.
The third was the fact that Federer wore a belt — a belt — in his stylish shorts, as if he was ambling through a Calvin Klein ad rather than serving 50 nonchalant aces and putting on a record-breaking athletic display.
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So is Federer real, or is he in fact the computer-simulated perfect tennis player, a science fiction hero, his body heat drawn invisibly into energy creation, switching from slice to topspin backhand on the basis of some nerd’s formula no opponent can grasp or grapple with for long?
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Perhaps I’m over-suspicious, or undergoing a severe case of obsessive envy, but when Vavrinec gives birth in the next few weeks, I’d say there’s a case for the Association of Tennis Professionals ordering a quick examination of what flows in the baby’s veins.
And then of course, as a last resort, we can ask the masterful, charming and irresistible Federer to take the red pill and reveal all to the human world
You see, Raja is being written about in every which way. We've been talking a lot about his costumes. His personality. That's because he and Nike want us to talk about his costumes and personality. Otherwise, he wouldn't wear the buffoon's outfits Nike creates for him.
Speaking of his costumes:
Some find what they see sickening. Others insist it's all about the tennis. That discussions of skin and ornaments are petty and irrelevant.
Doesn't a man's personality inform his tennis? I can't talk about Raja's passive aggressive approach to tennis without talking about his personality.
Much a I'd prefer not to admit it in public, the shot that actually won Raja his sixth was that winning half-volley backhand flick crosscourt at 6-2 in the second-set tiebreak when he appeared to be wrong-footed and completely out of the point.
Nope. He stopped on a blade, displayed a hand-eye coordination more convincing in cartoon characters, and struck a flamboyant, flashy, stunning shot that some are wont to call nasty and sick. Without batting an eye. His opponent, lingering too long on such flamboyance and nausea, surrendered the next five points and Raja won a set a man with blood coursing trough his veins had no business winning.
The rest is history.
Cohen is not a sports writer. As I said before, Raja transcends tennis. He has his trophy back. His ranking back. The unapologetic self-adoration. It's almost like nothing has changed. Like Emperor Nadal, recovering from injury, didn't actually, temporarily, knock the Last King of Switzerland off his throne.
The Matrix theory.
Raja's not only being compared to other great athletes in other sports such as Tiger Woods and Michael Jordan, he's also being compared to a hero in a film that became a global phenomenon. To say nothing of our "lurkers", descending like wasps on maple syrup whenever Raja wins something and isn't properly praised, who've compared him to Michael Jackson and President Obama
Like him or not, Raja's a marvel. He's ruled by the sun. That giant star humans have worshiped throughout history. But when the sun's too hot, too intense, we wish it falls cover to a shelf of clouds.
After all, the sun can make us sick.
Perhaps if we (over) expose him, then maybe, just maybe, we'll stop looking at him so hard and he'll be compelled to return to the humbler champion his fanatics long to see, whether they admit it in public or not.
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