Fed Express: rolling, roiling and rockin' the bops

Photo by terrance gavan / photo save from corrupt

memory card courtesty of John Ehinger. Good Save.

By my buddy John the Gump Ehinger. Worsley not Forrest.

Terrance Gavan
The neighbors car got stole last night; we never paid them any mind.
And Mary says she's gonna lock the door; from now on when we go away.
I've been walking around this farm; wondering if it's time...
Time to get a gun.
Who's gotta' gun?
Well Fred Eaglesmith for one.
But Roger Federer got a gun - too.
Loaded, lethal and lovely.
The pundits are beginning to wonder.
if Rodge the Dodge has past “it.”
It - being his prime.
Writers, pundits and sports' bible belters are idiots. Of course.

Very few have studied the game.
Most indulge their tennis crush at venues like Roland Garros, Wimbledon and Blushing Meadows.
They sightsee, catch a few of the notables, run up their per diem and never mix with the plebes.
Their schtick revolves around the ersatz world of a diddled mindset. They cover the top seeds; watch the matches; make pronouncements.
They actually had the Williams’ sisters written off about five years ago.
How’d that work out?
Federer in denouement?
Bull. Shit. And gravy.
Roger Federer did not look past it last Saturday at the Rogers Cup.
He recovered spectacularly from one set down and rallied mightily in the second and third sets against the prepossessing Novak Djokovic, who was actually on the verge of victory at some very key moments in the match.
It looked for a moment in the third and deciding set that we’d be stuck with an Andy Murray and Djokovic final on Sunday.
But from deep within the depths of that bottomless well of Swiss fortitude the Fed pulled more magic from racket.
He is for want of a better word – enigma.
He's 29.
Which says something about the vagaries of sports today.
Laver and Newcombe, Tilden, Billie Jean and Martina would smile - a bemused smile mind.
Especially Ms King and Navratilova - ancient mariners, purveyors of maxims on age that defy the common trend.
Writers - pugged purveyors of noodled logic - simply lean on the miasma of statistics.
They manage their daily dipsy-doodle mired in the million tiny details lying in some internet vault.
They mash a few impressive looking numbers from past acts. Gently massage the demographics, the lower age of world class players and the oncoming freight train of 20-somethin’ talent on the circuit.
Behemoths all these young new players.
They tree top out around 6’ 6” and they remain fearless of the new technology; they literally pop the fluff off the yellow fuzzed missiles.
And young – so young.
The Fed Express may be ancient.
He may be showing some wear and tear.
This sport takes its toll on the psyche and the soul.
Swiss soul took over on Friday as Federer literally pulled beauty from the depth of that inner wellspring – a wellspring of reserve, of power and of will.
He came back, watching for telltale signs of some chinks in the Djokovic armor.
It came in the third when Novak uttered epithet and smashed his racket into mush on the hard court of the Rogers Centre grandstand.
The de rigueur warning for racket abuse delivered; it was then up to Rodge the Dodge to clean up the mess and dispatch the young Serb.
Which he did with aplomb and a statement.
The statement?
The same statement uttered by Steve McQueen in Papillon as he floated off Devil’s Island with Dustin Hoffman watching from the cliffs above.
“I’m still here – you bastards.”
(Murray Fed match coming soon – I’m off to play some tennis at the Beaches here in Toronto.)