Talkin' With Tewks: Greatness Defined

For the impetus of the inclusion of Miss Johansson in this article, click here.

There’s an excellent chance that this weekend will be witness to the coronation of tennis’ undisputed King, Roger Federer. After winning the French Open in May to complete the career Grand Slam, Federer is poised to capture his record 15th major championship Sunday morning at Wimbledon (I just may eat strawberries and cream off a young lady to commemorate the occasion).

I have always been a somewhat casual observer of tennis; I’d usually watch the finals of a major if I found myself in front of the TV but I would never describe myself as a fan. However, this year, knowing Roger was on the brink of history, I’ve begun watching tennis in earnest.

The guy is an absolute magician with a tennis racket. Every time he plays it’s like a master class on how to play perfect tennis. The grace, poise and breathless fluidity in his game is truly a joy to watch. I never had the chance to watch guys like Rod Laver and Bjorn Borg play but I find it hard to believe that they made the game of tennis look easier to play than Roger Federer.

What fascinates me most about Roger is that he is the epitome of serenity and calm during his matches; it doesn’t matter if he’s playing some qualifying scrub in the first round at Indian Wells or Rafael Nadal in a Grand Slam final. Most guys prance and preen around the court like peacocks, screaming at the top of their lungs, berating ball boys and generally engaging in prototypical douchebag behaviour. But not Roger; he is always in complete control of his emotions and just slowly breaks the will of his opponents by playing shots that other players would never dream of hitting.

To use a baseball comparison, I equate Roger Federer with someone like Roy Halladay. They are both surgeons in their fields and can beat you in so many ways. Federer can use power strokes to beat opponents; he can change speeds, hit corners and basically disrupt the flow of his opponents so they are unable to get into proper hitting positions. Which is exactly what Roy does every five days and what I do once a week.

Not only is Federer the most talented player in the world today, but he exhibits an aura of cool not seen since Martin and Sinatra terrorized the Las Vegas Strip in the 60s. Somehow he has the ability to look like he’s dressed for a formal event in his tennis gear. Federer’s streamlined tennis whites accentuated with gold trim looks exquisite and his hair is always coiffed to perfection (this is beginning to sound like Queer Eye for the Blog Guy). Plus I’ve never actually seen Roger break more than a light sweat; the guy is just a machine.

Contrast Federer’s style with the blue collar bashing of Spaniard Rafael Nadal. Rafa is just brute strength and unbelievable physical conditioning. There is no beauty in his game. Anyone who prefers watching Nadal over Federer probably also enjoys monster truck rallies, drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon and has a car on cinderblocks parked on their front lawn. Plus I can’t be a fan of a man who wears sleeveless t-shirts and Capri pants.

Now before you accuse me of blindly fawning over Roger like a 12 year old girl in love with the Jonas Brothers, there is one glaring problem I have with King Federer: the way he celebrates tournament victories.

Without fail, after winning championship point, Roger flops to the ground like he’s had a stroke and weeps effeminately. Come on RF; act like you’ve won before. You are the greatest tennis player in the world and a classy gentleman; let’s have a little discretion in your celebrations. A fist pump and a smile is all you need. Especially when you win in three sets; it’s not like outcome was ever in doubt. A couple classes at the Bobby Orr School of Celebration would catapult Federer onto the Mancrush list.

Also, his wife could be a little bit hotter. She’s a tad too frumpy for my liking and actually looks like she could beat Roger up.

But let’s be honest, nobody’s perfect. And Roger Federer on a tennis court is as close to perfection as humanly possible. Good luck on Sunday Roger. And here’s a quick prediction. Victory number fifteen will just be a quick stop on the road to 20 major championships and will give me stories to tell my grandkids one day.

Tewks is a frequent contributor to Gretzpo’s Sports Blog.

A Tribute: to the Greatest Sister in the World

Oh... so we're putting hot chicks' photos in our blog to try and boost readership? Allow me to kick off this post with a tribute to Margaret Thatcher: what? No one here finds power sexy?

I fear I may be suffering from a severe case of writer's block though: it all came to me in a dream I had recently:

I sit at my keyboard, just like I have dozens of times before. Armed with a University education and a flair for wit, I prepare to churn out another masterful column that will draw both praise and ire.

But something's wrong: the thoughts aren't coming to my head. I'm drawing a complete blank. I try and write a sentence about being unable to sexually satisfy a woman - not funny anymore. I write a sentence about Tewks and how he'll be living with his parents until he's 35: but it comes across as cruel and unfunny.

I can feel the bile rise from the top of my stomach into my esophagus: I feel like I did when I read that excerpt from Tewks' book: like I'm going to throw up.

I wake up in a cold sweat and realize it was all just a dream: if I was truly suffering from writer's block I could just take another 4 month hiatus from updating this site.

So what's going on in Gretzpo's world? My sister (and only sibling) is getting married on Saturday.

My sis is a cool chick: when I lived in Budapest for a year she came to visit me and we travelled together. She's more than a sister to me, she's my best friend. (Aw...)

When I was 16 she brought me out to her university town, and got me absolutely hammered for the first time in my life. She even stuck up for me when people were smoking in her apartment and I had to go to bed because I was having an asthma attack (I've gotten cooler). She even paid for the bottle of Febreeze we had to use on the futon I slept on because I threw up all over it.

So... here's to my sister and her awesome fiancee... may your adventures be numerous, and your happiness be boundless.