Those of you who follow us on Twitter–wait, what do you mean you don’t, what the heck are you waiting for? Get over to @TennisInsideOut right now!! Well, you may have seen me constantly trying to disabuse my friend Daniel of this crazy notion he has that his own Irish accent is somehow less melodious than everyone else in the known universe believes it to be. I even went so far as to threaten a recording of me reading “Federer as Religious Experience,” so he could hear what a nasal Midwestern United States voice sounds like, and thus help him to realize the beauty of that Irish lilt by stark comparison.
It started as a joke, but this blog is full of jokes, so what could be better? If you want someone to hear your voice, you might as well go as grand as possible, and nothing could be more grand than David Foster Wallace’s worshipful ode to Roger Federer. Some people in the tennis world tend to snicker over this well-known piece of verbose, heady adulation, but I am not afraid to embrace it. After all, every writer has been guilty of literary excess, of lavishing a beloved idea or muse with a torrent of glorious, poetic language, a sense of wonder, and a rejoicing over what we feel is our superior intellect. Like Gael Monfils scissor-kicking his way through the stratosphere, sometimes we add all that flourish not because it’s necessary, but because we damn well enjoy it.
So, here it is, an excerpt from “Federer as Religious Experience.” (You can find the full text here at the New York Times.) You can embrace the sentiment, smile with bemusement at the overblown grandiosity of it all, or point and laugh at my bad American pronunciations and poor audio production skills. But most importantly…there are pretty pictures:
(If the video won’t load for you, go directly to YouTube to watch it.)
You may also enjoy: How to Spot a True Federer Fan
PHOTOS: Roger Federer at the Western & Southern Open in Cincinnati, c2012, 2011 Valerie David.