It is said that Mithridates, the king of Pontus, was so afraid of the idea of being killed by someone in his court that he took small doses of poison every day. In doing so, when Mithridates attempted to kill himself, and ingested an entire flask, he failed, and was now immune to it. The term ‘Mitriditiszarsi’ was born, i.e. You get used to intense pain preventively through small and constant sorrows. And the’Homeopathy of feelingsInfinitely diffuse, often involuntary.
It will also be said that after 2,000 years of Mithridates, millions of people in the world, day after day, tweet after tweet, and news after interview, through small doses of harsh reality, have ingested the same poison. In small doses, in these three years, everyone has eaten the poison that heralded the end of Roger Federer’s tennis career, The Swiss tennis player’s athletic abandonment of a body tormented by surgeries, 1,500 tennis matches, 41 years of earthly life and four children pretending to play a seahorse with their father.
today, To look around you in this valley of tearsWe can say that Mithridates was just a legendary boaster.
No one had any illusions that Federer could return to being Federer. Many realized that the Swiss was no longer the player he used to be. And those who still believed it, looked at his last game, Al 6-0 Hurkacz gave it to him in the center court at Wimbledon, while one looks on in a bad dream Which makes it easy to escape. Those who still believed in her would have liked Federer to continue playing, with a hint of rudeness and polite indifference towards the person. Those who thought maybe they wanted the last win over Nadal or DjokovicAnd the dismounting Piece by piece on the field, lost a knee in a sprint, a back in a serve, and an elbow in the ball, until the remains, torn apart by infinite love, remained on the field.
Those who know what the years are, already knew that Roger Federer would not leave tennis with a trophy lift, as did Sampras who left tennis with his arms raised. Whoever was there will remember her. Sampras raised his cup, saluted, and everyone will forever remember him as the best, like Invictus. The last picture of the Great House was the triumph. Roger’s latest press release. Maybe an ultrasound.
That the grand finale was not to succeed him, it was discovered three years ago, when In the 2019 Wimbledon final, he went to 40-15 months in history. We will never stop talking about this meeting, which is why at least I stop talking about it. In fact The Grand Finals that Roger has lost the most, but it’s really hard to explain why. The poison we haven’t immunized is still in effect: it would have been better to expel it before writing, because my thoughts about what happens in the sport I love still seem muddled to me.
However, someone will remember giving Australian Open Dale 2006. Seventh slam at the farmhouse, final without much concern with Bagdati. Usual routine. However, at the award ceremony, a passion recited a speech that no one expected. Federer could not speak. He stuttered, and said things so confused that some mocked her. Then he screamed a little out of nowhere. Rod Laver Stadium was amazed at the winner’s tears and began to wonder if those slams, considered by many to be the least important of the four, were not hiding a secret. When Rod Laver gave him the trophy, Roger hugged him the way someone hugs you when you feel lonely, in front of 20,000 people. The scene was powerful enough to turn the public ceremony into the person’s story, in An intimate manifestation of the self.
I, who at the time limited myself to appreciating tennis player Roger, the elegant player in every shot physics allowed, at that precise moment crossed the mirror that led to Roger Federer as a person. I haven’t taken it out yet.
Since then, every Federer game I’ve been lucky enough to watch has ceased to be a sporting affair and has become a human investigation.. “How do you feel now that you have won? What do you think before you miss that shot? How do you feel when you play well, and how do you feel now that the other one plays better than him?”
I made mental notes as I watched him play. I affected with postmortem detail the character of the hero I wanted to be at the age of ten, when I, another, in his childhood room, waved his bat, beat everything and everyone, and took home the sordid heroics, made up of pale hopes and a May afternoon.
Once you cross the mirror, many considerations appear tacky and sterile.
He wrote, years ago, that Federer was a cool tennis player, because he suppressed his youthful anger, was turned into a robot, or worse, a frustrated person. It is not necessary to prove the opposite, which has always been there for all to see. It is useful to explain it This idea crept into those who could not admit that the person, whom we found fragile and emotional, would win much., in a robot way like Lendl or Borg. This idea was born from the minds of those who did not accept the natural state of unparalleled talent, from the minds of those who still do not accept today that there may be someone blessed by the gods at your side.
Just as we will forever debate about it being the absolute best, as if time in tennis is an objective unit of measurement. As if numbers could speak in a sport made up of infinite variables, surfaces that change, balls that get bigger, and are instead less objective than the eyes of the beholder and express his judgment.
Beside Today it was written, still fake, that Roger Federer had changed tennis. Watch our tennis today. And tell me what Federer would have changed him for, or tell me what, about that change he made, it still stands today and can be touched. Federer was the point of the compass that widened until it broke. Federer’s nails have preserved one era linked to another. The 24 year old bridge was the last noble land we were allowed to walk on before landing on uncharted land, where everything is the same. It’s impressive to think that Roger said goodbye a minute after ascending to the throne a 19-year-old claims to admire him, but who is just Prince of clones.
Forgive me, forgive me, Carlos AlcarazIt is the sin of poison that empties anger even on the innocent.
I asked him at a press conference in Paris if he knew that after him no one would play his shots. I was ashamed to ask him what I really meant, whether he understood that it was the latter. I wish he would shout in his mother tongue, “Comrades, I am the last! ” (Comrades! I am the last!), as did the last rebel detainee at Auschwitz before Primo Levi’s disappointment. Instead, he looked at me sternly, and replied that it was not true, that there would be new tennis players to follow, and that he would look upon the younger generations with interest. Then he turned away. The question, and perhaps even the answer, bothered him. “liarLiar, I thought, even now that I’m gone.
To cleanse us of any form of emotion, what’s the point of complaining that a wealthy Swiss athlete wouldn’t hit the rubber and felt ball with the goal of winning the championship? Why do you suffer from it? Why these days turn to secular May 5in secular mourning, all that reads “la faux”While our problems persist? Why does a sports passion for what is nothing but a game, whether directed toward a tennis player or toward a soccer team, spread to something like love?
Crossing the mirror that separates the public image of an athlete from the private image of a man he has never met is a personal journey. How awkward a hug could be for Rod Laver. How can you stop at 40-15 in the London final, and stop the engines to fly the glider, to better breathe the anxiety.
It is a journey that no one can explain, because no one can explain to us why we love something, why we are so different, why we love each other.
Maybe we do, and I hope someone finds himself in these words, because we all need something. Something we missed because we never had, or something we missed because we lost. Something old that a little cheap psychoanalysis would resurrect from our childhood, in those dreams of glory that never came true, the poisons of Mithridates on the contrary.
A friend wrote to me saying that when you read certain news, you feel older. It is just the opposite. These loops do just the opposite. They lift from the sand the silver threads hidden for years, stretch them, dust them off, and tie us to them when we were children. They revitalize the umbilical cords of epochs when the soul was imbued with dreams, and if one of these dreams fades, a ripple passes through time and makes children feel sad.
Sport is being a kid, when everything is competitive, when you are content to eat a plate of vegetables only because another kid has already done it, when in a hundred meters covered by your father, you can simulate at least six Olympic races.
Roger Federer, for those of us who loved him, was the avatar of our sporting dreams. Concrete representation, even if through a medium, our dreams come true. Now that this avatar is stored in the vault, and there is no longer a physical form that dreams of us, we find ourselves no longer able to do so. We feel lonely on the other side of the mirror and can’t bear to be stuck in it.
However, before you go out, it would be a good idea to still calm down from fading dreams. Before they become adults with no way out, before the silver thread is buried again, before Roger Federer disappears, I ask you, Roger, to throw this kid in the air, and then bring him back. Throw it, higher and higher, until you start to not see your arms, ad You get used to saying goodbye. Throw Roger at me again, for my gallop ride, and at last do it one last time, Dad, and then let me go.