Saturday, July 16, 2016

So much talent, so little hunger

I was not surprised by the news that Victoria Azarenka is pregnant.  Somehow this fit right in with my impression of a woman who was just too dickmatized for her own good, ya know?  Of which pregnancy is (or seems to be) the natural result, no?

You ask how did I arrive at my impression that Azarenka was the type of woman to end up pregnant for a rando that barely anyone knew she was dating?  Well, it might have something to do with her decision to date that over-aged and under-talented clown who still calls himself Redfoo – during which period she seemed to morph herself into looking like a cast-member of ‘Love and Hip-hop’.

And then there was her cringingly terrible decision to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to her “good friend” Monfils at the 2014 US Open, even though she cannot carry a tune to save her life.  Not to mention her sad Twitter-flirting with Nick Kyrgios that seriously bordered on the desperate.  Just to name a few of the occasions when her decision-making seemed to come straight from her vagina.

Sunday, July 10, 2016

Why Kyrgios may remain an enfant terrible

I remind myself that most of us were idiots at 21, without a public stage or cameras following our every move.  So there is a part of me that has serious empathy for Nick Kyrgios.  But my empathy petered out during the recent Wimbledon match against Andy Murray.  All I could see was a stunted man-child at serious risk of never growing up, never maturing into anything other than an entitled twat, an enfant terrible. 

Over time, I have of course read sundry reports of Kyrgios yelling at his box, aggrieved over their lackluster support.  In this, ironically, he reminded me of early Murray, the one whom Mauresmo labeled as “complicated”.  But that Murray has straightened up now that Dad Lendl is back in the picture. And Dad seems clearly intolerant of whingeing.

I was confident that Kyrgios would lose to Murray.  So, during their match, I made a point of examining the behavior of the members of Kyrgios’ box.  What I witnessed was a group of apparent automatons, rising en masse, on cue, clapping whenever Kyrgios won a point.  The television cameras made a point of consistently cutting away to their reactions, which seemed lifeless, compulsive, orchestrated.  There seemed to be no heart in it.  There was plenty of energy, don’t get me wrong.  But heart seemed to be lacking.

And I found myself wondering what life must be like to be a member of the players’ box of this man-child, this enfant terrible.  What must it be like to have one of the best seats in tennis and yet likely not be able to truly and spontaneously enjoy a minute of it, your every moment fixated on the idiot on court as he demands that you react this way and respond that way, his moods shifting with the wind?