Tuesday, November 1, 2016

My Letter to Roger Federer

Disclaimer: I am writing this as myself and I do like Roger Federer, but I am NOT this crazy about him in any way. I am attempting to be funny and the huge majority of what follows is completely ficitonal. 



Dear Mr. Federer,

Let me start by saying that I have been a huge, huge fan of yours for many, many years and it is just so exciting to write this letter to you! I have been a tennis player my whole life, but when I started following you I became inspired me to work harder and train more often as well as become a better person, which I believe that I have and I owe it all to you. Whether on a court, in the gym or running through the cemetery in the middle of the night wearing a bear costume – it makes sense, but you’d have to be there – I am always thinking about tennis and of you, you wonderful man, you.

Now, please don’t get creeped out by this, because I am totally normal – exact words from my therapist, scout’s honour – but I have dedicated the past ten years of my life to you, all to you, trying to live my life how Roger would, which is tougher than it sounds from afar. Now, I know what you’re thinking, I have done my meticulous and thorough research, I am not a crazed lunatic who wants a lock of your hair – though I wouldn’t turn one down if you felt so inclined or were getting a haircut anyways and you don’t want to let all of that glorious hair just go to waste, do you? You do not need to alert the authorities, or if you must, at least order your favourite chicken salad off the lunch menu as you do need your protein, beforehand.

I remember the day I first watched you play, when your slim, yet muscular and positively gleaming Swiss body smoothly graced my television screen like a smooth, silky bar of wonderfully delicious Swiss chocolate. For a short moment I thought a bomb had gone off in my mind as I sat there, on the edge of my seat, watching you play like I was watching a god, until I realized that my roommate was loudly and abruptly pulsing ice in the blender while sitting right behind me, so he could observe me and take notes for science. He is always claiming to be a behavioural scientist, but I’m fairly sure he just makes smoothies at the mall. My mom claims he’s imaginary, so who knows.

If you came to my house, and I hope you do one day – a special seat at the dining table is yours as well as much orange juice from concentrate as you can drink – you’d see that my house is decked out in Roger gear! From my custom-made throw pillows in the shape of your racquet, to the Roger-themed museum housed in my garage, to the huge close-up photograph of your face that makes up an entire wall of my living room, you’d love my place. I often stand there, looking at the huge photo of your face for motivation, while swinging an imaginary tennis racquet wearing nothing but knee-high white tube socks and cut off jean shorts.

Each night before I go to sleep, I drink a cup of warm milk, check and re-check my list of people I must exact revenge on, and trim my toe nails, before dropping to my knees in front of my lamp that my girlfriend snidely, yet aptly, christened “Roger” before she angrily slammed the backdoor and left my life forever, and I pray that you will fully recover from your most recent injury and fight off your increasing age to once again take your rightful spot atop the tennis world. Those who say you are over-the-hill or too old or clearly a robot are so wrong and hateful and jealous and need to stop demanding that I forward her mail to her. 

You have provided me with years and years of joy! I just want to repay you in some way especially if it meant a larger tax return for yours truly. Each time you win and raise your toned and tanned arms, I feel like we have both won and that you couldn’t have persevered without my screaming “Go Fed” at the top of my lungs until my neighbour called the police to complain. Just being there, with you, as you stand with yet another trophy raised triumphantly above your head, a feeling of pride rises from deep within me. And when you look to the camera and smile, our eyes meet for a moment, and I know that smile is all for me, almost like we are sharing a private joke that the rest of the world just wishes they were in on, but they aren’t because they are losers, not like us. “Wonder twins activate”, I barely audibly whisper as my fingertips caress your face on the screen before some moronic commercial begins, taking you away from me once more.

As I sit alone in the darkness, or as I called it, Fridays, I clutch my gigantic Federer plush toy to my chest, I think of the amazing day when we will finally meet and I mutter to myself “you can do this” and “nothing and no one will stop me, this time” and “cut down on the air quotes while talking to yourself Tommy, people will think you are a tad strange.”

All the best Roger. I can’t wait to watch your return to form in the New Year.


Tommy

No comments:

Post a Comment