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
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