The Sublime and the Ridiculous

September blows in with cool winds and dazzling sunlight, the skies awhirl with lazily spinning leaves. A perfect day fades into a long, still night wracked by feverish coughs and disjointed dreams. Wild thoughts bubble up, puncturing the surface of sanity. A cool hand soothes a hot brow and in the twilight zone of delirious reflections and drifting reveries, one phrase repeats itself: plainly mad, plainly mad, plainly mad….

That night – last night – is solely responsible for the post that follows. The message – traveling through the cool starry night, hurrying over a kitchen sink stacked with dirty dishes, tiptoeing past two children giggling over a late-night movie, zigzagging around a bedside table teetering with untidily stacked unread books and magazines, hovering over rumpled sheets and a lumpy pillow – entered a hot, aching head and played around with the febrile confusion within. To be distilled down to this: there has been a sad paucity of the plainly mad around these parts. Do something about it!

This really has nothing to do with South India. Because some things, and some people, transcend, and soar above, such mundane designations. Like the Taj Mahal and the Pyramids, the eradication of polio and small pox and the moon landings. Isaac Newton and Leonardo da Vinci and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Their achievements can be esteemed, cherished, glorified and admired with pride and awe the world over, no matter what one’s nationality, religion, gender or any other classification. So it is with one of the greatest sportsmen of all time, Roger Federer.

Enough has been said and written about the ballet-like grace of Federer’s shots, the impossible angles, the effortless no-sweat, no-grunt ease with which he plays, the freakishly beautiful, hallucinatory quality of so much of his game. So, no, I will not bore you with more of that. Instead, inspired by this poetry on the web, I searched deep. Delved into the depths of my hard drive, and dusted this off for your reading pleasure. And to restore the madness quotient of this blog.

Two of them were written oh, about ten years back, when Roger Federer and Juan Carlos Ferrero of Spain, were just emerging into the tennis limelight, being talked about as the game’s new faces, its future. Their names – Federer and Ferrero, with their Tweedledum and Tweedledee-like quality – captured my imagination right away, and inspired these two “poems” which can trumpet as their singular - and single - virtue a high level of madness. In the early years of their rivalry, Ferrero had the upper hand. Of course, he – and every other player who came along – was soon eclipsed by Federer and his achievements.

Dear Reader, consider yourself sufficiently warned. That this post was composed in the aftermath of a night of feverishly delirious dreams. That its aim is to restore the balance of the “plainly mad” to this blog. That I never have been, or will be, lauded for my poetic abilities.

Still want to read on? Really?

"Poem" 1: (Like There Once Was a Man named Michael Finnegan):

There once was a man named Roger Federer

He played tennis with JC Ferrerer

Lost the game because of errorers

Poor old Roger Federer!

 

There once was a man named Roger Federer

His volleys were as light as a featherer

On the court he was a terrorer

Good old Roger Federer!

 

There once was a man named Roger Federer

His tennis just got better and betterer

He practiced in all types of weatherer

Hip hip hurrah for Roger Federer!

 

There once was a man named Roger Federer

Played his best when the grass was greenerer

When he won his eyes got weterer

Good luck for Roger Federer

                    *  *  *

"Poem" 2: (Like Tweedledum and Tweedledee)

Federer and Ferrero

Agreed to have a battle,

For Federer said Ferrero

Had stolen all his cattle!

 

Just then came down a tennis ball

That Federer served so fast

It made poor Ferrero fall

And thus their battle did not last!

                    *  *  *

"Poem" 3:

From a tiny island on the Balearic

Comes a man who makes Roger Federer sick

Rafa is his name

He has gained much fame

As the man who made Roger lose

Choked on him like a deadly noose

 

On the red clay of Roland Garros

Rafa showed Roger who was boss

With his strong left arm

He did Roger lots of harm

Roger wanted to be tennis’s King

But Rafa taught him many a thing

 

Roger ruled on Wimbledon’s green grass

Over there, he was truly top of the class

But just last year

His innermost fear

Came true as the sun sank low

When Rafa dealt Roger his very worst blow

 

But rejoice all ye fans of Roger the Great

For it has been well worth the wait

Now Roger is truly the best

He has passed every test

With the highest number of grand slam wins

And now, the cutest pair of twins!

                    *  *  *

Be assured dear reader of this blog

That even when the author’s mind is in a fog

And she rants and croaks like a mad frog

That fairer times lie ahead

And one day when you get out bed

There will be better things for you to read

Of musical fact and historic deed

And you will no longer fear

To come here, reader dear!