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!
