Doesn’t mean I wasn’t shirty when I started my day at the tennis, feeling rotten from a hangover.
We watched Lukas Rosol (you know, dude who beat Nadal at Wimbledon in 2012 – I watched that match from a B&B in Oban, Scotland with a view out my window of the sun sinking into a grey, oceanic abyss, striking bright rays over fishing trawlers) get more and more wild both at himself and at the umpire. I sipped a pink bubbly treat out of a plastic flute, starting to feel the anger that I’d fucked up my morning recede. Maybe I was transmitting the morning-fuck-uppery to Rosol. He lost.
The day continued to improve; we saw some excellent serves, some outstanding returns. We were sitting in an amazingly good spot courtside at the southern end, feeling like we were going to wear some services in our faces and able to actually see the spin on the ball. The light faded; the day grew cold. That wasn’t part of the plan either, but I let it go.
|XAVIER MALISSE FROM BELGIUM AWAITING SERVICE. THIS PICTURE IS COMPLETELY SHITE BUT GIVES YOU AN IDEA OF HOW CLOSE WE WERE TO THE ACTION.|
I’m going to keep working on that skill. I need to let it go when things don’t pan out as I expect. You never know when it’s going to surprise you with being better than you expected. I’m not going to try to curb all my expectations; great joy sometimes arises from imaginary chart-plotting. But tempering my reactions is a good idea.
|AN UNEXPECTEDLY BEAUTIFUL NEW YEARS' DAY ON THE ISLAND. BETTER THAN I COULD HAVE DREAMED IT.|