Reflections on Dumbass-ery

The mariachi with the giant acorn is Nicolas Almagro, Spanish tennis sensation, er, fifth fiddle to Nadal, Ferrer, Verdasco, and Robredo. Since 6:30am I've been staring at the live feed from Madrid--the Mutua Madrilena Masters--and gawking in disbelief as his opponent, Rafael Nadal, dumps the first set with a baffling 2/13 second service points, and then, in the second set, digs in his quick little feet for a dust-grinder.

I want to use this occasion to make three related points about acorns, tennis, and my own dumbass-itude. First, I never learn. Every time Nadal hits a winning streak, I churn my crush all over again like an ignorant, hero-worshipping child. As soon as he fumbles, as he must, I implode, spewing indignation at all sorts of irrelevance: kittens, Austrians, the Bible. Except that in this case, I can't, which brings me to my second point. Almagro is a total master of his game and a woefully underappreciated creative talent. He has a magnificent one-handed backhand, lithe and light movement, and a slingshot serve. He also played back-to-back five set matches with a broken wrist. He's a stud. I like him, a lot. So as Nadal receives at 5-2 in the third set, nearly stealing the match and accomplishing the improbable, if not implausible, feat of coming back from the gayest serving I've ever seen--or read in statistics as a live feed on my computer--you know what I mean--I find myself in an awkward position. I love Nadal and want him to win whatever the occasion. But I also respect and admire Almagro, and with this particular match, I feel conflicted (and by the way, Nadal just won 4-6 6-2 6-2; if he serves like this in the final tomorrow he'll get his ass chomped) that, on one hand, my guy will likely win, and that, on the other hand, he doesn't deserve to. Granted, there's much to be said for clutch play, for turning a Waterloo into a Peterloo, for hanging on, waiting, serving it up, Miltonesque. But there's also something to the contrary: coasting in on fumes may get you to the finish, but, man, that's no way to arrive. My third point is that, unless he's a squirrel, an acorn trophy is no proper tribute for a champion. So, in summary, unless Nadal gets his shit together to face Ferrer or Federer tomorrow afternoon in the final, he'll get creamed. Either of those guys will kick his ass. Also, I feel like a boy who realizes that his father is actually kind of stupid and that he may need another role model. Rafa means well but he can't be trusted. And finally, no acorn trophies.

Godawful repulsive ostentatious piece of shit acorn trophy: F
Me watching Nadal losing to Almagro: D-
Nadal defeating Almagro: C-
Almagro blowing a set-lead against Nadal: B

Playing back-to-back five set matches with a broken wrist: fuckin' O (that's an A that meets itself on the other side to form a perfect Pythagorean sphere).