The Redwood returns

Since January, the 2009 US Open champion and approximate wolfman Juan Martin del Potro, seen here enjoying Mr. Belvedere reruns in a Miami Motel 6, has been confined to bed and television, unable to play tennis or competently masturbate. During last year's fall indoor season, Del Potro seriously injured his right (dominant) wrist; after three months of tentative and erratic play, the South American withdrew from competition, electing to undergo surgery to become Argentina's first bionic sportsman. Preliminary news from Del Potro's trainer promises hope for the Argentine's millions of fans, but early reports also raise concerns about the athlete's new power to crush cars with his hand and his dwindling patience with "everybody." According to friends and family, the formerly shy, respectful young man now spends hours glaring at a crucifix on his grandmother's wall, muttering, "You were weak. I am strong." Witnesses to yesterday's downtown commotion agree with the family's portrait of Juan Martin as a changed, and suddenly unstable, man, adding, "We seen him turn green. He just bust outta his clothes. He got mad and, like, damn, it was on. He hulkin.'"

But seriously, without him tennis hasn't been the same this year, a strange thought considering that none of us knew who he was three years ago. The first we heard of this six-foot, seven-inch, mushmouthing, mumbling, fame-deferring class act was in the summer of 2008, when he quietly swept four consecutive tournaments, looking every bit the awkward hatchling. Now an entire sport finds him indispensable. There is no one like him on the tour. He hates talking. He walks with his head down, his shoulders slumped, his eyes almost closed. He has three people in his player's box. (Contrast that figure with, say, Federer, who fills his box with his dad, wife, kids, friends, agent, trainer, any passing Swiss, and even Gwen Stefani and her husband, whom he keeps on fuckin' retainer. No joke. They go everywhere with him now. They're his pets.) He cracks his forehand like a bullwhip--it actually may break the sound barrier--and he runs like a guy half his size, although he falls down like Andre the Giant. Finally, but loveliest, he looks like an emu.

(For one further contrast, consider these clips. In the first, Del Potro accidentally hits a ball kid in the eye; in the second, Federer, also accidentally, hits one in the testicles. Note their differing responses.)

Earlier this week, Del Potro's agent announced the Argentine's return to the practice courts, a substantial development suggesting that he may, perhaps, defend his title in four weeks at the US Open. I hope he does. For me, having watched Nadal climb from a career low in December back to number one with wins in Paris and Wimbledon, the most incredible and moving close to the year would be for Del Potro to reign once again in New York. He's a warm, beautiful kid who deserves a better wrist than God gave him. You hear that, unpronounceable Jewish name, or whatever you are? Come Christmas, You best Santa Claus that boy some new arm bones and a golden llama.

We love you, Juan Martin. Welcome back to a world smaller for your absence. I wrote a sonnet about you, but it's very sad. I'm sorry.

Slothrop: One does not write a sad sonnet about a lugubrious emu and then go up and not posting it. That's called being a cock-tease and Slothrop's cock has it plenty hard already. Thank you. Also, I bet Federer plays all his matches with a butt plug.

Koko: But it's an allegory; blech. And of course he does: "you gotta be ready."