If it wasn't for rain, I could have watched Andy Roddick's final match in the comfort and safety of my own room. I could have maintained some dignity knowing that only the cat and my father would know just how many tears I shed.
But no. Instead it rained for most of Tuesday night and the final point was called this afternoon while I was running on the treadmill in the gym before my group exercise class. I made sure to tune one of the TVs there to ESPN2, and prepared myself for a run fueled by emotion rather than adrenaline.
It was Andy's last service game, and I imagined that I could ensure that he held serve by running with just a little more determination. It worked, but it was only to be followed by what everyone knew was almost certainly Andy's last professional game. I couldn't hear the crowd, and had only the best efforts of the closed captioner to relay the commentary to me, but I could feel what everyone in Arthur Ashe was feeling. I was right there with them. And when it was all over, I was just as distraught as Brooklyn in Andy's player's box. Only I didn't have any sunglasses to hide behind, and I was running on a treadmill in the middle of the gym.
It turns out that you can't really sob and run at the same time, while I was running it was like my body refusing to give into a complete bawling breakdown. That makes sense, you need your lungs to taking in air, after all. But the tears still came, and I must have looked more than a little ridiculous to anyone who happened to see me. But the gym is like a crowded train, most people tend to avoid actually looking at anyone else. That's what I tell myself, anyway.
Afterwards I took a moment to go ahead and be a big baby about it. You guys, this is Andy. This is Wimbledon, this is the Davis Cup, this is the US Open, this is 150 pounds. I needed a moment. And then I splashed some water on my face and went in for a little Fitness Fundamentals, where I was happily able to keep some sense of decorum as I lunged, lifted, and crunched.
So Andy goes out the last American man to win a grand slam, and I become the girl that cries when she runs...
Though I do not have any sports-related dedications like you do, this story is a great example of how much one can really love tennis and makes me almost get it.
ReplyDeleteThanks, even I'm amazed sometimes at how much a ball being hit between some painted lines can mean to me. But of course it's not about just the game, in sports it's all about the stories of the people who play it.
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