What's up, dawg? I caught your gold medal doubles performance in Beijing the other day and just want to say, wa-a-a-a-aaaay to go! When I saw you up on that medal podium, rockin' the red-and-white Swiss team warm-ups with a gold medallion worthy of Mr. T (don't even think about the mohawk, dude, it's just not you), I thought once again: It's all good, bro'!
I know you're dealing with some "issues" these days, and who am I to butt in - the world needs another Roger Federer armchair analyst like I need a hole in the head, right? Hey, I'm a blogger, not a tennis coach. I just sit around all day in my pajamas, pontificating on this, that, and the other, ogling Getty images of hotties like Elena Dementieva and Venus Williams when I'm not going on about the farm in game-rich Andes, or my kid, Cowboy Luke. But then I had this flash. You and I have a lot in common, Rog, even though it may not be obvious to everyone. Your pajamas might be silk while mine are flannel with coffee stains, but blogging and trying to be the greatest tennis player in tennis history are similar undertakings. Who woulda thunk it?
Let's face it, a journalist of any kind is someone who wants to have his voice heard above those of his fellow citizens, even if he's got nothing particularly interesting or thoughtful to say. And a tennis player aspiring to greatness wants to beat the pants off all comers, all the time, and for what - just for the hail of it, that's what! See what I mean? We're loose cannons, you and I. We want to dominate the conversation. Nature of the beast.
And think about this: a lot of people, especially in the mainstream media, think that bloggers are just "pretend" journalists, with zero credibility and very little of substance to add to public discourse. Let me remind you that some people also think tennis players are pretend athletes, otherwise known as "weenies." Of course, you don't help your own cause by prancing around in that cardigan, and Rafael Nadal - what's up with that "newest member of the Village People" look? . . . Let's face it - in Roger's world, just like in TennisWorld, perception IS reality.
All in all, Rog, this is a good time for you to think a little. . . out of the box. Hey, if John Newcombe could go to a faith healer in Manila to get help for his bum shoulder, if Andre Agassi felt okay about turning to track star Michael Johnson and his coach, if Marat Safin could seek counsel from Dr. Ruth Westheimer (or am I wrong about that?) why shouldn't you be allowed to take advice from a blogger - especially one who's job is a lot more like yours than you probably ever realized.
My first piece of advice is simple - ignore those haters! That job starts with ignoring journalists, who's job consists of two parts. Part A is building people up as if they were the greatest thing since Luxilon. Part B is tearing them down, as if they were the worst thing since Billy Carter. When it comes to heralding the new or ushering out the old, they collectively suffer from an embarrassing condition known as premature articulation.
Then there are the fanboy and fangirl haters. Let me tell you a little story about them. The other day, I wrote a post about those lame "slant eye" photos of the Spanish basketball and Fed Cup teams (Argentina's female soccer players got in on that action, too; not having won a single game, they had a lot of time on their hands). Almost within minutes, the haters came out of the woodwork. I accuse the Spanish players of taking part in an ill-advised, sophomoric photo-op - goaded by advertising execs, no less - and the next thing you know, people are firing off lists of the horrible crimes visited upon the world by the United States, covering everyone from native Americans to Gitmo. Did I get all worked up and fire back a list of noble US achievements, or point out that there would be no such thing as clueless advertising execs were it not for America's Madison Avenue?
Nah. I just sat back, did a few deep breathing exercises, and asked myself, What would Cervantes do?
Okay. Right now, you've come up short at a couple of big events, and a few big singles matches. Rafael Nadal has squeaked by you in the singles rankings, to take away your no. 1 ranking. My feeling? It took him long enough, now can we please just move on the the really important stuff - winning majors? And hey, it's not like you're off the radar and contemplating a furious late-season charge in hopes of catching Nikolay Davydenko in the year-end rankings, right?
Then there's the other subset, the fans who think they're in touch with their inner Brad Gilbert. You know the ones I mean - the geniuses who say your forehand isn't what it used to be; that you can't handle the high kicker to the backhand, that you don't have the legs to run with Rafa all day. Dude, they're just effin' with your head, you realize that, don't you? At TennisWorld, we call those kinds of haters "trolls." Granted, some of your most loyal fans are running around like Chicken Little, and the anti-cardigan crowd is saying you're finished. Cooked. It's Rafa's planet now, you're just renting space. That's got to be galling, I know. But my advice to you? Sit back, do a few deep breathing exercises, and ask yourself: What would Pete Sampras do?
Here's another point of similarity. I've learned blogging that you're only as good as your last post. Substitute "post" for "match" and bingo - you're in Pete's world! A couple of times, I've written a post and been hailed as the greatest thing since Seatguru.com. After my next post, the same brain surgeon jumps on to write that I'm the most embarrassing thing to happen to tennis since Linda Siegal - you remember Linda, right, the girl whose boob fell out of her dress during a match at Wimbledon?
You know what? In tennis, like in blogging, you live to fight another day. It doesn't matter if you're wearing coffee-stained PJs, or racy black shorts with satin stripes down the side. Every day is a new beginning. You go out there in the next few weeks and kick some buttski and take a few names and bingo - you're right back on top of the world. So what if you're not no. 1 anymore? Ivan Lendl was no. 1 for more years than I can remember, and who would you rather be, Ivan Lendl or that other guy who often found himself at no. 2, Andre Agassi? No contest, right? And look, I'm not sitting around wishing I were Arianna Huffington, either.
Here's another thing I've learned that might be useful to you: learn from your mistakes and move on. Do I need to tell you how often I've misspelled the name Mark Phillipoussis (it's just one "P" in the middle, isn't it?), but did that stop me writing about the scud muffin? No way. Sometimes, I've had an editor go over some of the stuff I wrote, looking for those mistakes that slip by because I've stared at the page too long. It helps. Trust me on that. In your field, an "editor" is usually called a "coach". He can see things that you don't anymore. He can get you to simplify and focus. And a coach can tell you something that not too many editors have told me right before I sat down to write a post: Hey, just go out there and remember that you're Roger Federer and he's not. Impose yourself! You'll be surprised at how much difference it can make, and let's face it, interesting a girl as that Mirka is, do you really need to sit across the dinner table from her every freakin' night?
And lastly, Rog, let go of any anger or bitterness you may feel, especially when it seems like everyone is piling on. Anger can make you do dumb things. I have my trolls, you have your haters and premature articulators. If you get all hurty and defensive, if you go off on them like Jimmy Connors used to go off on some poor line judge in a straw boater, slumped over asleep while supposedly calling lines, they win. Yeah, bro', it sounds harsh. But always remember - if you lose your cool, they win. Revenge is a dish best served cold.
Well, that's about it. So much for the heretofore unnoticed parallels in our lives. Right now, you may be simmering, thinking: Where do you come off, you bottom-feeding blogger, telling me what to think, taking cheap shots at my black shorts! Just remember what I said about anger, bro', and keep this in mind, too: Greg Sharko of the ATP Tour saw my post about first-time no. 1s the other day and decided to do a little more original research. He sampled 10 guys to see how they fared in the first Grand Slam event they played after they reached no. 1. Guess how many of them won the event?
One. That's right, uno, dude: it was Jim Courier, Roland Garros, 1992. Keep that in mind when the US Open starts on Monday. I'll be pretty busy out there, but I'll try to catch up with you at some point.
-- Pete
