Let us agree to call it football for the remainder of this essay, since that it what it is when you disallow the use of hands and reward intricate side-stepping.
Where are you from? I do not mean where you currently stay. Nor do I want to know of your college. Your school. The place where you work for money. The places where you spend that money. The places where you save that money. The place where you had your first kiss. Or lost your virginity. Or heard Bob Dylan's divine cribbing for the first time. Or met your spouse. Buried your dad. Circled self-indulgent truths. Reconciled with life's stylized facts. Failed an exam. Ate an ice cream after breaking up. No, not those trivialities.
When I was much younger, I once wore my original Adidas shorts, put mom's hair band on my wrist, tied a towel around my neck as a cape and jumped from the dressing table in the bedroom onto my parent's bed. The fact that the Adidas shorts were 'original' is important, as are the towel-cape and the dressing table. Bear that in mind. I was into the whole WWF scene at the time. I still am, just that WWF is now WWE.
I never really believed anything that happened in the WWE ring was 'real'. Not in a lets-pause-the-video-and-look-for-fake-blood way but in a no-way-he-survived-the-Batista-Bomb, unfeigned manner. So what?
Then Brock Lesnar superduperflexed the Big Show, breaking the ring and changed everything.
There are two people alive in the world right now of whom it can be said that everything that could have been said has in fact already been said. Bob Dylan and Roger Federer. There was a time when it was hip to write about a Swiss tennis player who was obviously going to conquer the world.
But now that he has, the adulation tends to get repetitive. You can of course talk about the way he moves his body while hitting a forehand down the line, which for a tennis fan is akin to a dancer watching MJ perform the Moonwalk for the first time.
Or the tiniest amount of frustration that owes its quasi-existence to a point won without putting to use some superhuman shot that for a moment removes him from the court and puts him squarely inside your head. You start imagining that what just happened was just your imagination.