| Why the Swiss Should Qualify For U.S. President July 2008 -- Once in the geologically distant past, I played tennis. It has never been explained to the general public why the Washington County, Oregon sawmill town of North Plains had a tennis court in the early nineteen fifties, but then there was a golf course in Coos County at that time, as well. Both sports (but particularly tennis) are traditionally identified with the upper classes, and both locations are traditionally identified with hairy-chested, harsh men wearing metal hats and boots with nails sticking out through the soles. We are surrounded by irrationality in Oregon at times. This week (the first one of this month), I have been watching the satellite feed from Wimbledon -- a place in England where civilized people play tennis on grass courts. None of the gentle, civilized fans in this Shakespearean milieu chew and spit tobacco or get to the event in a vehicle called a “crummy.” Yet, in this modern era, the sport exhibits a character the guys on those busses would understand. A civilized blood sport? This morning‘s quarterfinal guy-player match is on hold as I write this. A rain delay. The two  players are: (1) a young fellow named Ancic
who is from one of those small European nations whose history predates
wool clothing. And (2) a fellow named Roger, who is from
Switzerland. And, this “Roger” is the point of this
piece. I think it was about six or seven years back that Roger
Federer of the legendarily peaceful land of Switzerland matured into
the Tiger Woods of professional tennis. One day, perhaps,
Hollywood will do a movie on the man. The title would be “The
Swiss Tennis Monster That Ate Chicago.” (Photo from Federer home page)One notable aspect of this Federer’s game is his serve. Physicists point out that to determine the impact effect of a meteor slamming into Earth, one must multiply the mass times the velocity. (And, to a physicist, “velocity” is a term which includes both speed and direction.) Now, the mass of a tennis ball is equivalent to a street gang of butterflies. So, when Federer serves, what happens must be the result of the velocity factor. The ball is impossible to return. He hits it too hard and in a place you can’t reach in time to do anything with. Cross Genghis Kahn with Ralph Macchio and you have it. You stand there waiting for him to serve the ball, knowing that your prime job is to get out of the way. You stand there about to serve, yourself, knowing that if it’s the best serve you’ve ever made, it will come back over the net in a manner that reminds you of a Stinger missle, and will land in the exact place you cannot, at the moment, possibly reach in time. It is an odd development for a game originally designed to be played by overly dressed people with civilized manners. The aggressiveness of modern day tennis borders on the blood feud. Japanese clan warriors from the Sixteenth Century holding blood-stained swords, standing in a field littered with human body parts come to mind. There is no relationship between modern professional tennis and the teachings of the American television programs for children that replaced Road Runner cartoons and Dudley Doright of the Canadian Mounties. Mr. Greenjeans would be slaughtered in a millisecond if he picked up a tennis racquet and stepped onto a Wimbledon court. In an instant, he would be a spatter of bloody social welfare worker platitudes, slowly sinking into the grass. Tennis today reminds me of American professional football. Roger Federer would make a good U.S. President. Our international opponents would have to be carried off the court. (LL) © 2008 Oregon Magazine |