•Don't cry, Canes fans, The U looks like it's back after a blowout win over Georgia Tech. Next up: ranked Virginia Tech, higher ranked Oklahoma, and the very highly ranked "avoiding off-the-field controversies." That last one may prove unwinnable.

•The umpires claim that they were verbally abused by Angels coaches after two abominable questionable calls Wednesday night. You know what, Angels? Nick Green's OPS is .669. He deserves five-strikes-and-you're out, to make it fair.

•Roger Federer was fined $1,500 for this little remark at the US Open: "Don't tell me to be quiet, OK? When I want to talk, I talk. I don't give a shit what he said." Thanks to Roger and Serena, we know know that "fuck" is precisely seven times more offensive than "shit" in tennis. I don't even want to know what "mecrob" would cost you.

•A lockout of NBA refs is "imminent and unavoidable" after talks with the league broke down yesterday. The refs turned down an extra million dollars in concessions, which leads me to believe they haven't looked at the poll on this page that says only 24% of fans care if they come back. Leverage indeed.

•A judge has ruled that Kobe Bryant's former housekeeper can sue him for being wrongfully fired, but can't claim emotional distress. Honey, you got off lucky. I don't know if you've heard about Kobe's last court case, but consider yourself lucky if the distress was just emotional.

•I hope Dash didn't think his Mets Season Of Failure gallery was finished. Elias says the Mets have three game-ending errors this season. That's three times as many as any other team.

•Finally, did you like the Commodore 64? Do you think it would have been better if only they put out a version of Guitar Hero for it? You're not alone:

Yup. That's a classic Bills throwback spied in Albany, N.Y. You know. They never did find the "real killers." So keep your eyes open. [Via Three Idiots on Sports]

All eyez were on this man in Cleveland on Sunday. Loves his Browns, loves his Tupac. [Thanks, Brett!]

The extra S is for Spelling, which Drew Brees does Exsellently [Thanks, AppleOwner!]
Something tells me these two Georgia State Police troopers aren't going to be taking a bullet for Steve Spurrier. [Via Twitpic]

Speaking of alternate spellings, the crazy "tea bag" protesters who think Obama wants mandatory, government-funded grandmother abortions have found their savior. As long as they don't have to write his name in on the ballot. [Photo via NineTwelvePhotos on Flickr]

You can pick your friends, but you can't pick your U.S. Open finals opponent. [Thanks, Robert!]

I hope Nike didn't spend too much on the "Unleash Urlacher" campaign. A small fortune, you say? Gee, that's a shame. [ESPN homepage, Thanks, EVERYBODY!]

A time when roughneck New Yorkers shift their sports attention away from Jets preseason, Joba Chamberlain pitch counts and the New York Mets Wing of Hospital for Special Surgery to a little tennis tournament in Queens, where they have no choice but to care about things like Rafael Nadal's knees, swarming Serbians and Juan Martin Del Potro. Andre Agassi is to be honored during a ceremony on opening night, but there's plenty of fodder beyond the return of the Day-Glo one. Here are nine story lines to keep a (hawk) eye on during the Open this year:

Federer.
Can anyone honestly stop Roger Federer? After a tearful loss to Nadal in the Australian Open final, the Swiss swordsman won the French Open (without having to beat Nadal), Wimbledon (without having to beat Nadal) and watched his (ahem) top seed produce a pair of twins with his wife Mirka (also without having to beat Nadal). He even won a tuneup in Cincinnati. Barring an upset-or a legitimately healthy Nadal-Federer will probably NetJet to his record 16th major title. And, of course, cry about it.

Nadal.
For a guy as fit as Rafael Nadal, his knees are a bit like Dick Cheney's. After a shocking loss in Paris and pulling out of Wimbledon, he has proclaimed them tendinitis-free for the hardcourts of Flushing. His draw, though, won't do them any favors, with Richard Gasquet — the tireless Frenchman who tested for positive for cocaine in Miami earlier this year but avoided a ban by claiming he must have ingested it by kissing a girl at a rave — awaiting the Majorcan matador in the first round. A quarterfinal match with Andy Murray, who unseated Nadal as the world's No. 2, would follow.

Roddick.
It's been more than five years since he won the U.S. Open. And after his marriage to Sports Illustrated swimsuit model (and Deadspin favorite) Brooklyn Decker earlier this year, the obvious question surrounding Andy Roddick was a simple one: Would he get complacent, now that he had this waiting for him in the players' box? Roddick answered that rather sufficiently during another epic, five-set-plus Wimbledon final. Until there's a little Roddecker in the oven, expect a Stifler-like focus, especially in New York, where his hard serve works best.

Sharapova.
After being saddled by arthroscopic shoulder surgery and rehab (oh, and a new line of signature Cole Haan handbags!) Maria Sharapova is back with a new, Roddick-like service motion. And it hasn't exactly worked. She reached the final in Toronto despite amassing more than 50 double faults (he former coach called the new serve "atrocious, plain atrocious"). On Sharapova's side of the women's draw, however, are six names ending in "ova" (Tsvetlana Pironkova, anyone?) not including hers.

The Williamses.
Television, inexplicably, loves it when Miami Dolphins-owning sisters Venus and Serena Williams play each other. The rest of us, however, have had enough — as it tends to produce some of the least compelling tennis this side of a Billie Jean King exhibition. And even when they do, they can be equally annoying in their corporate self-awareness (after beating Venus in the Wimbledon final, for instance, Serena called it her "G Moment.") Luckily they're on the same side of the draw, so if they do meet, it won't be in a final.

The McEnroes.
For the first time in ages, the Open won't be carried by the USA network — which hopefully means tennis fans won't be subject to a mid-night match channel switch as in previous years. It also means that John McEnroe, tennis' de facto commissioner (in many ways, the U.S. Open is the McEnroe Open), will be joining his brother Patrick in the ESPN broadcast booth. Which should be refreshing — both are relatively outspoken, P-Mac slightly less so — provided you can differentiate between their voices. One way to tell: John will be the one criticizing James Blake, a member of Patrick's U.S. Davis Cup team, during his perennial early exit.

Clijsters.
Kim Clijsters, who retijred in 2007, announced in April that she was comijng out of retijrement. The 25-year-old Belgijan will make her rejturn from hijatus in Queens. "I stijll have that craving," Clijsters said recently. "I look forwajrd to the chjallenge." Clijsters would face Venus in the fjourth round.

Hawk-Eye.
Forget the bean bags. Tennis has the best challenge system in major professional sports, hands down. Hawk-Eye, the camera-powered triangulation system that determines the position of the ball on the court, has revolutionized the sport (it beats the hell out of Cyclops-remember that bleeping thing?). Sure, some players, like Federer and Roddick, have complained it doesn't always work right. And sure, it makes the prospects of a McEnroe-like outburst less and less likely. But watching the replay along with the players on the Jumbotron during a crucial point in a match is sure as hell entertaining.

The Bondarenko Sisters.
Trust me on this one. For those of you Deadspin readers who watch tennis solely for the, uh, display of skills, look no further than Alona and Kateryna Bondarenko, a pair of dewy, deliciously toned sisters from the Ukraine. If you happen to get out to the Open, check them out up close on a side court, before their collective tan forces tournament organizers to put them on Arthur Ashe stadium in primetime.

Deadspin at the Open.
Speaking of which, Deadspin (er, me, resident Deucebag) will be out at the Open during the first week of the fortnight. If you're going, feel free to ping me at dylanstableford [AT] gmail [DOT] com or on Twitter (twitter.com/stableford) and we can grab what I'm sure will be a reasonably-priced beer. First one's on you!

And if that won't suffice as a reminder of our inferior earning power, please note that it takes Ben Roethlisberger just 3.6 snaps to pocket 100 large. Lebron does it in 21 floor minutes; Tiger in 11.2 holes of golf.

And then comes this questionable claim: from the WSJ: "Nascar's Tony Stewart may have to work the most to pay his bills — needing to navigate the oval 124.8 times to make $100,000."

Meanwhile, Roger Federer must grunt his way through 28 games of grueling tennis to match what Tony Stewart earns for turning left. You be the judge.

How Long Does It Take an Athlete to Make $100,000? [WSJ]

With no more excuses to fawn over Andy Murray, the British press needed to appoint a larger-than-life figure from Sunday's Wimbledon final, which, just one year after the Nadal-Federer epic, was "possibly the greatest, gutsiest attempted larceny the old tournament has ever seen." (That's sort of comparable to The Greatest Match Ever Played, I suppose.) Fortunately for the royal hacks, they had their choice of Roddick and Federer to laud. Most chose Federer. Some brave few extolled Roddick in a rather surprising twist heretofore not seen in canonical British literature.

Martin Samuel, Daily Mail:

Roddick made a mockery of that presumption, of so many presumptions in fact, firstly that it required his A game to beat Murray in the semi-final. As we now know, it was only his B-plus performance. Herewas Roddick's peak this year, perhaps even in his career, and that Federer still found the wit and strength to defeat him over 30 games in the final set is what puts him apart as a champion.

‘How would you describe what you did here today?' Roddick was asked. ‘I lost,' he deadpanned. And, yes, he did, and nothing else matters to such a competitor. Yet, for once, the black and white cannot be allowed to tell the whole story.

Roger Federer is now beyond debate the greatest tennis player there has been and we know this because after four hours and 17 minutes and 77 games on July 5, 2009, he was fractionally better than Andy Roddick. And if he wasn't the greatest player in the history of the sport he would not have been. It is as simple as that.

James Lawton, The Independent

When Roddick, the 26-year-old Texan who last Friday gave Britain's prospective Grand Slam hero Andy Murray an ultimate lesson in the need to go all the way beyond what you thought was your deepest possible commitment, finally surrendered 14-16 in the fifth set which stretched the match into its fifth hour, he had almost literally been played to a standstill.

However, if it happens that the US Open title he won six years ago – in that hiatus between the glory of Sampras, whose record mark of 14 Grand Slam titles was passed by Federer last night – and the rise of the man who in the end had just a little too much of everything, he has something to tell the grandchildren who are likely to gather around him one day.

He can tell them that he once challenged one of the greatest sportsman who ever lived to fight as he had hardly ever fought before.

...

He had created his impeccable history, something beyond revision or doubt. He accomplished all he had hoped. Roddick? He took his own place in the annals of the game. It is that place where the fighters reside, the men who make the challenge ultimately so worthwhile.

Neil Harman, The Times

Roddick went back to his chair, dropped his racket at his feet and stared at the ground, to be roused by shouts of "Roddick, Roddick". Not even in New York, at home, where he won his ground-breaking first grand-slam title in 2003, had the crowd reacted to him so. He rose and applauded them back. One hoped that at home, the Americans were raising their chilled beers to him. He had been heroic, he had been human, he had given all he had.

Federer was about to raise the cup again. Glory, glory to the champion. Roddick had lost, but he hadn't really.

Ah, there's the moral victory that Roddick wouldn't acknowledge, but the press was all too giddy to bestow on him. But in reality, Roddick was a winner — for British bettors:

chickendinner tipped A-Rod to reach the final, which if you bet with Paddy Power as we advised would have earned you a £50 return on a £5 E/W stake, although it could have been £145 if he hadn't tired at the end.

The wienerschnitzel's on me if you can put that into proper English.

Only the greatest could have won against Roddick [Daily Mail]
Roddick's courage ensures an epic finale [The Independent]
Crazy Sunday afternoon leaves Roddick a broken man [The Times]
Heroic Andy Roddick nets chickendinner a tidy profit [chickendinner]

Andy Roddick controlled Roger Federer for the first 50 minutes of Wimbledon, up 1-0, cruising through the second set tie-break 6-1, but then, as is typical of Federer/Roddick matches, things fall apart. A couple of deceptive serves by Federer, a couple of face-slapping bonks by Roddick at the net, Federer pulled out the tiebreak, and, it was at that point, you saw Andy's hopes of a Wimbledon upset seemingly disintegrate. But, miraculously, he hung in, pushing it to a fifth set that lasted forever. Federer whittled down Roddick to a sweaty nub with his unflinching, surgical style. After, you know, 85 hours. But, damn, this was epic.

Consolatory reality: Roddick played extraordinary in this match-up and proved he's capable of competing with the cyborg nature of Federer. But once again it'll be a champagne party at Gavin Rossdale's.

And no thanks to NBC Sports whose shitty-ass live feed decided to conk out in the 5th set. If that Traveler's Insurance dog is not being set on fire because of this, I will do it myself.

But here's a little something for Andy Roddick anyway.

And good afternoon. Hope the holiday treated you patriotically. And we can finally start the day.

Swinging his arms wildly and taking practice strokes in the locker room just a few feet from Roger Federer's head, Rafael Nadal cut the classic figure of a warrior preparing for battle. He had just taken a cold shower and now, with his sympathetic nervous system kicking into high gear, Nadal was in fight-or-flight mode. His heart-rate jackhammering, stress hormones coursing through his body, his pupils enlarged, he stretched and paced and pissed, making sure his urine was clear and odorless, an indication that his body was properly hydrated. Even when he tried to conserve some energy, he fiddled with the tight bands of tape below his knees, worn to prevent the patellar tendonitis that has bothered him in the past. As if afflicted with low-grade OCD, he riffled through his swollen racket bag again and again. Another "ritual," he lowered and elevated his socks until they were precisely the same height. Sitting nearby, Nadal's Uncle and coach, Toni Nadal, offered motivation in intense staccato bursts. "There is no such word as ‘cannot.'"… "Do what you have to do."…. "Obligations are obligations."

At around 2:15 p.m., half an hour after their initial estimated departure time, Federer and Nadal were advised that the sky, though still inky, had stopped spitting raindrops and the "tarp tent" protecting Centre Court from the moisture, was being deflated and disassembled. Federer and Nadal walked out of the locker room, wended down a long, carpeted hallway and slowly descended a set of stairs leading to the court. With Nadal walking ten feet ahead, they both passed a photograph of Bjorn Borg and John McEnroe's Wimbledon final in 1980, the match against which all other tennis clashes are judged.

Here again, the Federer-Nadal differences were italicized and in boldfaced. Having outgrown the cream, gild-trimmed Great Gatsby blazer he'd worn without irony (and, miraculously, pulled off without mockery) in past years, Federer was now clad in a cream, gold-trimmed cardigan straight out of Brideshead Revisited-conservative attire that represented a sense of respect and history. The sweater, made by Nike, retailed at the Wimbledon gift shop for the larcenous price of £260, and only 230 had been produced, an inventory made to correspond with the 230 consecutive weeks Federer had spent ranked No.1.

Nadal, who would sooner wear a grass skirt than a $500 cardigan sweater, donned a white warm-up. Federer wore classic tennis shorts cinched with a belt; Nadal wore his customary clamdiggers that sagged below his knees, no belt required. Federer's ration of hair was carefully styled, while Nadal's simply draped down his olive-skinned neck. They both wore Nike headbands and white Nike socks that poked out of white Nike shoes.

Just before walking on the court, they endured a pre-match interview, an excruciating drill that requires players to offer a sound-bite or two on a match yet to be played. The "host networks" have negotiated this access as a condition of their hefty t.v. rights fee, and the players, lacking as they are in a real union, are forced to abide it. Still in their mental spaces, the players clearly resent this intrusion and usually offer a banquet of clichés. It should be a good match. Winning the first set will be key. I need to serve well. I'm going to try my best and we'll see what happens.

Yet even these hollow phrases can be pregnant with meaning. When Federer stood before the interviewer, he remarked, "I feel good [but] it might be a tough day with the rain and everything and a tough opponent so it should be interesting," betraying what sports shrinks call "negative mental hygiene." When Nadal was asked a similar question about the rain delay and the inauspicious forecast, he rocked his head from side to side and shrugged, his default gesture. In his thick accent, he said softly, "The rain is for both [of us] so no problems. I just accept the weather conditions and I just play."
A veteran of the finals choreography, Federer went directly to the net for the ceremonial coin flip, where a local child, often one with a chronic illness, is summoned to play a small role in the match, helping to determine which player serves first. In this case, Blair Manns, a thirteen-year-old Macaulay Culkin look-alike from Gloucester, who suffers from pulmonary disease had the honors. He represented the British Lung Foundation. In addition to scoring an autographed poster of the finalists he and his folks also received choice tickets for the match. Now Blair and Federer stood at the net. "Are you going to enjoy the match today?" Federer asked amiably. The kid nodded, too nervous to keep the conversation going.

The two were joined by Pascal Maria, the chair umpire for the match, and by the tournament referee, Andrew Jarrett. The quartet waited…and waited…and waited. Nadal sat at his chair, sipping Evian, chewing on an energy bar, folding his sweats and then indulging his longtime ritual of sipping from each of two bottles of water, one colder than the other, and then fastidiously arranging the bottles just so with the labels pointed outward toward the side of the court he'll next assume. (And to think: Federer is usually cast as the anal one.) Impatience transparent on his face, Federer rocked back and forth and took a few practice swings near the net. Surely this affronted his sense of Swiss punctuality. The match had already been postponed by rain and the forecast was grim; why was Nadal taking his sweet time? Nadal seemed not to share the same sense of occasion; and clearly this was part of Federer's annoyance. According to a member of the Nadal entourage, in the players' box Federer's girlfriend, Mirka Vavrinec, watched the Spaniard's dallying and muttered, "Oh, come on."

After a full minute of self-indulgence, Nadal trotted to the net. Having shed his warm-ups, he wore a sleeveless white tank top. It was made of "wicking" microfibers that served the dual function of displacing his copious sweat and accentuating his propane tanks for biceps. Perhaps flustered by the delay, young Blair Manns tossed the coin without asking either player to call it in midair. Jarrett intercepted the coin. Nervous smiles all around, Blair flipped it again. This time Federer correctly predicted "heads," entitling him to serve first. But really it was beside the point. They had yet to strike the first ball and already, intentionally or not, Nadal had struck a psychological blow.

Federer and Nadal then stood together for a ceremonial photo and, like fighters touching gloves before a bout, tapped rackets. As Federer demurely walked away to begin the five-minute warm-up, Nadal turned and bolted from the net to the baseline in the manner of a giddy young bull. Running low to the ground, he performed a quick split step and then jogged along the baseline. Though Nadal dismisses this as still another ritual, it functions as still one more psychological salvo. Message: pack a lunch hombre, because I'm going to be coming for you all day.

Even in his warm-up, Federer is the picture of seamless efficiency. There's virtually no wasted movement. Like all great athletes, he has a natural mind-body connection. Whatever his brain imagines, his body executes. Clearly eager to start the match, Federer glanced several times at the courtside clock. He hit a few of his practice serves while standing inside the baseline. On the other end of the court, Nadal was all exertion. He thrust and pounded and unfurled his left-handed sidewinding strokes, punctuating his shots-his practice shots-with a fwwwwuuumph. Already his white tank top was irrigated with sweat.

It was 14:35 GMT when the warm-up ended and Pascal Maria, the high priest in the umpire's chair, intoned, "Ready. Play."

And did they ever.

Strokes Of Genius [Amazon]

TOP Photo: Ian Walton/Getty Images

The man didn't appear to have deadly intentions, but he was close enough to actually touch Federer and practically drape a flag over his head. Fandome has the full video of the incident and the AP has all the photographs from the initial taunt to the security takedown which occurred on Soderling's side of the net.

In an essay for Slate, Huan Hsu recommends that the USTA halt its implementation of a fancy-schmancy player development system and instead, invest in what precedent has proven successful: crazy tennis parents. The nuttier, the better. Find people like Richard Williams, who hid his wife's birth control pills, and Jim Pierce, he of "Kill the bitch!" and Mike Agassi, who dangled tennis balls over poor Andre in the crib. There's something about obsession that makes a tennis player particularly valuable, and when the tennisista is too young to understand how deeply he must crave championships, parents can instill that passion.

There are plenty of perfectly batty parents overseas — Damir Dokic, in particular, comes to mind — but, for whatever reason, their lunacy doesn't necessarily result in greatness. After all, there are really only two players in tennis that matter. Neither is American, and neither has parents who threaten to drop a nuclear bomb on their home cities — or, you know, anything like that.

Why insane parents are the only way to end America's tennis draught [Slate]

Federer broke down in tears during his post-match speech probably because he played tennis as well as any one on the planet can for five sets—7-5, 3-6, 7-6, 3-6, 6-2—but it still was not enough. He had a great tournament and a great final match, but Nadal was just a little bit stronger. It was his fifth straight win over Federer, a streak that includes three Grand Slam finals and pretty much ending any lingering arguments about who is the best.

So that's how the day and the month begins. Let me check the schedule and see if anything else is happening today ... hmmm ... not seeing anything here, but I'm sure something will come up. More to come...

[Bloomberg]

The story at the Australian Open was how Roddick was in the best shape of his life, and how he reached the semifinals by outlasting his less-prepared, less-hydrated opponents. Then he ran into his old nemesis Roger Federer, who promptly dispatched him in straight sets. It was the 15th time in 18 meetings that Roddick has lost to Federer and it wasn't even that close, especially after Roddick was unhinged by a tough replay call. It must be rough knowing that you're one of the best players in the world, playing some of the best tennis of your life, and yet you're still nowhere near the best of the best. At least in tennis, you can still tell a referee to "have some sack" and not get a technical for it.

That leaves the tournament one match away from the inevitable Nadal-Federer final. It would be their eighth Grand Slam final meeting and third time out of the last four—but their first meeting in Australia. I guess those two guys are pretty good.

Roddick's improved, but still can't match Federer [Fox Sports]
Australian Open scores [AustralianOpen.com]

DFW was a nationally ranked junior tennis player before his writing took over and it was a sport that left an indelible mark on him for better or worse. ("Infinite Jest" features the fictional tweedy, Wes Anderson-like Enfield Tennis Academy.) Wallace wrote a gushing love letter to Roger Federer (and his brewing rivalry with Rafael Nadal) for the New York Times' "Play" magazine in 2006, that gave some much needed color to the colorless Federer athlete:

Federer’s forehand is a great liquid whip, his backhand a one-hander that he can drive flat, load with topspin, or slice — the slice with such snap that the ball turns shapes in the air and skids on the grass to maybe ankle height. His serve has world-class pace and a degree of placement and variety no one else comes close to; the service motion is lithe and uneccentric, distinctive (on TV) only in a certain eel-like all-body snap at the moment of impact. His anticipation and court sense are otherworldly, and his footwork is the best in the game — as a child, he was also a soccer prodigy. All this is true, and yet none of it really explains anything or evokes the experience of watching this man play. Of witnessing, firsthand, the beauty and genius of his game. You more have to come at the aesthetic stuff obliquely, to talk around it, or — as Aquinas did with his own ineffable subject — to try to define it in terms of what it is not.

David Foster Wallace was 46-years-old.

Roger Federer As Religious Experience [NY Times]

Brough Scott, from the Telegraph UK, was a bit more dignified and chose to go all Wordsworth on everyone's asses:

• "It ended in darkness but the pair of them had given us a blazing, eternal light. No sport, no playwright, has conjured up such magical theatre as those last three games as Rafa finally found his moment and threw himself triumphantly back on to the dew-gathering Wimbledon turf."

The NY Times' William Rhoden got into the act as well, dubbing Nadal "the muscled young prince" and then ended his essay with this statement:

•On this rainy, gusty Sunday afternoon, then evening, a young man had grown, in stature and legend.

Rafael Nadal, the prince, had become Wimbledon’s king.

It should be noted, however, that Rhoden, on assignment to cover the event in some capacity, didn't see the ending in person. No, he left the FUCKING FINALS MATCH AFTER TWO SETS TO GO SEE FUCKING "Hancock."

• More Britishisms. This time from William Hill gambling parlor spokesman Graham Sharpe:

"What you have here are two players at the peak of their powers and popularity. "They are almost a tennis soap opera - traditional Federer appeals to the mums and dads with his cardigan, and Nadal is the modern sex symbol, appealing to kids with his sleeveless vests."

The kids do love those sleeveless vests. That and their noisy rock and roll music.

• The blog "The Millions" paid tribute to yesterday's match by referencing David Foster Wallace's genius NY Times magazine essay "Federer As Religious Experience", in an effort better emphasize all that television spectators missed out on yesterday.

At least not entirely. TV tennis has its advantages, but these advantages have disadvantages, and chief among them is a certain illusion of intimacy. Television's slow-mo replays, its close-ups and graphics, all so privilege viewers that we're not even aware of how much is lost in broadcast. And a large part of what's lost is the sheer physicality of top tennis, a sense of the speeds at which the ball is moving and the players are reacting.

If he watched yesterday, Wallace could easily pump out 14,000 words on Federer vs. Nadal 2008. Maybe even without footnotes.

John McEnroe Hails Rafael Nadal victory as Greatest Match Ever [Telegraph UK]

A battle of wills that takes the game to a new level [Telegraph UK]

Rafael Nadal As Religious Experience [The Millions]