Sorry about it all, you doleful lunk. You prolific hugger. You empty threatener of racket violence. You infuriating counterexample to the notion that “Heart” could be relegated to the bin of vapid sports cliché. You 6-foot-6 teddy bear who must hurt all over anytime you step into competition—half-limp, half-swagger. In the quarterfinal, you’ll play the guy I watched instead of watching you. He is the same man you beat here in the 2009 final, breaking his streak of five straight, when you were just 21 years old and hinting at a kind of generational promise that your glass wrists never let you deliver. On Wednesday I’ll be there, sitting in the correct stadium.

Best regards,

An Idiot