Our friends Craig and Jessica came to town last weekend. It was nice to see them, of course, but really their timing couldn't have been worse. There I was, on the eve of my US Open final match against that accursed Spaniard, Rafael Nadal, when up roll C&J, bottles in hand and devilry on their minds.
By now you all know that things didn't go so fabulous for me at Flushing Meadows. Getting to the last round was great, and beating Federer to get there was better. Ultimately though, I'm still trying to regain the grand slam form that captured the 2008 Australian Open. Naturally all the drinking didn't help. Hey, let's see you win three sets of tennis while your head is detonating and some mopheaded Iberian is firing little fuzzy rockets at your grill. Seriously though, I think I may have survived the hangover, but why the hell did I have to order a double serving of Scotch eggs at the Brewing Company?
wife and a bunch of hangers on? I can just see Señor Perfecto downing his egg white omelet and protein shake. Little shithead.
Afterwards we hopped over the the Knickerbocker for a few games of Big Buck Hunter. I thought it might work me up, get those gastric juices flowing, maybe even sharpen the old hand-eye coordination. No dice. The fools that own the place took the damned game out! How did we console ourselves? With shots of Jack and PBR chasers! Meanwhile a pound of Scotch eggs was congealing in my gut. You can bet Nadal had already hit the hay by then, the priss.
Bottom line, I was fucked. I should have called in sick, but I toughed it out. I guess I can call it a small victory that I took a set from that insufferable Majorcan, but honestly I can only blame myself for having my ass handed to me on a goddam silver platter.
Also, I think my racquet was messed up.
Pictured top: me uncharacteristically whiffing at a ball during my US Open defeat.
Pictured bottom: that vile cup of mayonnaise is positioned dangerously close to the last Scotch egg.