Near The Oxygen

/\/\/\==All the animosity can be rolled up in a massive ball.

/\/\/\==Add in the ridicule and rage.

/\/\/\==The grudges and revenge.

/\/\/\==Roll it down the Rockies, from the very top, where the continent divides east from west, how the water runs.

/\/\/\==Let it go, down the slopes, it will splinter any tree in its path, it will crush anyone or anything as it gains speed.

/\/\/\==Nothing will stop its decent, gravity always works the same.

/\/\/\==The weight of the sphere cannot be calculated.

/\/\/\==No scale will work, it is the heaviest object on earth.


----Heavier than all the concrete buildings of all the cities in all the world.----Heavier than all the water of the oceans.----Heavier than all the steel, all the wood, all the plastic put together.----


/\/\/\==The air is chilly way up in the atmosphere.

/\/\/\==Light, floating, like feathers.

/\/\/\==Weightless.

/\/\/\==This is where love and forgiveness are suspended forever.

/\/\/\==Near the oxygen, where we can all breathe easy.

The Junkyard Court: Between Hippie And Preppie

     Somewhere between hippie and preppie.  No pastels, of course.  Ever.  Pastels have no pop.  They have no place in tennis.  Prints should be banned.  No prints.  Multiple logo placements, multiple logo sizes, multiple logo colors.  Androgynous bias, with functionality and styles.  Reasonable fits, slenders have no room.  Only tights should be tight.  Inhibiting the extention needed to play true tennis is a tennis apparel crime.  Minimize the cotton.  It is a fundamental fabric, but only appropriate as part of a blend.  100% cotten or the ridiculous combed cotten are also not appropriate.

     Inevitably, shoes will be developed.  Make them durable.  That's it, durable.  The rubber and the upper.  Leather has been rendered obsolete.  It is a nice development for the cows.  They would much rather their skins become couches or automobile bucket seats or motorcycle club jackets.  Either way, like racquet grips, leather is no longer needed for tennis shoes.  Shoe color is a matter of personal preference, which can and should, be varied.  Dark or light.  Bright or dull.  Narrow or wide.  No pastels.

      Thermal wear should be very smooth looking, appropriate for any occasion, versatile and effective in a number of conditions.  Chills, winds, mists, and rains.  High quality zippers and tie strings that never recoil.  Collars are cool and an opportunity for innovation and distinction.  Again, any design interfering with the technical or athletic requirements of the player is fatally flawed.  Functionality at the bottom of any pant is important, and go deep on the pockets.  Yes, the pockets must be deep.  Deep enough to hold many balls. On both sides.  Drills, efficiency, e tc.

     Marketing should be constant and focused, all channels coordinated, interconnected and similar, persuing multiple creative avenues of apparel opportunities.  Rowing teams, table tennis, sponsorships, customized event attire.  Deliberate and recurring re-evaluation/adjustment  process must be scheduled early on.  Incremental changes over time.  Nothing, nothing is sacred.  Disciplined and illuminated communications.  Candid.  An offensive strategy to maximize and diversify tennis league enjoyment should be deployed quickly.  Utilizing all methods of cultural influence to inspire the ovarall mission of the brand.  Music, literature, art, dance, and glowface.  Clean, easy, obsessed.

     Roger Federer, the best.  A true slammer.  20 slams so far.  Impossible backhand, easy easy easy.  The king of the down under.  Internal disgust of mistakes, they are never accepted, only endured.  So Vantaggio.

Clear The Landing Area

EmGEmAm

Theirs the whole time.
Nothing is different.
Just realized.
Known.

Clear the landing area.
We're coming down.
From space.
Slowly.

Call off the celebrations.
Until after recovery.
Soak awhile.
Float.

Clock all the participants.
Watch them hustle.
Young glory.
Glowing.

It's the outlandish truth.
And the ramifications.
No fear.
Ever.

Beatdown Haiku

Broken and dragging.
Mortality of it all.
The toll, the beatdown.

The Junkyard Court: This Potential Madness

     Clearly, the chronic perceived potential of American male tennis professionals will be smashed by the reality of their awful and pitiful collective outcomes in 2018.  Sure, millions of dollars will be won by them, and a few will earn their way into the top 50.  A few.  But no one will be a major, or even minor, threat for a grand slam title.  Not since Andy Roddick's 2003's U.S. Open glory has an American male won a grand slam singles title.  15 years, a wasted generation, a failure of the USTA micro-culture, a shame.  Watching the 2017 Laver Cup illuminated some of the problems.  Strikingly different from the American female players, the men are uninspired and, frankly, a bit goofy.  But, why?
   
     Certainly Isner epitomizes the era, no evolution, so golly gee, so beatable.  And, seemingly, fine with it.  It is true that the meek shall inherit the earth, but they will have no grand slam titles.  These days, when an American male makes it deep into a grand slam bracket, it is always a surprise.  The names are familiar, and somewhat accomplished.  Stevie Johnson, perhaps the grittiest American male player, is easily the most decorated college player ever.  Sam Querry, the first American male to play in a grand slam semifinal in over a decade in last year's Wimbledon tournament, holds the all-time record for consecutive aces with 10.  Of course, Isner's 2010 Wimbledon first round match with Nicolas Mahut is legendary.  A match that took 3 days, over 11 hours of court time, and featured 223 total aces.  Isner won 6-4, 3-6, 6-7, 7-6, 70-68.  He lost in the 2nd round to Dutchman Thiemo de Bakker 0-6, 3-6, 2-6 in 74 minutes.  Quietly, Isner was forced to withdraw from the doubles bracket that year due to a blister on his toe.  Surely, his partner Querry was supportive and felt bad for "Big John".  Jack Sock, the current top ranked American at #9 in the world, is the current yankee king, but he's never made a grand slam Quarterfinal and his elbow likely wont have a long career considering his extreme whiplash forehand motion.  Ryan Harrison's 93-129 decade career match record indicates no real potential.  Donald Young peaked in 2012 with a world ranking of 38 before going on a 17 match losing streak that he's never completely recovered from.  In his 14 year career, he has never won a ATP singles title of any kind.

     The perpetual next generation, who knows?  Jared Donaldson, who I personally watched get destroyed by Argentine Maximo Gonzalez just last year in Houston, once beat Belgian David Goffin in 2016.  Frances Tiafoe, the third highest ranked teenager in the top 100, has lost 29 of his first 38 professional matches.  Taylor Fritz, already married with a family at 20, could develop quickly.  He's got good bloodlines, his mother Kathy May was a world top 10 player in the late 70s.  Perhaps some of her American female mojo will help destroy whatever virus has infected the men and Taylor will break through.  However, speculation just feeds into the chronic perceived potential narrative of American professional men's singles.  Do something!  As the U.S. tennis public, we should be able to reflect back with pride, remember the highlights, revel in the victories.  But there are none.  And it will be no different in 2018.  Thankfully, the always sobering Australian Open ends this 'potential' madness every year.  They are what they are.  And I don't know why.

**If either would agree to do it, Serena or Venus Williams should be the next Davis Cup Coach.  Something must change.
  

Nothing Is News

DD7x2
GEmx2

Wish we had a place we could forget it all.
Plastered all over TV's on walls.

Now we see the snakes slither up the hills.
Money's dried up, no more bribery deals.

Like that trash magazine says trashy things.
About all the people that we trying to be.

All the sanctimony and hypocrites.
Hard not to feel like we've lost our wits.

(Chorus)

AmGx3
AmGAm

Oh, they said that, it offends me.
Oh, I demand an apology.
Oh, the world treats me unfairly.
And I cry like a baby.

Create a place where nothing is news.
Only daily bread and nothing to lose.

Let the young take over as soon as now.
Maybe the old can get along somehow.

Keep my mind on word and word on my mind.
Love all my loves with the rest of my time.

And if I die before I wake.
Know that I died with a smile on my face.

(Chorus)

Jutting Jaws

     Funky gyrations and closed eyes.  Marvelous band culture, encouraging, interacting, laughing.  Heads, spinning on the necks, side to side, swirling.  Jutting jaws.  Attired in yellow and lit up, like an angel of song.  To the point, singing in the high zones about no worries, bad babies, and sweet clementine.  Voice like a masterpiece.  Gone and away, but always with herself.
     Fell in love with tunes, obviously.  To sing, to tell, to whisper, to yell.  An expression making an impression, allowing the space for another expression to emerge as an impression.  Creative art inspires performance art, inspiring other creations.  It's a circle in a way, but more like a long string that twists around to form a cylindar.  Nothing is the same.  Requires constant motion or the entire structure collapses.  Observe constantly, consider everything, wonder loudly.  Take note, jot down, tuck away.  Lines, words, hums.  Somehow.
     Still young, now she is seasoned.  Open to everything and intentional in her explorations.  More curiosity than advice, more love than hate, more light than dark.  Relational blues, wavering melencholy, and independance.