Lads in London

by: Peter Bodo | July 06, 2010

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Howdy, everyone. Today is catch-up day at the office. Tomorrow I'll empty my mental outbox with random thoughts, impressions and experiences from my stint at Wimbledon. I may not get to post tomorrow on Matt Harvey, the Wimbledon poet, with whom I had a visit last week, but that too will get done. I think writing one up is appropriate. Meanwhile, though,we ought to fire a shot across Matt's bow, courtesy of our own poet laureate, Madame Highpockets.

You can use this post to get silly in any number of ways, including talking tennis. I mean, Kleybanova is winning in Budapest and Flavia Pennetta is rockin' in the Swedish Open. Dent is out of Newport, and so forth .  .  .  The beat goes on. The tennis beat always goes on. But first, let's stop and celebrate Wimbledon in our customary manner, in verse.

PS - don't you love that "third-grade class picture" smile on Rafa's face in this photo?

-- Pete

                                        Lads in London

by Highpockets

As the glorious sun kissed the grass on the hill,

And they dressed Centre Court in the new morning chill,

Wimbledon held out her arms to the masses;

To the tents in the Queue filled with laddies and lasses.

It wasnt the greatest in Wimbledon lore,

But a first round encounter left us begging for more.

For the first time since disco, Her Majesty came,

Hoping her visit would lift Andys game.

The World Cup unfolded and flags were unfurled,

And a Wimbledon match cast a spell on the world.

On a distant grass court, two men battled on,

A Frenchman named Nick and a Bulldog named John.

Neither man would concede or succumb to defeat,

And Mohammed Layani stayed glued to his seat.

New words of encouragement made their debut:

"Never give up think of Isner/Mahut!"

This fortnight was crazy, a twitterers dream;

Upsets were common, five-setters routine.

The umps were exacting, Novotny was busy;

And Fed got ejected and left in a tizzy.

The sun on the court was toasty and warm,

With nary a sign of a squall or a storm.

Inspired and charming was young Randy Lu,

And the Queen wore a suit of robins egg blue.

Murray/Nadal was a thrilling display

Of predators probing and testing their prey:

A volley stupendous, a drop shot disguise;

You couldnt ask more from these talented guys.

Tomas lost to the champ, but it wasnt tragic;

He still got to feel that Wimbledon magic.

Theres a feeling of history here in this place,

A timeless event in a cool green embrace.

As for Rafa Nadal, well, what can you say?

It just doesnt matter if its grass, hard or clay.

The Spaniards a genius, a masterful stud,

Who fights like no other when hes out for blood.

He believed in himself and defended his crown;l

He covered the court, chasing everything down.

As he fell to the grass, the crowd cheered with joy;

They cant get enough of this jubilant boy.

Fred Perry, youre safe; and Pete, so are you;

You still have your records; no need to be blue.

As for me, Ill go out and plant my verbena,

And wait for the day Rafael plays Serena.

Have a good day, everyone!

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