Game for New York? Roger!

Since I’ve never really attempted to enunciate greatness, I wont be writing here a blog on Federer’s incredible performance at the US Open or his winning streak at grand slam finals or his matching Wilander’s record or his doing it all without a coach.

Suffice it to say that if Andy Pavel had had the misfortune of running into me on day 8 of the US Open Championships, a herniated disc would not have been the only thing he’d have had to worry about. And for good reason. Weeks of planning, anticipating and scrutinizing draws ‘flushed’ right down the ‘meadows’ as I glanced up at the glowing celluloid screen say “Fourth Round: Roger Federer Vs Andrei Pavel Walkover.” Through my tear-filled eyes, it almost seemed to gloat in amusement.

I had of course conveniently forgotten the big role destiny plays in my life, blaming my ill-luck on poor Pavel alone. Lady Destiny couldn't remain elusive for too long however; she reinforced her position as the flag bearer in the play of events in my life, by not only ensuring that I didn’t watch Roger smash a tennis ball but also letting me watch Justine Henine lose to a considerable novice. (Justine, I consider as the single best thing in women's tennis this day and age).

As if to justify my dismay and frustration that day, Roger destroyed Lleyton Hewitt last Sunday in three hours of breath-takingly classic tennis that included everything from incredibly placed ground strokes to amazing backhand passes. Federer has every shot there is in the bag and as if that were not enough, he is constantly inventing new ones, catching his opponents off guard, stunning his audience and rewriting tennis record books. Yet he’s humble enough to say “That’s all I got”.

Rarely is there an occasion in tennis when you can hail a 6-0 set and say the guy at love played his best; thanks to Federer, Hewitt has two to his name!

The only reasonable explanation is that Federer has transcended tennis. He not only has it all, he also has the ability to churn them out when he needs them-- just like he turned around one of Hewitt’s few break points by flashing three aces. If McEnroe is calling him the best player ever, there must be something to it. And at the cost of sounding pompous, if I am saying Roger has left Sampras far behind, I’m saying a whole heck of a lot.

Let me switch gears a little bit from a subject that I simply could do no justice to with words alone to one that has, in the past, managed to fall prey to my plethora of adjectives, if only barely.

While Flushing Meadows was a deep disappointment on my holiday weekend, New York city more than managed to aid in recovery.

While one would hardly call a city of open water puddles and overflowing trash cans and airway-clogging trains a recuperating process, it does the job pretty nicely. Having always lived by the ideology, "make life as easy for yourself as you can", it took me a while to realize that my favorite city tries its dandiest best to refute that idea in every possible way.

My first grievance was with — well -- finding my way about. After finally settling down to the concept of following the looming Rockies westward for the past year, I found the sharp rights and slight rights and very very slight rights at Newark's Liberty airport way beyond my navigational skills. And the people who kept getting in the way certainly didn’t help. While I shrugged off my inability to read unreadable signs as forgivable, I was dumbfounded on learning that the towering Empire State Building on 6th Avenue didn't do me any favors in direction either. Bottom line: Without the guiding force of the monumental Rockies, I am pretty much lost.

While I have oft visited Fort Collins' old town during my rare attacks of loneliness in search of strange human company, and cursed its inability to deliver even on a Sunday afternoon, I wasn't prepared for New York's "too many people in too little space" concept. For one, my still tender ankle didn't take the shoving and pushing too well; secondly, I blame the sudden recurrence of my dormant asthma to NY-after-effects. Either that or my poor little lungs are simply not able to handle the vast amount of air Colorado rations to its denizens.

Every time I've wanted a much-needed change from Fort Collins' almost perfect, 97% Caucasian, incredibly fit and predominantly wealthy population, I've craved a trip to Denver or Boulder to see the oddities. With it , comes usually a sense of nostalgia and the distant thought of NJ transit and PATH trains that would effortlessly transport me to New York city every Friday and Saturday night. What I had conveniently overlooked in my dreams were the half eaten bags of Lays chips and dripping Pepsi cans left at doorsteps, the unmistakable smell of McDonald's fries, the impossibly long queues at ticket counters and the scrambling into just-fleeing trains at Penn Station.

But when the end-result is a walk along the waterway at Hoboken, a frappacino at a Starbucks by the Hudson, a bite of sound Indian food at Jersey City or Manhattan’s unmistakable charm, the train rides, the crowds and the discrepancies seem not only acceptable, but well worth it.

For all its quirks and its "I'll make life as tough for you as possible" attitude, for probably the millionth time, New York gave me what I went for --- the ability to pull off another mundane year of life in its wake.

In all fairness, it has also helped me appreciate the little things Colorado offers in stark contrast. For when I heard the friendly “Here ya go gal” that accompanied my first post-New York cappuccino, I looked out the window at the formidably protective Rockies and knew I was home.