Let’s get this straight: I’m not broken, fractured, or even overly calloused. I’m stressed. Period. I don’t need a walking boot, I need a shrink. When Rafa says he wants to relax and put his feet on the couch, take him literally. Look, this is a trying time for me. Not long ago me and my opposite were considered the greatest assets in tennis. Now Djokovic’s feet are all the talk: his court coverage is astounding, he gets to more balls than even Rafa does, he looks better in a pair of calfskin Gucci loafers. It’s just a lot for a proud body part to take.
Now some are going to blame me for the loss at Wimbledon: Rafa’s left foot couldn’t handle the strain. BS. First of all, ever since the middle of the Del Potro match I was doped to the gills. Charlie Sheen had nothing on me. I was so numb it didn’t even bother me when I heard there’s going to be a Mission: Impossible 4. All of a sudden I’d come out of a haze, sitting in an ice bucket, and hear we’d just beaten Murray. Way to hang in there foot, I was told. You’ve just delivered another body blow to England. Now suck on this needle. The next thing I know Rafa is licking his wounds and juggling microphones with Sue Barker. How is that my fault? Talk to his hands. What was with all those missed passing shots? What about the brain? Totally spooked by the Djoker. We’ve lost to him five times in a row and he’s gone soft. Did you hear him in the press conference after the match?
“And to change to be little bit less nervous than these times, play more aggressive, and all the time be confident with myself. That’s what I gonna try next time. If not, I gonna be here explaining the sixth [loss].”
What a wuss. But all I hear is how refreshing the honesty: A top athlete never admits to such vulnerability. Exactly. Where is his manhood in all this? Why do they get to skate? They’re always hiding.
And when Davis Cup rolls around next week, you can be sure I’ll be exhibit A as to why Rafa skips the tie with the U.S. The schedule is too tough on his poor little foot. Once again, not my fault. If it was up to me I’d be there. Fish and Roddick? That’s good eating. We can get some of our confidence back smacking those two around. Plus, I like Americans – they’re obsessed with footwear and have fat feet. I wouldn’t be caught dead in a pair of Crocs, but damn it if they’re not roomy.
For the record, Rafa has this weird obsession with playing in small shoes. It’s like a kid’s size 11. I swear his sister couldn’t even fit into them. He thinks it makes him more responsive on the court, but I can’t breathe in those cramped hell holes. It forces me to curl my toes like I’m kissing my grandmother. How am I expected to perform under those conditions? I need to spread out to do my job. Then again, I’ve got nothing to complain about compared to Rafa’s tush. He’s been suffocating and poking that poor bastard to death in front of the whole world for years. I’ll take a little criticism over that any day.