Living in Japan means watching the men’s Wimbledon final at two in the morning.

Last night, I tried in vain to stay up and watch the current world’s number one, Roger Federer (aka Hair Tosser) defend his title against the current world’s number two, Rafael Nadal (aka Ass Digger).

I guess it’s appropriate that Rafa is the world’s number two given his unseemly proclivity. What on earth is he looking for? It definitely ads to the tension of the game when Rafa reaches inside the back of his shorts to poke his own ass. You just never know when he’s actually going to find something. I keep waiting for him to pull out Billy Jean King or a tennis racket.

That said, at least Rafa’s bad habit is so awful as to be mocked in hushed tones, unlike Federer’s bad habit of tossing is hair this way and that. Someone get that man a comb, a brush or a haircut. Ironically it’s not his pronounced forehead he should be worried about. It’s the fact that his face, from eyebrows to chin, inhabits only the lower half of his face. Forget the hair. Try to cover up the fact that your face is squished into the bottom half of your face. He looks like one of those alien Predators from the movie of the same name.

You see, I’m a huge tennis fan. It’s the only sport I follow with any regularity. I love the one on one, the do or die, the mental anguish, the vicious nature of the sport. Team sports tend to bore me. Where is the tension in a group effort when you can rely on Bob or Leon to catch your back? No, give me a one on one with the world watching and both competitors on near equal footing physically. That’s a game. That’s drama.

Unfortunately, I was unable to stay awake for the last two sets of the final. Damn the International Date Line! Damn the rain delay! Damn the shochu I was drinking! But damn if I didn’t miss one hell of a match.

Andale Rafa!

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