I am 35. About half of my life has probably been lived and for the mortals amongst us, it’s a somewhat difficult age. After a few years of believing that the world is your oyster, reality strikes and you begin to understand that there are a few things you can’t do, a few things you’ll never do. You reconcile yourself to your limitations and play the game you are in, with the hand you’ve been dealt.
It is what it is. Your body is creaking at the hinges. There is that hint of a back pain, maybe your knees hurt and while the sun and the wind have never bothered you so far, the indoors are usually preferable these days. Didn’t you wake up at five when you were a teenager, ignoring the freezing winter, for a few sets of tennis? What about the summer when it was burning outside and you were cycling to a cricket match? But you’re not that young these days. Not anymore.
But then there is this other guy. He’s 35 too. And he’s completely incorrigible. He has been waltzing around the Rod Laver Arena the past two weeks like he is taking a stroll in his backyard.
A couple of minutes of jumping jacks and you are drenched in perspiration but this guy looks like he’s ready for a party after a three-hour tennis match. Give him a tuxedo and he’d be ready to pose for GQ on the red carpet. It’s unfair! He doesn’t break a sweat, he’s never out of breath, he barely even makes an effort. A 40 shot rally doesn’t matter. He will still be ready for his next serve in 12 seconds.
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