Wimbledon and I have been a bit… weird over the past two years. You know those short and weird relationships?
The first week starts out great. You love spending time together. As much as possible. You can’t stop thinking about each other. You wonder where this person (grass surface) has been all your life (season). Generally speaking, there’s so much awesomeness going on that you can’t complain. You’re just soaking it up.
Then you don’t see each other for a couple of days. Maybe just one. You meet up. Ah, everything is so bright and fantastic. But then you notice something weird. Definitely not normal. What the hell was that? Must have been something… yup, was definitely something. Ah, that’s definitely not right either. Before you know it, everything has gone to hell. You feel like you have nothing in common. You’re not sure how you ever even liked this person in the first place. It’s all become such a mess, and you smack yourself for not realizing that of course, OF COURSE, it was going to end up in a mess like this.
And so goes Wimbledon. Sven grants Kim not one, but TWO gracious net cords to get the break back in the second. Bepa somehow doesn’t flinch. Kim pees in the wind. Bepa still doesn’t flinch. Second set Bepa.
Then she plays the third set as the mentally stronger opponent. By far. And wins. In the third set. In a grand slam. Quarterfinal. Get out while you still have your freedom.