Roger Federer's Defeat: Wimbledon 2008

Approximately one year ago I wrote my first sports article after Roger Federer lost in the Wimbledon final to Rafael Nadal. 

The pain of that loss was so devastating that I wrote this poem for Roger and his fans and published it on Roger's Website as a comment. 

In celebration for my first year as a sportswriter, I would like to dedicate this poem to all who witnessed this magnificent match. 

The poem details Roger Federer's reaction to his loss.

wimbledon 2008

enduring in dull, fading light as the sun finally sinks away…
pain flickers…
surfacing momentarily in shimmering eyes,
in a steely-set jaw
trying to smile,

regret trumps satisfaction after an epic struggle;
victory was close enough that
he feels its phantom embrace
and longs to draw it inside
where it belongs…

the distant dance mocks his sorrow
as he follows the familiar rhythm of triumph
so long his leading lady…now in the arms of another;
the vision haunts…as sorrow rips a corner
of his soul and the shudder of loss is almost overwhelming…

in the fading glow, he bows to his opponent
praising his ability and his will,
stepping aside, bending his light, as the roar of the crowd
honors the winner…

millions watch his nobility with wretched understanding….
familiar with devastation and defeat,
sensing the invisible scars and the silent tears
of the inestimable champion…

as we weep for him, we cry for ourselves;
for all of us who suffer defeat
daily in lethal doses,
we, who will never soar nor embrace perfection…

for he has carried us all in his graceful dance along baselines;
where we dig, dip, chip and slice,
creating implausible angles and breathtaking shots
with agility, dignity and spell-binding ability…

we who lead paltry lives devoid of fame and glory
cling to this champion,
shamelessly sharing his glory and fortifying our self-worth
as he lifts each trophy and gently kisses it…

the noble spaniard who
bludgeoned his way through center court…
purloined the trophy; but he never quite captured our hearts
for he does not elevate aesthetics or skirt the surface of lawns…
he grinds and pounds and bullies until there is nothing left
but red dust and the decay of artistry….

ja allen