Rogers ‘Kentucky Fried’ Cup

by Nic Olson

This week in Montreal it is the Rogers Cup. Women’s Professional Tennis at its finest, minus most of the best and most interesting players. Nonetheless, the city has tennis is on the mind, and greasy golden brown legs are more plentiful than the Weyburn KFC buffet.

Tennis. The awe-filled hush of 12 000 people when they comprehend something bigger than themselves, and how quickly that is besmirched when a person shouts out inanities during important moments of silence. Like while the ball is tossed and in midair for the serve. Or between first and second serves. Simply because they aren’t human enough to understand the perfect moment of silence and collective awe that just preceded them. I watched a few marvellous matches, took a handful of less than marvellous photos and loved it.

Throughout each match I had somewhat of a difficult time focusing, whether it was because of unruly fans who lacked tennis etiquette, my weak core which causes a sore back because of sitting hunched over for hours, my contacts drying out, and my general wandering mind trying to come up with witting phrasing for this outlet.  I am mentally more of a child than my beard lets on; dreading school like it was something bad, lacking the ability to converse properly, playing in a new kind of playground. A French only playground.

I have a friend bicycling across the nation in its entirety. Between my two days of tennis, I spent a day of bicycling with him, up mountains, down mountains, in the time warp/money vacuum that is Old Port and back to the Eastview of Montreal. We biked for literal kilometres, just slightly less than the 7000km he will have finished once his whole trip is done. He is doing things that I wish I could be doing, and I’m doing things that others wish they could be doing. And all the while I still become impatient with the general public, with my decisions as of late, and my plans. If I could just tour with a few pairs of greasy golden brown legs, making millions in a week for slapping balls around, then I’d be set. Then maybe I’d be more patient. But probably not.

Advertisements