What in the hell is wrong with you?
I know that when you step out on the court, you might be thinking primarily of yourself, about your own desire to win. Especially when you play someone who appears to be head-and-shoulders above the rest of the class.
Well, let me give you a little hint about the rest of us. Some of us like to live life on the edge. Some of us, (and leave Pete Rose out of this, for land's sake!) actually bet on tennis. Some of us put a little faith in strangers, because we're in a trusting mood. Because you (specifically, you, Andy, you little -- whew! Almost lost it there ...) make "some of us" think we can believe, Andy. Some of us want you to win more than you do, trust me. Trust me.
I mean, why, Andy? Why would you retool your game, hire a tennis legend as your coach, tell us that you're the "New Andy," start hitting a backhand, even learning how to volley? Why do you reel us in, then cut us loose? Maybe you feel bad right now, because in spite of your improvements, you got beat again in a Grand Slam by Roger Federer. 6-0, Andy? 6-0?? I could see how painful it could be, feeling like you're closing the gap, only to be dismissed as just another pretender. You've got to be wondering, "What the hell? Is he getting better or am I getting worse?" Might even be feeling like you're trying to run in quicksand, working your ass off, and making no progress. And that sucks.
Andy, you might be thinking that this is the lowest a human being's ever felt. Two words:
"Some of us" expect big things, a big payoff, even, by supporting you, and "we" are the ones suffering now. Some of us have lost a paycheck over this match, a mortgage. Worse yet, "some of us" have to pick up a shovel and clean dog shit out of our yard in the biting Pittsburgh cold, sliding on a sloped lawn covered with snow. Ever been so low that you had to shovel dog shit for three weeks straight, have to clean up after a dog that doesn't even like you? (I can tell. I have my ways.) I didn't think so, Andy. Incidentally, when was the last time you've even been in the same room with a shovel?
Bottom line, Andy? There's only one fair solution to this. I feel like I've been hustled, man. You baited me into making a bet, then I get my clock cleaned. Or my yard. Whatever. Anyhow, you should pay off my bet, man. I put my neck on the line for you, dawg. For you. If you cared about your fans, you'd get your Cornhusker behind down here, and clean up my dog shit.
I really hope I don't need to get my lawyer on this, Andy.