Entitlement

I’ve always wondered what it is in Roger Federer that makes me want to not like him. He has the moves, after all -- the fluidity, the grace, the power deftly disguised and always lethal.

One fine day out of virtually nowhere the epiphany hit me like caveman’s club on my cone-shaped head. Heapin’ excreta! There’s one word that sums up the smugness, the (sometimes) misplaced and often grating confidence. One word that sums up his thinly veiled contempt for lesser beings.

Entitlement. His utterly blinkless assumption of his place in history’s pantheon of greats. It matters not to me that he actually racked up enough chips to make a sure bet on the GOAT (greatest of all time) stakes.

Perhaps it says a lot about me and my proclivity for underdogs, and I’m quite consistent about it in almost everything.

And because there are too many things I want to say on the topic, as usual I’ll end up saying too little.