Miscellany, Uncategorized


In dreams we can do the unthinkable, face down unimaginable terrors and walk into the sunset victorious.  We can win the Big Game.  Save someone’s life.  Bargain for the Dream Job.  Win the Girl of Our Dreams.

In dreams, too, we have the have the courage to tell the people we admire just how special they are to us.  With perfect and utter specificity we can tell that person just how we feel.  That’s because the barriers between We and They do not exist.  Instantly in a dream we are seated in  an intimate café, somewhere in a quiet neighborhood in Paris, or Rome, or New York, and the rest of the world does not matter, like background noise, there, but totally and completely irrelevant to the conversation at hand.  A conversation filled with meaningful things like philosophy, and art, and politics, and dreams–and making her laugh until the lines around the corners of her mouth form up into her cutest smile.

I wonder so often what it would be like to hold her hand, gaze into those beautiful eyes and ask her what her dreams are and what she thinks about when she isn’t busy with her day job.

She is the most beautiful woman I have seen, but that undoubtedly objectifies her beyond sheer boredom.  Even so, perhaps it wouldn’t totally offend her to say that her eyes were the first thing I noticed about her.  The moment I saw her eyes, from halfway across the court, my heart just about imploded.  I have been hopelessly attracted to her from that moment.  I ache to find out more about her, the real her.  The one that I know from watching her eccentricities at matches for years must surely be smart, and charming, and funny, and inquisitive, and adventurous and spirited, and all of the things I admire so much.  I can do that in my dream–talk to her about these things–because there, in that space, it is easy.  We are sharing that table, in Paris, and I know the ending.

But people like me, the hopeless dreamers, who hold on to such romantic notions, we never quite get it.  She is one of the glitterati.  An impossible dream for a member of the proletariat such as I.  That’s where my dream goes, Poof

I have met tennis players before.  Ones I have enjoyed watching play, and even one or two I can admit to liking a little bit more than that.  But they were mere players.  There is something different about her, something I never felt before.  My hands begin to tremble, my stomach feels like it has butterflies the size of 747s dogfighting inside of it, and my mouth is dry as cotton whenever I have been around her, at tournaments at which I have been fortunate to see her play.  I wish she knew what I wanted to say to her.  Not that it would make a difference to one of the tennis glitterati, but it’s something I wish I could say to her in person one day.  Just so she knew.

But the sad reality I feel is that I never got to say to her all of these things I feel inside. How she makes me want to be a better man. How much she has inspired me to better myself. How I long to meet her and make her laugh. How I think about her smile when I am sad and how it makes me feel better instantly. How I wonder constantly if she is ok, or suffering with an injury, or in pain, or depressed with another loss. And how I wish I could be the one to help her through it all.

I wish she knew these things, and how sincerely I admire her.

And if you ever should happen to read these words, know that I mean every single one of them, and that it would be so easy to fall in love with you.

I think I already have.


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