Wimbledon.

The week of tennis, in a spate of whites bow to a sunny, post-fireworks barbecues in July. Summer is in session, indeed. Taking (the tradition of) the fifth.

Wimbledon had come to roost - in my flat screen, late-night viewing schedules, browser computer tabs, and in post-work pubs everywhere.

And because we are tennis, and sun lovers - in that order since about high school or when i got my first burgundy junior slazenger & tretorn combo, i am submitting my asterisks to the hailing of the brilliance of super goddess machinas since the time of borg, sampras, henin, agassi-graff, clijsters, nadal, becker, federer, djokovic, and classically as ever, tempest leftie mcenroe, and navratilova.

I’ve never seen Sharapova in actual action, but she has two very interesting
videos that talk about both things i applaud: her sneaker / shoe-shopping credit (amazingly, she can pick and choose as a number-one seed, and not be shoved shoes at by the tennis shoes companies),

and her house.

Amazingly, i am bowled over by both - and her winning records, that don’t just achieve golden bowls of sponsorships, but actually created a spate of above-media treats, like actual forever trophies, 6-digit paychecks, friends with enormous yachts, awesome bespoke tennis rackets, and the sheer high of being at-par in mileage performance with peers, previous champions, & with other sportsmen / olympians.

The weekends are about the golden age of indoors, but in the summer, we like watching the outdoors from indoors - or very rarely, actually be out and take in the sun. In the tropics, that’s very nearly everyday.

But, since we like being styled into sportsmanship, the timing of actual ultimate-accessory-of-tennis-racket, much-obliged bling of the thirty year old tennis bracelet, and annual per-tournament sports jackets with your name on them: fashion equals the madrigal stealth of actual skill - and in this case: knowledge, custom-graded accolade, and graceful ace in motion - are coordinated for a grand slam life (and summer) well lived.

Pimms, anyone?