"Dude, how totally Federline was that?" "That was pretty Federer, man"

Speaking of David Foster Wallace, he's got an article-essay-thing in the New York Times about a tennis player. I haven't read it all yet--okay, I haven't even gotten past the first page yet--but I'll say that the second paragraph got me more interested in tennis than I've been since the sun-drenched day I finished Infinite Jest five years ago. I don't really even remember any of his other tennis-themed essays communicating to me DFW's love for the sport in anything near the emotionally-involved way that paragraph does; I mean, sure they provide me with certain intellectually-graspable informational tid-bits such as "DFW loves tennis" and "DFW is smarter than I can ever hope to be" but I don't recall ever feeling the deep spiritual connection that can join people in appreciation of something utterly beautiful which one participant in the spiritual-connectivity had previously had little cause for which to consider that I felt by the time I got to the bits about the popcorn and novelty eyes. But maybe it's just that it felt nice at this particular random moment (which could have been any moment in my own personal history) to read about a Truly Amazing Sports Moment with complete emotional detachment or desire in regards to who wins and who loses said sporting moment (says the Cleveland boy for whom such moments generally equate to loss and heart-ache; see also the Fumble and the Drive and Michael Jordan's Shot and whatever we call the moments in which we lost the World Series in 1997 and whatever other crazy stupid moments have conspired to leave me a general emotional wreck w/r/t Great Sports Moments In History) (not that I've got my share of bound-up bitterness) (oh no) (none at all).