"I thought tennis was a gentleman's game!
Apparantly I thought wrong. How dare you have the gaul to walk onto that tennis court with your bright white Nike Airmax tennis shoes and limited edition, officialy licensed, blue Roddick-embroidered tennis bag. Already flaunting an aura of superiority before the match had even begun.
But you weren't finished, you proceeded to open a brand new pack of Wilson II tennis balls right in front of me, posturing that the tour-endorsed Wilson I tennis balls were somehow beneath you. I was going to say that the Wilson I tennis balls were the original balls of choice and that the Wilson II's only gained popularity from the name recognition of the Wilson I's, but I restrained.
Not only did you come well prepared with the latest equipment, you also color-matched that equipment with the correlating accessories of wristbands and a visor, a synergy that is hard to find in the professional, brand-contract-mandated ranks of men's tennis- thus gaining every conceivable pre-match advantage and perhaps already clinching the crucial game within the game.
Tennis is a gentleman's game, or at least that's what I was told. If you look back at my opening statement you will see I was curteous enough to refer to you as sir, a ranking I do not hand out to every Joe and Schmo. However, you did not treat me with similar respect on the tennis court.
Once the playing began, I grew further appalled. You were unholy and relentless in your pursuit of my complete and utter demise. At times toying with me, having me chase your ground strokes back and forth like a cancerous lab rat blindly searching for a last piece of cheese. You disassembled my many parts: you took the racquet out of my hand with your untold services aces, you made me an innocent bystander as you peppered the lines with a myriad of forehand and backhand winners, and when I charged the net you mashed the ball right at me, allowing me no time to react. How dare you!
If your play was not insulting enough to me, you would often chime in with your devilish tongue. "2-0, 4-0, 5-1, set!" and countless "40-love" statements that were devastating and necessary reminders of your effectiveness in both crushing me and accurately recalling of the score.
You have reduced me to nothing more than the very clay that makes up your precious domain. You have destroyed and impressed me with your level of play. Just don't ever do it again; at least not in front of other people, please!"
Your biggest fan,