One year ago – one blissful, perfect year ago – I was at Gold’s Gym with my dad, jogging my heart out at a moderate pace and watching Roger Federer ace Andy Murray into submission.  I remember it fondly; he seemed unstoppable as always, and I and the rest of the world thought that surely he would only keep going.  However, the rest of the season was lackluster at best.  And now – NOW – he is back in Melbourne, back on that supremely peaceful bright blue hardcourt, and I thought that if there was ever a time to get back on top, this would be it.

NOT SO.

Beaten by Djokovic in straight sets.  STRAIGHT SETS, I tell you.  I actually had a dream last night that Federer was knocked out of the running, ended up ranked fifth, and Andy Murray won the Australian Open.  The first part came true probably while I was dreaming it (cosmic connection, I say), the third part is pretty likely to come true, but if the second part ever comes true I will place myself squarely in front of one of those tennis ball shooter things and hope for the end.  I’m trying to slowly but surely transfer all my hopes and dreams onto Cilic.  He’s gonna be next, I can just feel it.

At least I’ll always have this to remember him by:

Clearly my own life is rather lacking in excitement at the moment.