The second

I have to say the second was a thirty-something entrepreneur from Scotland that lived in Castelldefels. The guy used to be a mess, he used a lot, and I mean a lot, of drugs. He used to live with his parents in Dunn, had no job, no prospects, no nothing, but just a fondness for tennis. Of course, not playing tennis, but just watch it. He was totally engaged with the whole Nadal-Federer thing. Although we was practically an idiot in every single imaginable way, he had a very clear intuition of what sports are about: a metaphor of life's conflicts. Being rather older than both Federer and Nadal, he lived his achievements as his own. He loved Federer and was sort of mad with Nadal for putting such a enormous doubt on Federer's legacy. The day the Wimbledon final went down, I mean, THE Wimbledon final, we was so pissed off he sworn never to see tennis again. And then he described me something of a revelation. We has throwing out of sheer anger his weed, and his syringes, and well, you get the point right? But then, as he saw them fly, getting away from him, he wonder... How could he, close to forty, complain about a guy, in his twenties, that had achieved everything and still was pushing himself to the very limit and be gracious even in defeat? What would this guy say if he could see his Scottish poor life as a game? Wouldn't he be as entitled to trash about him as he, the Scot, was un-entitled to do about Federer? He saw then clearly that one guy has always watching his game, and understood why he could be as angry as he was... He put himself together, stood his ground, and tried never to loose a point again.