End of the World, as I know it

A part of me died when Brian Lara retired. From my childhood, since asking my Dad "Who is that short guy who thinks he can outhit Desmond Haynes" to when lapping up every single delivery he ever faced in the 2001 Sri Lanka series, I have grown up, whence he has inspired everything I did. Hell, I even started taking my G. C. E. Advanced Levels seriously after he hit *that* 400 n. o. against England in 2004. I remember years with his personal milestones. I remember numbers because of some his phenomenal scores (for e. g. 375, 153* and 400*). His batting always involved some amount of risk, and risks always thrilled me. There was nothing more I wanted in this world than to see him bat live, in person. Alas, that did not happen.

Another person who evokes the same sort of sentiment in me is Roger Federer. From feeling sorry for Sampras in the 2001 Wimbledon and then to appreciating the fact that the baton of Tennis "Godness" has indeed been passed safely to this ponytailed, head-banded Swiss player was important. He played, what am I saying, plays with metronomic precision. Something to do with him being a Swiss, they say. I don't understand, never having been to Switzerland, little, always neutral Switzerland. The joke is that when Fed and Stan Wawrinka (Swiss No. 2) play, the games take only one and half minutes each because they play so fast, with minimum of fuss. Federer does not emote. Hell, he rarely sweats. When you imagine Nadal, you see the sweat stained shirt sticking to his ripped body. When you imagine Federer, you can feel the hawk like gaze but nothing about the sweat.

OK I am rambling.

The point is Federer is in terminal decline as well. I should have seen it when the 14th Grand Slam title, which should have been but which wasn't (Australian Open 2009) happened and the tears which flowed so freely should have confirmed it. But the 14th came later, at a venue which had been his nemesis (Roland Garros) and all was well. For the time being, he had arrested the tide of decline, and the eventual Wimbledon title (15th) brought about euphoria. Then he lost to someone whom I consider as the Face of Future Tennis (Juan Martin Del Potro) in the US Open of the same year. Alarm bells rang, albeit at a soft volume. Then came Sweet Sixteen, a number I have come to cherish because of Federer and from then on, the Number 17 seems to signify everything magical, and unattainable. The whole world is holding its breath for Sachin's 100th 100, but I for one, am longing for 17. I know that he can't play forever like the way he has played before, yet I bluff, and my brain refuses to move on. The question is will I get the chance to at least see Federer play in person.

Very soon the bastions who held up my world with their atlas like strengths will be gone from my everyday life. Life will go on, but the World I knew, the World I had grown up in, would have been changed forever as well.

Sigh.