(The Original)

Amateur Scribe

Serena Oversteps the Line

tennis-ball

Well done to the lineswoman who so effectively railroaded Serena Williams’ push for the US Open title. Diminutive in stature and timid in demeanour, but determined to make a name for herself on the big stage with a dodgy foot-fault call despite the seething mountain of prime American muscle looking to ram a fuzzy yellow Dunlop Pro Tour deep into her gullet.

It is these unsung heroes that make professional sport such an unpredictable joy.

I wouldn’t mess with that though. Would you? Old Serena looks like she could grind billiard balls to dust just using her thighs. Even if her foot had been a yard over the line, I think I would have kept respectfully schtum in the fervent hope that she didn’t knock my block off with one disdainful swish of her magnificent bosom. Although…

I must confess a fleeting, awe-struck crush on Serena. She always seems so vulnerable beneath the power - more down-to-earth than the demure, statuesque Venus (though they both have an adorable propensity to giggle when asked flirty questions by puckish reporters).

You feel you could probably buy Serena a drink in a bar without getting your face smashed in for looking at her the wrong way. I bet she’d have a girly drink, too, like a white wine Spritzer, or something – unlike that Amelie Mauresmo who probably sups Bombardier out of a tankard and belches the Marseillaise when she’s had a few too many.

Many have scoffed at me for this unlikely infatuation, but for some reason I keep getting images in my head of that scene in Police Academy where the weedy fellow is treated to a humiliating martial arts pounding and subsequent bedroom domination at the hands of the pneumatic Sergeant Callaghan. Mmmm… Sergeant Callaghan…

I’m over it now though you’ll be pleased to hear. The stark reality of a romantic liaison with Serena Williams would no doubt hit home the moment you suffered a pulverised rib-cage after dressing as a US Open line judge in a misguided attempt at role-play. It also occurs to me, belatedly, that it is not terribly good for a gentleman’s self-esteem if his paramour possesses biceps that are bigger than his head. Nope – it’s Sharapova all the way for me from now on…

The Semenya “thing” (no pun intended) has troubled me for a while – as has the constant niggling worry that Usain Bolt may not be a world-beater after all, but merely a drug-addled chancer with an ingenious way of switching urine samples with a nun during the lap of honour.

I have long thought athletics should simply be a massive free-for-all: Lads, take as much nandrolone as you can shovel in your gob; Ladies, gorge yourself on testosterone supplements until you look like Linford Christie. Let’s get the 100m world record down to under 8 seconds and see if a paranoid speed-freak from the Ukraine can clear the sand-pit if he thinks enough aliens are after him.

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