Scott Sargent

Jeff MacGregor went about his “everyday life” today and absolutely owned LeBron James. Or what we though was LeBron James…

Turns out Mr. James doesn’t exist. He is a construct of the hyena media. A hypothetical. A mystic figment. An incantation. He is an empty vessel into which Nike and the networks and sports writers high and low pour our nonsense and our curses and our syrup. And has been since middle school.

He is a scarecrow stuffed with sticks and feathers and money. He is a phantasm, a distraction, an undigested bit of corporate drama.

ESPN

Jeff MacGregor, must you make my writing feel so inadequate?

Five years ago when the late David Foster Wallace wrote this, Federer was the best tennis player in the world by almost every measure. Two years ago when I wrote this, it was still possible to consider Nadal and Federer equals and opposites, brawn versus intellect, violence versus music. But as the shadows lengthened into night in Paris on Sunday, it became clear that this is no longer true.

Given every chance, Federer cannot beat Nadal. Because Nadal has become Federer.

He has adapted, improved, evolved. Somehow, Nadal has made his game beautiful. Where there was once only slug and grunt and run, Nadal’s poetry is now as tough and supple as anything the game has ever seen. Once thought of as nothing but la brute, a power player even DFW disdained as a muscle-bound baseliner preening in a sleeveless tee, Nadal has continually remade himself in the game.

ESPN