When playing the establishment in an epic five setter, you get up in skyline running away. In the indentations on his sneaks of Black London and the ominous number eight. Knew him from the volleys he ambush his victim. Like the stench of loss glued like stickum. Like a pickskin to the hands of Lester Hayes, Roger lays down the law to most that he plays.
So when a player has some hope in the form of a crack, the adversary has the name Novak. Rock in frame, eyes alabaster. He shuts up crowds like he is the master. He’s never outworked though his mind sometimes wanders. He pulled off an epic win on a court that grows flowers.
But Roger has his majors and his legions of fans that nobody can challenge in any of the lands. He has Club Fed and the adoring corp of press. Ever since he surpassed the record of Sampras. And now he has staked his flag on immortality, even one loss doesn’t stop the normality.
Of him being one no matter the ranking. On his mountain top, the others are thanking the opportunity to play a legend that is made. He is the King and Roger is his name.