"have you tried the new thing?"
Chrissie Evert was a woman who knew she packed. and not just her clothes to galavant around the world spreading her tennis knowledge on the benighted. which was mostly the United States, the world pretty much were cultured on the sport of princes. she was the envy of her best friend who couldn't find her attractive, and of the male commentators on ESPN who loved everytime she wore one of those flowery prints which highlit just how massive her tits were. her breasts were sources of great pride and wonder, Chrissie was old but her front frame kept her vigorous and youthful, the entre of trays which welcomed you to her world of high-breeding, eternal beauty, the elegance of the ponytail and the wooden racquet, and a granny's experienced love. her history preceded her, but of course nobody remembered her playing days. she was simply the hot milf who never could let the sport go, and was teaching the young whippersnappers who were ebony queens and pregnant themselves. and did charity tournaments for unknown Hollywood celebs and the worthy Bud Collins in the summers at her tucked-away mansion in Florida where there is no winter. she commiserated over the phone nights to her friend Beadle, who reminded her that you cannot be a sportscaster and a feminist.
which brought back a lot of things for Chrissie, even if the public had long since let them go. she remembers that infamous interview she gave the BBC during the height of her popularity and winning ways when it became painfully obvious to anyone observing that no matter how much of a jock she was the public wanted her to be a princess. John Major conducted the interview. Chrissie is speaking to herself through her pillow in her room at the hotel as she notices a beetle sprawl across the balcony rail:
Chrissie: i remember the blindingly hot lights. the Prime Minster was grilling me for hours as if i were at a grandstanding Congress hearing. i was not one to showboat so i stood there quietly like a dumb-jock mouse and answered all the invasive entries into my personal life. they angrily shouted questions at me but i was not the President. they demanded to know why i broke it off with Lloyd, why wasn't i loyal to Lloyd. in truth i had forgotten all about Lloyd, i was onto the exciting dark underground Jimmy, which they didn't like. relations between our two superpowers have since cooled, but they were as hot as those lights. not so much thawed as cooled. the Minister demanded to know why i made that sexy Lipton commercial where i rub the glass over my neck and throat.
John Major: tea is not meant to titillate! you're playing tennis without a net, young lady!
Chrissie: it was the '80s!
i couldn't believe they found that objectionable. i still had my lesbian haircut which Martina groomed into me. and a frumpy '80s one-piece on those palms and pines and climes. reclining on a sandy lounge chair. anyway that was the very same night Jimmy cheated on me so i wasn't so thrilled to delve deep into my investigations. i wanted to get back to those 17 match-points i saved. i was done with men, i was feeling my haircut.
Chrissie receives a knock on her phone. it's Kris Budden.
Budden: preparing for 420? i suddenly found myself alone in a hotel room with the President. so i decided to step outside for a phone break.
Chrissie: smart girl, what's up?
Budden: i was doing my remote for my tribute to Dick Enberg.
Chrissie: i'm gonna miss that Dick. this is giving me ideas...
Budden: prepare yourself for the invasion. your inbox will be inundated with spambots up the wazoo. pay no mind to any of the forwards claiming to be from celebrities and tennis celebrities, they're not real, they're net traps.
Chrissie checks her watch for scores. there's one from Roger Federer. it simply reads your cute.
Chrissie: that is so adorable. i have always secretly had a thing for Roger. but i dare not tell anyone. i thought he was the one to restore my faith in humanity. and men. he is the paragon of virtue. his sweat glistened in the Australian sun this past Major, he had that surfer hair though i'm sure he doesn't know how to swim. his racquet is a golden trident. he is a god amongst men, he will never retire, he is the Ageless Wonder as Fowler keeps braying, i like the McKendry Chris better. he is the most ordinary-looking superstar we've ever seen, he doesn't look like he would be athletic at all if you cornered him at a busstop. that's what makes him cheeky and cute.
she types exactly as much as she says above into the body of the box. but she doesn't send the paragraph back to Roger's private email account. she's a grandma so she's bad with tech. instead she sends the message to her twitter account which she accidentally starts and with an illfated push of one button this becomes unbeknownst to her her very first tweet. on a platform she knows nothing about. it immediately gets a million sycophant likes and a million and one jealous unlikes and is retweeted throughout the unknown universe.
Chrissie receives a message through her phone, the same phone Budden was just on.
Chrissie: moshi moshi?
Roger: where are you?
Chrissie: is this...........Roger Federer? funny, i was just thinking about you. i'm sure Mirka won't mind. i have too many Ms in my life. what's up i'm busy. no i'm not i'm being a petulant 13yo girl.
Roger: where are you? i need to speak with you right now.
Chrissie: you sound just like Quentin Tarantino. so distinctive. but without all the baggage and luggage. you should ask me, i know how to pack for a trip. i really have nothing to do now, i live off my pile of money like a bed, semiretired, travel the globe on a whim. go where i'm not needed. bored mostly. i've been staying at this swanky new pad in Tokyo for several months now. lounging. chillaxing. not sure how i got the reco. it was swimming in my inbox one day. i can forward you the directions. or the coordinates. come up and see me sometime, sugar!
immediately after she puts the phone down, by turning the off-button on, Roger is at her palatial door.
Chrissie: *answering* you are fast. where did you come from?
Roger: *panting* no i am not. look at my soaked shorts. don't look it's embarrassing. there is no finish line. Miami. where you live. where damn del Potro beat me again. i always let him do this to me. he has my psychological number. i can't beat down friends. he is not my friend anymore, he is my frenemy. i lost the Number 1 ranking again! i was doing so well, i wanted to go undefeated at my age all year and the rest of years. i'm taking off the French cos i need months for my psychoses to rest and recover. i am fragile and vulnerable and in a skipping mood. hold me.
Chrissie: come in, Friend Fed. step inside my humbleless abode.