David Foster Wallace, most likely the only star contemporary fiction writer who really , really loves tennis and played it competitively, files a typically lengthy NY Times dispatch on the rare beauty of Roger Federer.
It was impossible. It was like something out of “The Matrix.” I don’t know what-all sounds were involved, but my spouse says she hurried in and there was popcorn all over the couch and I was down on one knee and my eyeballs looked like novelty-shop eyeballs.
Anyway, that’s one example of a Federer Moment, and that was merely on TV — and the truth is that TV tennis is to live tennis pretty much as video porn is to the felt reality of human love.
Update: watch the point Foster Wallace describes here.