On a hot, stuffy August day in Oklahoma 1982, the wind came sweeping down the plain, and the waving wheat sure smelled sweet when the wind came right behind the rain, and somewhere over in the state of Nebraska, a little Andy Roddick was born. Little Andy picked up a tennis racket and began chopping away, whacking his brother hard with incredible swinging ability, enough to make him pass out and foam at the mouth. One day, Andy’s parents decided to sign him up for the actual sport of tennis, thinking he would one day be good enough to go pro and make a gabillion dollars and Euros and buy whatever his little heart desired, like New Jersey or something.

He became crazy about tennis; he decided his power game was the most important, because he could use his serves and forehands to zone in on and intimidate his opponents. Kind of like a sniper rifle but nowhere near as cool. Alas, his backhand game would diminish to the use of two hands, a far less superior weapon to the one-handed swings like that of Richard Gasquet and Justine Henin.

Andy soon patented his serves and rose to the top ranks of the junior class. Soon, he turned pro and began playing with big names, such as Goran Ivanisevic and Andre Agassi. Ah, Pete Sampras was soon to retire in 2002 and an American player under the age of thirty was due to arise. Andy never wanted to be number one so badly in his entire life.

And then it happened. 2003 rolled around, and Andy was ominously labeled the next big game in tennis by the New York Post, much like the Sports Illustrated cover jinx. He won his first major at the US Open at the tender-lickin’ age of 21, one of the youngest American players ever to rank at number one. “At last,” thought Andy, watching the sunset on his snowy white steed with the lovely Mandy Moore by his side, “I have found my plateau. Now I will climb a mountain. Who will be swell enough to challenge me, Andy All Mighty?”

Unfortunately for Andy, a young man was already born on Swiss mountains. He was a silent assassin that dubbed himself Roger Federer [!!!!!!... !] and had already won Wimbledon. Federer’s eventual ascension to the top spot was quiet, under the radar, and shocking. One, because he wasn’t American and was ignored by every piece of media that wasn’t Sports Illustrated. Two, because Andy was cuter and didn’t scowl as much. Federer would soon begin complete domination over men’s tennis beginning in 2004 with winning the Australian Open, playing ridiculously well without breaking a sweat.

“Ah,” thought Randy- uh, I mean Andy-, “A worthy opponent! I will kill him with my serve!” Andy ignored the French Open, like most players who aren’t Spanish do, and focused on ripping the Wimbledon title away from his stone-faced rival. Andy crashed through his side of the pool, much like the Rohirrim did against the first wave of Sauron’s army on the Pelannor fields. However, Federer used his effortless grace and agility- not to mention his superb one-handed backhand- to train wreck the highly inferior Andy into outerspace. Federer then proceeded to butcher and shoot everyone who participated in the US Open that year with a sub-machine gun he affectionately dubbed Lemony Fresh. He ran through a window, Jason Bourne style, with the trophy raised high above his head and unleashed a Xena cry.

“Sacrebleu! This cannot be possible!” cried the naïve, American public who didn’t know too much about tennis. Or soccer. Or any other sport that wasn’t associated with the MLB, NBA, or NFL. But it was not yet the end. Federer began to crash through the entire world of sports and pick up endorsements like a child on Halloween. He drew comparisons to the likes of Tiger Woods, Michael Jordan, and Lance Armstrong, whilst in the process of killing Marat Safin and Lleyton Hewitt along the way (they deserved it). In the fateful season of 2005, Federer blasted Andy yet again from the Wimbledon finals, using his technique and taking advantage of his enemy’s terrible backhand. And this would be the decline of Andy. After the poorly played title match, Andy couldn’t focus and lost in the first round of the US Open in 2005.

The public cried out in shock and horror in a most irritating way: “Andy! Your mojo! Where did it gojo?” (Alas, it left a few years earlier with Mandy Moore.) He tried to bring his game back up. And failed. And tried again. And finally made it to the US Finals again, where he- again- lost to the man who wasn’t even called Federer anymore, but now known as “That Guy That Skips Over Everyone In That Sport We Really Don’t Care About.” Andy was sick of it. He began to mentally prepare himself. He began to serve harder, even though it hadn’t helped him in the past against The Fed. A few times, he came so close but then his game would drop again. And it wasn’t just tennis anymore. He was losing at everything else: podraces, jousting matches, Halo, laser tag, Trivial Pursuit, Guitar Hero, the arcade games with the stuffed animals, and even the Game of Life. Andy vowed to step his game up in the only way he knew how: making his serve stronger.

But suddenly, Andy was surrounded by people he didn’t even know. And he began to lose to them! All of the sudden, people were appearing like Power Rangers, not afraid to return the ball. Some guy called Rafael Nadal was prancing around in clam-diggers that were too tight and then this Serbian kid apparently named Novak Djokovic was making fun of everyone. In the years that Andy had focused on his serve and Federer (who currently owns and polishes five consecutive Wimbledon titles, four consecutive US Open titles, three Australian Open titles, and is working on the French), he was now surrounded by a younger crowd with more dynamic game. However, unlike Federer who began to roll with the times and switch up his game, Andy stuck to his one-dimensional game and relied heavily on his huge serve which didn’t scare people anymore, much like Maria Sharapova’s grunting and Serena Williams’ bison-like build.

Andy was frustrated. He began to lash out at people and publicly insult them. And suddenly, Andy Roddick just wasn’t so hot anymore. His steam was gone. His climb to the throne was over. People stopped talking about him. People stopped supporting him. After his embarrassing loss to Kohlschreiber in the most recent Australian Open, Andy was forced to run out into the streets and raise his hands above his heads, crying out in anger at the thunderstorm that raged overhead.

“Is this it? Is this the end? Am I (choke) done?” Andy asked the Tennis Gods, who took human form in Steffi Graf, John McEnroe, and Pete Sampras, while defamed cokehead Martina Hingis served them martinis (shaken, not stirred) in a VIP box over some Aussie spectators as Sharapova screeched over Ana Ivanovic and Djokovic trounced Tsonga in somewhat boring championship matches. As Andy sobbed openly in his fading spotlight, Federer listened to Michael Buble, sat in his insanely large house, and tried to think of the most gentle way to break the words “You suck” to his longtime rival, who would later take up golf and suck at that too.

“Dear Andy,
I’m sorry that I was born gifted and awesome, and even though I lost the Australian recently, I still obliterate everyone else in rankings. Also, I would like to apologize for stealing Wimbledon and almost every other major from you and the rest of the boys. However, I too need to eat sometimes, and yes, I enjoy my $9,793,478,403 I’ve won in prize money and endorsements. And I can’t help it if I’m that damn good.
In response to your last letter, well Andy, I haven’t spoken with the Elder Tennis Gods and I don’t mean to brag, but coincidentally I was recently promoted to a Tennis God and I am the first active and possibly the greatest Tennis God ever. Therefore I don’t feel too bad saying that doesn’t take a genius to figure this one out: I own you. You’re past your time. Just give it up. One title in over five years? I have twelve. Go join Gaston Gaudio and Juan Carlos Ferrero on the couch and work on your Mario Kart game. Let me and Nadal finish this up.
Title Record: Me 12 and counting, You 1. Personal Rivalry: Me 14 and counting, You 1. Way to go with that one hit wonder stuff. As much as you might hate me, can you really deny? Federer is Betterer. Game, set match. Accept it. Embrace it. And thanks for helping me race past Sampras’ record. Here’s a free racket. Don’t break it on that one great serve.

Sincerely, Roger Federer”

*This story was inspired by true events and is mostly fictional. If you couldn’t tell.