Real Men do Cry

And today, its Roger Federer’s day.
Today, Roger Federer added one more trophy to his rack (I really dunno where they keep stuff like that…maybe a cupboard, or a chest…maybe in an old brown shoe, but he’ll need have to find a really big one…).
Though it is always been my wish that someone ousts Federer from every tournament…defeats him, beats him hollow…our hearts always beats for the underdog, don’t they? But to imagine a tournament without Federer, would be to imagine Black Sabbath without Ozzy, or Microsoft without Bill Gates, or India without its tricolour. No tournament will be complete without Federer, and it will be a sad day when he retires from tennis.
Throughout his matches, any slight display of emotion is met, always, with comments on how emotional he’s been throughout that match, tournament, career, life, previous lives, (okay, I’m taking it too far). Even the slightest “come on!”, sparks off discussions that seem to last for hours on end. And today, at the presentation ceremony of the Australian Open, he broke down completely. I believe his words were, “It’s all coming out now”. But somehow, something didn’t feel right. This wasn’t Federer, this was just some blubbering old fool, who was holding on to the Winner’s (extremely heavy) trophy, and wiping the tears from his eyes and tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, only to see it coming out of its resting place the very next instant. This wasn’t Federer, the champion, the World No. 1, the man remotely resembling a machine at times, and a Gujju at other times. But then I ask myself, why can’t Federer wear his heart on his wristband, as Shakespeare nearly said? Isn’t he a husband, son, brother, student, tutor, and all the other masks he might be wearing? Or is it just that my mind is infested with the tough boy words, “Real men don’t cry?”? Coz they do…real men do cry, its your artificially macho boys who pretend not to…coz Real men do cry.