Roger Federer and James Anderson, two classical vintage wines have made a mockery of their frailing bones and aging body.
Tennis and fast bowling are supposedly taxing, aren’t they? You are not supposed to enter the quarter-finals of Wimbledon, it doesn’t matter even if you are the oldest person to accomplish this feat in the open era, and moreso in straight sets against a player who in his childhood dreams must have marvelled at the prospect of facing you, neither you are allowed to take 1000 first class-wickets at this ripe age of 39.
The daunting question haunting my curious mind is which enzyme ticks them to keep on running their respective career race, when many seek the comfort of the commentary box, or are busy chalking out plans for the summer vacation. Here they are these genius Homo-Sapiens, sweating it out on the big stage, with the drive of sheer passion ingrained in every cell of their body.
One makes the tennis racquet look like a magic wand piercing the ball like a surgeon’s precision, other makes the ball dance to his tune, as if delivering a sermon on swing bowling. History will measure the weight of their statistics but unfortunately there is no barometer to measure their passion index.
As I write this, Roger might not be able to make it till the end, even though my emotional heart disagrees with the practical brain, and with Anderson this might well be his swansong season, with a chance to add the cherry of an Ashes win at the top of his illustrious career.
As long as they are extracting the last drops of their sweat and blood, let us marvel at their awe-inspiring feats and give them a salute for keeping the fire in their belly alive and burning the age barrier.