As i went to sleep at 4am, early wee hours, the first chirping on birds had started and as i lay i was feeling dried, tired, exhausted and with sapped legs. Tired ... why was i tired.... tired as if i had taken the long journey of one month.. tired if i had traversed that journey Federer took from defeat at clay and then coming back to claim the crown again at Wimbledon after exactly a month, exhausted and relieved as Federer if he had not won this Wimbledon, it might have taken a more heavy toll not just on body but right in those mind and those lines just below the temples that govern his thought, because this was his territory and he dared not to let in his greatest rival ever to stamp here. Tired because i could not think like Federer could not ...what if he had lost. Tired as the loser matador which Nadal is and in spite of losing he was the winner, because he has simply paved the way for maybe the greatest rivalry. Tired because i lost like Nadal giving the fight to last but losing it to the greatest but still showing that there has been improvement which no one could believe even though it was a ride till the final but taking a set and fighting to the core was the thing that has confirmed that matador is here to watch out for.
Tired and exhausted as i had the legs of Cannavaro that perched on the podium and lifted that beautiful trophy of the so called beautiful game. Those legs of the most challenging and strongest defender of maybe all times, those legs that danced after the match but not before challenging and clearing the Italian defense of Henries, Riberies or Maloudas or Zizous. Those same weary legs that went out in disgrace, tired of all the burden, tired of all million eyes that must be putting him to shame, those legs that earlier had woven the magic called Zizous but now tired of all the artisitry and going in the tunnel of infamy. It might be legs of the player who saw it all, legs that hit the heel of Malouda and gave the glory to Zizou, same legs then went in air above and so high that no one had done before and helping the head to equalise, same legs that met those glorified skillful legs only to see them support a head butt and then leave the field in utter disgrace, those same legs of Materazzi who after watching all these also headed and hit the ball on the rightest possible spot inside the goalpost in penalties. These could be the weary but excited legs of any of the Azzurris who were jumping in sheer ecstasy or could be the weary but shocked legs of Lez Bleus. It could be legs of Marcelo Lippi, that went ahead to grab the jacket even as other legs jumped in euphoria as calmly as he had marshaled his troupe, or maybe as weary as Domeneche's, taking the criticism all this time even though seeing the team through to finals and now watching his most glorified legs already gone in derision and now watching his bunch standing in disbelief as if questioning what had they done wrong that their fate was decided in 15 seconds filled with blemish.
Or it could be those weary legs that simply went to sleep on thoughts of all the excitement, euphoria, sadness, madness, gushness, sadness and any other emotion ever observed or felt in last 40 days. Time to take rest and push the restart button.