Our prolific guest writer, Evan, is back with a humorous take on the tennis IQ and excellence of Djokovic. Is Novak Djokovic Human?
Check out Evan’s other pieces under the analysis tag.
Is Novak Djokovic Human
by Evan Gaudreau
“What are you doing?” the A.I. specialist yelled.
The assistant looked over, frightened.
“No! No! No! That is the wrong program. Put in the program for Nadal, not Federer. They are two different programs!”
Novak’s hair was hanging from the prongs while his exposed brain showed.
Well, it wasn’t a real brain since he is a machine.
The specialist ran over to the computer, shoving the assistant aside.
“Look here!” He grabbed the mouse and moved the cursor to the program that read Game plan for Machine #2.
Gina Stockwell looked on as the specialist moved his hand quickly. Then she stared at the body sitting in the chair.
It was amazing that no one knew that Eron Muskateer, owner of one of the greatest car company’s and a space station, created two Humanoids that held on to the record for most Grand Slam Majors, she thought, equaling the current human record held by Roger Federer.
“We will have the record for most grand slams soon,” Gina said.
“We already have it!” said the assistant. “Nadal has 21.”
Novak’s haircut?
Gina waved her finger. A man dressed in black sprung out of nowhere and snatched the assistant.
She didn’t like being wrong.
“You can’t keep getting rid of assistants!” the specialist said.
“I’m not getting rid of him, am I? He signed the contract. We’re going to use him in the next flight to Mars.”
“Does Eron know?”
“Just focus on your job!”
He clicked the mouse. The screen turned red at the bottom. The redness rose to the top and then the screen turned green.
“We’re good,” he said.
He pushed another button, lowered the prongs, and snapped onto Novak’s hair.
“Do you think people will start to realize he never gets a haircut?”
“No! Pffft,” she said, suggesting he was a moron. “No one pays attention to that. Look at what we did with Nadal. We made his hair thin as the years have gone on.”
“Yes. Yes. That was very smart of you.”
As if I didn’t know that, she thought.
“Do we need to bring Nadal in for maintenance?”
“Not yet. He should be good for this tournament.”
“Are you sure?”
“AM I SURE?” she said. “Who’s he playing?”
“Taylor Fritz.”
“Please! That match is a walkover. We can worry about his programming after the final.”
Thunderdrunk
Gina was at home. She grabbed a bottle of wine off the rack. It read, Thunderbird, on the label.
“An American Classic,” she said as she twisted the cap.
Then she began singing, “What’s the word? Thunderbird. How’s it sold? Good and cold. What’s the jive? The Bird’s alive. What’s the price? Thirty twice.”
The wine smelled like gasoline.
She poured a glass. As the aroma floated across the room, the leaves on her plants wilted and her Donskoy cat took off, scampering up the spiral staircase.
“Mr. Bonkers,” she yelled. “Where are you going?”
She tilted her head back, downed the drink and then burped.
“I’ll have another,” she said and filled another glass. She walked over to the couch with her drink in one hand and her phone in the other.
The phone vibrated.
She took a sip and looked at her phone.
A sports update flashed on the screen.
Fritz stuns Nadal for Indian Wells Final. 6-3, 7-6.
She spit out her drink.
“No…No…Nooooo!”
She got up and grabbed the bottle of Thunderbird, tilted her head and chugged the remaining yellow liquid.
Her insides burned as the ghastly mixture went down her pipes. She then headed for the stairs but collapsed after a few steps and fell onto the floor, drunk as a skunk.
One day later
“Have you seen Gina?” Eron asked the specialist.
The specialist sat in a chair with his feet on the desk. He was eating a banana.
“Nope,” he lied.
“How’d you get that bump on your head?”
“Cabinet,” he lied again.
The night before, the specialist had driven over to her house to check up on her after she wasn’t returning phone calls or texts. He found her snoring on the couch. He saw the empty bottle of Thunderbird lying flat on the table. A second bottle lay on the floor, almost empty. He picked up the bottle and sniffed it. He shrugged and finished the bottle. His face contorted and he began snorting like Curly from the Three Stooges. “Wupwupwup!” he said, skipped towards the entrance, and banged his head against the door.
**This came out of a conversation I had with a buddy. We were joking around, wondering if Djokovic is human because of the complex patterns he plays during matches**
