Nothing like Sam

To sense the spirit of Australia, you might like to look at a ridiculous antiseptic touristic video, entitled There's nothing like Australia, in which the name of our nation is screamed out, unnaturally, as Aus-stray-lee-YAH:



To my mind, a better way of envisaging Australia would consist of watching tomorrow's tennis female final at Roland-Garros.


I'm convinced that our Samantha Stosur will win, because she's a fabulous Aussie freak, of the kind we all love and admire. Have you seen her muscles? Have you read about how she escaped from death after being bitten by French ticks? Truly, there's nothing like Sam.

BREAKING NEWS: Sam jammed! She left Roland-Garros with a silver plate, not the coveted cup. An Italian publication, admiring her muscles, said that Sam looked like a colored illustration in an anatomy textbook. Fair enough. I have the impression that the reasons for her defeat this afternoon might be found rather in psychology textbooks. At the time of Ernest Hemingway, aficionadas of bullfighting used to say that a potentially successful matador had to be hungry... meaning, not only that his origins had to be humble, near the poverty borderline, but that he had to be inspired by a voracious desire to kill bulls, be applauded and be paid muchas pesetas. If you weren't hungry enough, you would never succeed in tauromachy. Better stick to repairing bikes, working at a meat abattoir, or selling peanuts at the entrance of the arena. As I watched TV images of the finalists about to enter into the arena of Roland-Garros, I had the clear impression that Sam simply wasn't hungry enough. She looked like a politely serious and muscular Brisbane lady about to spend an enjoyable afternoon outdoors, whereas Francesca Schiavone, from the moment we saw her in the dressing room, was like a hungry warrior. And the hungry warrior won.