Asspicker

As an inveterate night owl and major sporting event fan, there are few more satisfying fortnights than the Australian Open. I’ve flipped it on around nine every night this week and continued watching for at least six hours. Despite obtaining a copy of the new Destroyer album a week before its release date, I chose to delay listening tonight in favor of one of my least favorite great athletes to ever play any sport: Asspicker.

I’m sad to report that I never thought of Rafael Nadal’s finest nickname; my buddy Brock had the honors. (I previously liked to call Nadal The Clamdigger because there was a time when he wore capris while dominating his opponents.) But the most successful clay court player in the history of the sport likes to pick his shorts out of his ass throughout all his matches, never mind his ridiculous ritual prior to serving. He touches his nose, rubs behind his left ear, touches his nose again, rubs behind his right ear, and then touches both of his shoulders. I sent a GIF of the routine to a non-tennis-watching buddy this week for a context-free analysis: “Me high on coke trying to prepare for hours of sweeping non-existent dust off a kitchen floor.” Nailed it.

Asspicker (accidentally) hit a forehand into the head of a ball girl the other night then stopped playing, checked on her, gave her a kiss on the side of her noggin, and resumed a guilt-free pummeling of some loser named Federico Delbonis. ESPN showed a video of Asspicker with the girl and her family the following day, yet I still couldn’t do anything but mock his (surely genuine) fake-looking smile before confessing to myself that it was a humane act.

60 Minutes ran an Asspicker profile a couple weeks ago. It was a test of my friendship with Brock.

“The Rafa interview was actually pretty good,” Brock divulged. “He isn’t as hateable off the court.”

“Actually, recorded it for the Joaquin Phoenix profile,” I replied, ignoring that he had the nerve to refer to him as Rafa. “Don’t wanna give myself any reason to have a nice thing to say about Asspicker.”

“Appreciate your desire to grow.”

It was a rich comment coming from a guy who—until moments prior—was no different than me, and never would’ve changed if 60 Minutes wasn’t his favorite show. Still, he had a point.

The only reason I detest Asspicker so much is because I love Roger Federer. Fed is the opposite of Asspicker; I’ve never thought of a single unkind thing to say about him. He plays tennis gracefully, had a stretch during his career when he was inarguably the greatest man to ever play tennis, is forever gracious in defeat, and is on my personal Mount Rushmore of all-time favorite athletes. I have a framed ticket stub from the 2013 U.S. Open when I saw Fed beat the shit out of some forgotten South American dude, which is exactly what I wanted to see happen that humid August afternoon. If Asspicker had come along a generation later, it would have been fine. I could argue how Fed would’ve obliterated him every time they played.

But if Asspicker wins this tournament next week, he will be tied with Fed for the most major tournament victories by any male tennis player ever, plus he’ll have won every major tournament at least twice, the first time any male will have done so. (Of course, Novak Djokovic is also in contention to be the winningest player ever, and while I like him, he’s a few wins behind Fed and Asspicker right now.) The next major—the French Open—is the one Asspicker has won a dozen times. Him winning there in early June feels inevitable.

As I type this, he’s serving up 5-1 after twenty-seven minutes to win the first set of a third-round match. The match is unquestionably over even though Ass (I sometimes forgo the picker) must win two more sets. I’m seething at the trademark bull logo on his neon pink tank top. I’m bristling at his socks, which look like his mole-covered abuelita knitted them and gave to him while yelling “¡Feliz Cumpleaños!” I’m debating if I see a few residual grains of sand on his calves, him no doubt yanking clams from Port Phillip Bay early this morning to shuck and eat for his pre-match meal. I’m being a dick, and I can only blame my intransigence on a Swiss man enamored with headbands.

If Fed were to read this, he’d undoubtedly thank me for my loyalty but say I should value Rafa’s incomparable talent too.

“But what about the asspicking and nose touching immediately afterward, Rodge?” I’d ask him, instantly on a first name basis.

“You’re paying attention to the wrong things, my dear friend,” Rodge would offer in return while staring into the sun, his vision unblemished by the blinding rays. “Why must you focus on something so unimportant?”

“Because I’m a petty, vindictive pieceuh shit, Rodge! What about Asspicker’s thinning hair? Shouldn’t he at least shave his head or get some Propecia?”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“Just humor me. What about his culotte phase?”

“You should try his fried whole bellies. By jove, the man can batter a clam!”

Voila. Asspicker’s got Big Clam Energy.