I dreamed of the return of Roger Federer. It is likely that many tennis fans have also long hoped for this moment, but this was true. Last night I actually dreamed of Federer, if we can put the concepts of dream and reality in the same verbal group. At least it had all the appearances of reality.
The sequence was nourished by scenes already seen accumulated everywhere during the previous decade. A large airport hall from a distant land. A warm dawn with the scent of damp earth and the taste of jet-lag. Some birdsong – but maybe it was my open window – through a forest of arms holding smartphones above their heads and the cries of Chinese women in ecstasy: “Logeurre!” Yes, there were people crowded along the barriers, without masks. Every time the airlock freed a traveler with a big bag and a red track jacket (why red? Maybe Lille 2014), a shiver ran through the great hall. It was never him, he knows how to be desired, even to get out of a plane, but the thrill outlived the disappointment. The night was getting ready to end and Roger Federer to arrive.