I think that I shall never see
a thing so lovely as a Patrick Rafter
Yes, Pat Rafter, that Aussi tennis stud,
not just a tennis star
not just a tennis god rather, a god period.

Two-time member of People Magazine's 50 most beautiful people list
I can't believe after all these years
They haven't given you sexiest man alive honors
what kind of putzes are those editors

Oh woe is the marginalization of the lowly tennis player
If the rest of the world only knew

When a friend asked me If you were gay who would you do it with
Well, Chris, that's a tough one, let's see
there's that Hanson brother, the middle one,
certainly him, Leif Garret before puberty
but, that's it man, what can I say
boys, man, just ain't my thing.

Yes, it's true, perhaps that Hanson has more sex appeal,
perhaps when you get right down to it, he is more dogable,
but you have talent, dear Patrick, and talent is always sexy

And with what gentle demeanor,
always sensitive to the needs of your opponent
after each air and serve toss that you catch instead of hit
you call out "Sorry, mate"

Ah, such consideration for your foe,
even as you kick his ass
and the modesty, oh the modesty
another brilliant facet of your personality
when a reporter asked,
"Do you think you'll be able to win it this year Patrick"
you said, "I wouldn't bet on myself, mate"

You are truly THE gifted one
and you handle these gifts with such grace
that it makes us tennis fans proud
even your grunts, even your grunts
are nothing short of sublime
"huh-eeeee! huh-eeeee!"
trust me, they grow on you

I don't know how you do it,
make those beautiful sounds,
it sounds as though you're exhaling twice in a row
and the laws of breathing,
in professional competition no less,
suggest that one must inhale before exhaling
Oh how do you do it?
You ARE the magic man!

And those looks
they keep resurrecting the expression "Matinee Idol"
to do you justice
a week's worth of facial hair
making a lovely accent of shadow
and that hair whether pulled back in a Samurai-style ponytail
or left to cascade down the shoulders along with a light beard
one can't help but see that you are a vision
of Jesus as athelete.

And those outfits,
the new surfer style tennis line you wear for Reebok
the search is over
I have found my church of fashion
I remember last summer when you flew in to New York
from your adopted home in Bermuda
for an afternoon promotion of the Rafter line at Macy's
and throngs of twelve year-olds girls showed up and saluted
the sight of you and maybe not just for the usual reasons

Then it hit me--
you are him! You are the reincarnation of Jesus
no doubt about it
you are the embodiment of Jesus Christ
as he truly wanted to be
as a tennis player
and you've taken to pounding vollies at the net
with far more love than you did pounding nails

But the summer before last
when those sorry inert bastards posing as tennis fans
booed you off the court at Arthur Ashe Stadium
when you had to retire in the fifth set
with a torn shoulder
it was all too familiar a judgement
I could only say to myself...

"Don't listen to them Patty-O,
they're just ignorant redneck fucks
from Long Island and
they know not what they do...
They must think they're in the Colliseum
do they even know you're the two-time defending champion
and you have a serious injury?
That you wouldn't quit unless your body some way
absolutely quit on you and you literally
could not play?
Because you're a fighter,
a warrior
and you've got heart
and all that crap.
Forgive them Patrick
for they know not why they boo."

But the pundits knew better,
they were sad at your loss,
from the draw, they knew what void was left
and no one was sadder than I

But that was then
at the next open there will be no one
filled with more anticipation than I
so I'm not taking any chances
even after your first round match
I'll be ready

As you exit the stadium
and head down the tunnel to the locker room,
I'll be waiting off to the side
and when I finally get you alone
whether it's after your press conference
or after your massage
or even after your shower
when I finally get you alone
away from the press mob
away from your 'mates'
away from that slinky European chick you call 'girlfriend'
then I'll appear and introduce myself
and I'll make a little proposition

Gesturing below I'd utter softly,
"Hey Patty...
How 'bout some good old kosher
Hebrew National Jewish cock?
C'mon, heal me brother!"

To which he'd likely look back at me sympathetically
and reply, "Sorry, mate."

And even in rejection
at the sound of your just barely puberty deepened
angelic Aussie voice
I'd probably wind up creaming you anyway.