a sense of joy and then a panic

Part of the reason I keep a livejournal is so I can remember hilarious things, years later. For instance, while listening to Roland Garros radio eight years ago, I discovered a wonderful tennis commentator by the name of Richard Evans, who was commentating a painful women's match on his own, running out of things to talk about, and wondering when dinner was. Years passed, I discovered Robbie Koenig, and I would have forgotten all about him if not for going back through old entries. Richard Evans, I thought. You cantankerous bastard. Whatever happened to you?

Look who showed up on my Twitter feed just now:

If @rogerfederer manages his schedule - which he will - & body holds up, all things are possible for this amazing 35-yr-old. 90th title!

— Richard Ingham Evans (@Ringham7) March 20, 2017

Never change, Richard Evans! (Never change, Roger Federer!)

I don't know who this commentator is (other than the guy that takes over for espn3 in the evening in Paris), but this is what happens when you're commentating on a match you don't care about and you're all alone in the booth.

First we have some off-topic comments in an attempt to keep amused [he also talked about the plight of pigeons wanting to eat on the court and being denied, but I missed that one]:

"... she should go to drama school after she quits tennis.  She's certainly pretty enough.  [Long silence]  Anyway, first game of the third set..."

"And Wozniak can't get her hairdo where she wants it. [...] All her hair's come completely out of her bun now, so she'll have to put up with it flapping around her back. [...] Must be a distraction if you're worried about what to do with your hair, but maybe she can put it out of her mind. [...] Very good service game from Wozniak, whether her hair is doing what she wants or not."

Add some nice dry disdain:

"Well, that was a pretty horrendous backhand."

"Oh, she's gonna try a practice shot.  'Oh, that's how you do it.'  Just a reminder.  She's only hit about 5 million in her life."

And finally we reach straight-up pessimism:

"Poor mum.  Oh dear.  She must have been through this so many times.  Her daughter is 28 years old and has been on the tour forever and played so many matches like this.  It's all too much for the Russian.  I don't know if it's all too much for Mrs. Dementieva in the stands, but her daughter is suffering."

"A sudden rush of double faults in her last service games, but what can she do now."

In the end, disturbing croaking sounds begin:

"Excuse me, my voice is going."

At least he doesn't say "that's a fault" after every serve that doesn't go in, as if we can neither see the match nor hear the linesperson squawk.

ETA: His name's Richard Evans!  And he thinks it's time for a little bit of dinner and a glass of wine, so forgive him if he says goodnight!  Yeah, goodnight, Richard Evans.  You take care.