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By Giri Nathan
[vc_empty_space height="15px"]I am not much of a carnivore, but I know (sports) beef is a staple of every healthy (media) diet. I have missed beef far more than, say, the moment of triumph. Most match points are dull. The moments that linger in my head are the anomalous, the extreme, those junctures when the game’s pneumatic pressure is just too much and somebody cracks. While commentators like to pretend these moments don’t happen, or actively apologize for the player’s behavior in that mystifying ritual, they are the exact moments many sports fans cherish: the messy, full-blooded, human texture of pro sports. That is something I can relate to. I do nothing on the court at a high level except holler into my string bed after a shanked shot, and it’s nice to see that I mirror the pros on that front. Among all sports, tennis in particular benefits from this occasional corrective, a disruption of the quiet decorum, a reminder that it’s being played by real people. A good chunk of my time at my old gig was spent entering such exotic moments into the historical record, with the aid of a handful of trusted tipsters and the all-seeing eye of Jack Dorsey’s demon-app. (I expect much of my time at my brand-new gig will be spent similarly, but that’s a conversation for another time.)