Of all the famous tennis players who never lived (excluding Andre Agassi’s aborted children), I think I am most like Richie Tenenbaum. We both come from families of geniuses. As you may recall from the Wes Anderson film, Richie’s brother genetically reengineered mice and created a business empire selling them to school children. His sister wrote plays performed on Broadway at the age of nine. Similarly, my siblings possess tremendous gifts. My brother invented a bib specifically designed for eating pussy, and my sister has numerous pre-wrapped ties ready for birthday parties.
However, the most striking commonality is our physical resemblance. We both have shoulder length brown hair, beards that have been generously described as a notch better than pube faces, some sort of headband or bandana circumscribing our heads because we are interested in the geometry of our pates, and sunglasses to conceal our deep (dare I write, "mesmerizing"?) eyes.
I feel like Richie and I share a common bond. No matter where I go, people seem to ask me questions that I am sure he receives all the time:
“Aren’t you that amazing tennis player?”
“Is Gwyneth Paltrow still married to Bill Murray?”
“You look familiar. Which 1970s rock band were you the drummer for?”
“If I put some of your spittle in a jar and poured it on my grandmother’s eyes could she see again?”
“How come you can’t get a job?”
“Why can’t you commit to a relationship?”
“What compelled you to take your pants off and ask that group of five year olds if they wanted to dive into the ‘ball pit in your Discovery Zone’?”
I must confess I haven’t done much to quiet people’s confusion. I often take both of my shoes and one sock off when I play tennis, I named my pet bird Mordecai and I recently forced my parents to adopt my girlfriend.
Nonetheless, I take pride in being Richie Tenenbaum’s doppelganger. You can’t just decide to be a Tenenbaum. It’s genetic. God constructs your DNA a certain way and hardwires you…
Dammit! This whole post is too far-fetched. Thoroughly inspect the pictures. If I bothered to bathe, I would look more like a hermit version of Patrick Rafter. Richie and I don’t even look that similar anyway.