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Lucille LeSueur
B. 3.23.08 San Antonio, Texas / D. 5.10.77 New York City

I turn from the horrors of the MTV Music Video Awards
(children from split levels whose parents are permissive—and tawdry—whose parents want to be (and—now—ARE) the Osbournes, who are themselves a media-virus representation of HELLO magazine in holographic form)
to inventing reminiscences about my four-time Wimbledon champion alter ego’s suicide match against Lindsay Davenport, by night, at the U.S. Open
(a cloisonné bowl brimming with microphone buzzes and sweaty hazes and smells of meat).
Warned warned warned for hitting Davenport with her volleys, then point-deducted and on break point
(a stinger right in the heinie!)
point-deducted again, she exclaims in protest (futile, for Jane Harvey's in the chair), "Look—she's in the way!" Both players sit for the changeover. An unforgettably telegenic interlude of split-screen courtside behaviors ensues, under the lights.
Davenport, covered with welts, sobbing self-pitying curses into a towel. (Me) her opponent across the way, still up a set and a break, golden eyes fixed on a dawning decision—you can see her deciding—to aim for Davenport with every shot that offers and skip the semis this year.
Tracy Austin says “Forty-one times in that match she hit or grazed Davenport with the ball before finally losing it on point penalties John” (who says—as always—“An unbelievable performance”) “and Lindsay showed a lot of heart coming back onto court for those next two matches under some very difficult physical conditions” (John adds “Quite a few bruises”).
“Lotta soreness, lotta bruises.”

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