King of quips puts positive spin on loss
WIMBLEDON, England Andy Roddick was soaking wet. His white Lacoste polo was stuck to his shoulders. His thin nylon hat was saturated with sweat. And every time he pulled his racket back and swung as hard as he could, tiny beads of sweat leapt off his brow.
He had absolutely, positively nothing more to give. And yet it wasn't enough. The 135-mile-an-hour serve, the laser-like forehand, the new wrinkle of serving and volleying, none of it mattered.
Andy Roddick simply wasn't good ...
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