Do something.
Good luck here at the Open. I wish you the best. But then you gotta do something.
Get the fuck out of Monaco. Monaco is for Russian mafiosi. You’re not a Russian mafioso. Stop acting like a movie star and a super model. Put your pants back on. And start acting like an athlete again.
And a Serb.
Go home. I dunno: go to Chilandar for a while if you want. Then go up to Durmitor or somewhere and get a cabin by yourself – or better, a cave. Don’t play. Run on the trails up there. Your knees will be fine. What do you need high-tech oxygen low barometer chambers or whatever the fuck they are for? Run at high altitudes. Grow a beard, eat stale proja and raw meat.
When the snows melt come down at Easter and find a court. Does the one you first learned on still exist? Go play there. Do something for others; you’re a generous guy. Help Marko with his game. Or just give free lessons to anyone who wants them. “The giver’s glance gleams like gold,” Nietzsche says. “You have a golden child,” your first trainer told your parents. The problem isn’t your game or your body; it’s the spirit.
You let a couple of losses drag your ego down into a vicious cycle.
Be a Serb instead.
Your fans all love you like you don’t know.
NB
Durmitor (click)
Comment: nikobakos@gmail.com
Jadde: from Bosnia to Bengal 
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