The good news, none of you tried to kill me in the last seven days, I think. The bad news, I did get hit by a car while riding my bike –– coincidence? I think so. I don’t think any true tennis elitist would be driving a gold, American branded sedan. Tacky at best. A true tennis fan would either drive a Lexus if they were from California, or a couple thousand pounds of German muscle if they were from anywhere else. Regardless, I’m alive and couch-bound. So what have I been doing with all my spare time? Watching sports, obviously –– can you believe they pay me to do this?

The last couple of weeks have been anything but typical. They’ve been full of chance, passion and drama. The only difference between watching ESPN and Gossip Girl in the past couple of weeks is the off-the-rack couture.

First off, this week proved to me that I’m a total failure. In my 19 years of life, I’ve successfully snuck into Cornell, and watched the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy director’s cut back-to-back. For the average human being, I would say I’m somewhere around the 75th percentile. Neither good nor bad, just mediocre. Usually the world has the courtesy of letting me be happily ignorant about my mediocrity; I haven’t been told I was inadequate since March of my senior year. Score! But it clearly didn’t last long enough; this past couple of weeks has been my wakeup call.

It all began last week when everybody was trying to figure out exactly how you say “Oudin.” Yes, Melanie Oudin is 17, and she took down a series of Russians only to lose to a Belgian. And you thought the Cold War was over? Long live capitalism! Regardless, for that string of victories, Oudin was making me uneasy. Could this 17-year-old Georgia peach have 10 times more grit than me? Yes. Has my life been a disgrace up until this point? Thankfully I didn’t have to answer that question: Oudin lost in the fourth round, and the universe was back at ease.

But somehow, the stars aligned yet again. It was now Saturday night, it was raining and I couldn’t go out because the IFC decided that swine flu was a big deal. I wonder if they’ll realize they single-handedly are helping spread herpes to the entire Cornell population. Herpes free, I sat at home, bored. Flipping through the channels I stopped on the USC vs. Ohio State game. Thank god football is back, otherwise I probably would have died from boredom. Maybe I’m the exception, but something about watching nine guys stand around on a field watching the grass grow for three hours just isn’t appealing.

The Buckeyes were putting the finishing touches on what would be a pretty huge victory. Then came freshman starting quarterback Matt Barkley, leading his 300 Spartans north towards the hot gates. No, he doesn’t have the messy Greek hair, or the spray brushed abs, but Barkley definitely knows how to make the kill. Deep in his own territory he took what looked like a lackluster start and turned it into his defining moment. A minute left in the game and the Trojans were up, 16-15.

Have I ever felt more inadequate? Probably not. A freshman quarterback just beat Ohio State with 100,000 angry, drunk college students yelling right in his ear. The only experience I have that parallels was back in my prime athletic years. I was eight years old, playing AYSO, and anyone who’s played or watched kids soccer knows that soccer moms are the loudest, most belligerent people on the face of the earth.

Yet again I concluded it could be nothing but a fluke. Barkley wasn’t exactly coming out swinging in the first three quarters, and USC should have pummeled Ohio State considering its No. 3 ranking. So I wrote it off and moved on.

On Monday, the sky fell. For most of you this probably wasn’t something you noticed. For the first time in six years, Roger Federer is not the U.S. Open champion. That’s 2,200 days that I’ve been able to get at least one point in a sports trivia bowl –– gone. Thanks a lot, Juan Martin. Who would have thought that a 20-year-old Argentine was going to derail the Federal Express, other than a lucky Vegas bookie? I clearly didn’t, I’m still in school.

After sitting on the couch in shock, through an episode of How I Met Your Mother, tears slowly running down my face, I realized it. I have failed. I haven’t won the U.S. Open, I haven’t stuck it to a bunch of kids from Ohio, I haven’t even gone cow tipping. I’m officially ancient in the world of sports; gymnasts my age are living in retirement communities in Ft. Lauderdale!

So what’s next? A sport where young is anything under 50: Croquet. World Croquet Federation Championships, here I come.