The King

The swagger (click). The high backlift (click). The flamboyant footwork (click whirr click). The flashing blade (click, too late). The lazy elegance (click, click). Close up to the eyes (zoom). The hunger, the passion (click). Zoom out, back in real time. Cut to opposition. Hands in the air. Hands on the head, on the hips. Drooping shoulders, heads bowed. Close up. Despair.

He graced the greens for seventeen years at the highest level. Coming in at a time when his tribe was infallible, he continued to sparkle even when the tribe lost its invincibility. He scaled the peaks thought to be too high. He scaled them again when others dared to make the peaks their own. He tried to lead his men to success. At times he did. But his men failed him more often. He was labelled an enfant terrible, a prodigal. He shrugged his shoulders and carried on entertaining the connoiseur and the layman alike. Graceful as ever, humble in words, charming in demeanour, he left his fans wanting more. And maybe that was the best way to go. A lesson perhaps to someone half a world away, but alike in more ways than one. Adieu, King. AbNQ