The road snakes around green foothills and around giant rocks and along rugged cliffs. Sparkling waterfalls surround its quiet village. Across its mountainside cascades a sprawling retreat. Beyonce was there.

I am not dreaming. I am remembering.

That day my Carrera took its curves like a Latin dancer and its winds caressed my face. Its scented air teased me.

Not so long prior, XACK - The Mission was on my mind. RYO Superheroes were on my mind. I had allowed myself a few mouth-watering reflections of McEnroe, Lendl, Becker, Courier, Agassi, Sampras, Guga, Coria – modern day swordsmen, whose willowy weapons, plush balls and big hearts toyed with many a dream. They raked in green backs dueling on hallowed grass, and in the dirt, and beneath the slick lights down under and up in the Big Apple, where girls love to scream and some white boys yodel. But Moderno has long been passed. There, in Moderno, history was made. Legends marked its days with many good tales. Yes, those were the days.

Near the top of the mountain, from the Kasbah suites, stairs lead to a large flat roof. I had climbed to the roof to sleep under the stars, if only for an hour or two. And that night I dreamed.

Ai-yai-yai, I dreamed.

Yes, I had taken The Greatest Road Trip In Sports a few times and more. I took to that flat road beating my drums, strumming my strings, singing let them come young or old, but they’d better be strong. Pit your wild cards against my brute beasts; I don’t care, but they’d better be strong. Roger is going to amaze us, no matter what you say. Monfils will wow us. Andy will come to play. Watch them all come. Murray. Gasquet. Tsonga. Djokovic. Watch them swear. Watch them sweat. Watch them crack their rackets and give us their chests, bare. They will dance. Watch them pump their fists. Yes, they will come. But, when all is said and done, I know the end game. And you know how it will end too.

When that last ball is struck and the umpire's pen is down, like you, I want a hero. Tell me then James with his big smile and gentle heart has climbed above the sweated heap, donned the coveted crown, and gave the shout, "It's mine. It's Yours. You are beautiful. Thank you Mama. Thank you Papa." Yes, I want a hero. Tell me then Tsonga has found the felid groove and with one graceful flourish of his glistening sword – foyne – did slit his assailant’s chest then lifted his heart to the crowd and heard them shout. “He is the greatest. The greatest has returned.” Yes, I want a hero.

You want a hero too.

Yet you and I know what would have happened, if I hadn’t dreamed. They would’ve crowned the undisputed king again, for he is like a Rock Of Gibraltar. He is the Prince Of Grace. And he is worthy. We all know his name. Roger – the great one! Roger Federer. We love him. Indeed, he is the greatest!

But I had come to dream.

Ai-yai-yai. And I dreamed.

I dreamed of a hunk – legs of a tracker, eyes of a tiger, hands of a fencer, moves of a dancer, heart of a charmer, brains of a banker – a thoroughbred willing to forgo the tried glories of track, basketball, soccer or football to pursue the hallowed, rugged and muddy arenas of a sport, of old, abandoned to the gentle, the snooty and the spoiled, but no more! A sport? No, a new lifestyle in a new arena! A new battlefield fitted for a new world of MacBets and wireless superheroes and postmodern Gladiators; a world drawn from all our worlds – a RYO World blessed with dreamed hunks!

So I dreamed. And when I awoke a man stood before me. A boy, actually, with a great heart. The Raging Bull. A new king. The King himself. Rafael Nadal. Rafa! Rafa! Rafa!

Yes, I dreamed him into being.

And he came. He took the field.

Just look at the lights, how they flicker.

Hear how they shout his name. I am so pleased.

Wouldn’t you be, if you had dreamed him too?

Ha-ha-hah!

            And stlll I dream ...

by Neville DeAngelou
The Dreamer
When he dreams, stars wink.
Excerpts from The Hunk I Dreamed

James Blake