"Not this kind of talk!"

She stopped, pondered for a minute, and suddenly thrust a finger to her left. Whatever she said, I didn't really know, but the moment took quite a while to develop. More fingers pointed, the hapless subject returning to base for one reason or another. The bosses came along, deliberating, pondering, wondering, but it was quite inevitable.

I was thinking of ice cream.

Well, I was thinking of Dairy Queen. "DQ! DQ!" I said, clearly knowing what else that meant. Although that wasn't what happened - it was actually a one-point penalty that came at the worst moment of all: match point.

"I don't remember anymore," Serena Williams later said. "It was in the moment. It was a really crucial point. I haven't really thought about it to have any regrets."

Back at home, where my mother and I watched, we were discussing whether the foot fault was wrongly called - someone said it was, and I think he's blind - and, most importantly, whether Serena just shot herself in the foot. And Kim Clijsters was going "what the hell?" - pretty evident in her face, that disappointment that it's suddenly all over.

She's calm now, but for the most part, the damage was done. She could've lost gracefully, but instead, well, she shot herself in the foot, and to hell with experts saying the official should've just let it slip.

They call it "going postal". Well, it's worse, actually. Let yourself simmer until you wreck your tennis racket and start stabbing people with the sharp end, if we're to stay on topic, or at the very least, bring a gun and start shooting people. And then in the end it's all over, and we act as if nothing happened, because we've lashed out already and we feel better, but the damage is done.

I suddenly have the urge to sing some cheesy pop song. "And I'm guilty..."

And another (more credible) song. "Don't you ever change..."

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