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Novak Djokovic, champion of peace

War, Novak Djokovic once observed, is the worst thing that can happen to anyone.

I sincerely hope he’s not destined to become a male Cassandra, bearing witness to the horror of the inevitable. But it certainly seems that way, doesn’t it?

In recent days, we’ve all been forced to bear witness to the kind of rage, terror and desperation that he no doubt experienced as a child of the Balkan conflict of the 1990s.

The former Yugoslavia at the 20th century’s sunset, New York at the 21st century’s dawn, Nigeria and Ukraine today, Israel and the Palestinian people eternally – the names change, the borders and media circus shift, but the stories are always sickeningly the same. Little boys mangled and murdered by mortar shells. Teenaged ones burned alive or kidnapped, never to return.

And now some 300 souls blown to smithereens on another ill-fated Malaysia Airlines plane, plucked out of the air as it were and scattered in pieces on the ground. And for what?

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Oh, Seiko, can you see?

It’s a perfect championship picture – an athlete poised to strike the ball with his racket, decked out in brilliant Wimbledon white against a sea of grass, muscles taut, form perfect.

Only it isn’t Novak Djokovic, the actual champion, but runner-up Roger Federer being congratulated by Rolex on the back page of the A section of The New York Times’ July 9 edition “for helping to craft an epic Wimbledon final with a sparkling demonstration of skill, tenacity and grace befitting the greatest.”

And while we’re at it, I’d like to thank Brazil for helping to craft a lopsided victory for a team whose name I won’t mention and, by the way, did you know Brazil has five World Cups? Please.

People, don’t you see what’s wrong with this?

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