As I watched John McEnroe eat at the Rosa Mexicano restaurant, I began to know how Björn Borg felt. I had done everything I could to keep up with the guy across the table. I had arrived early. I had secured my seat. I had even greeted him as he walked in. But there was McEnroe, digging into his entrée before I even had a chance to order my own. I had been defeated at a game I was supposed to know how to play — the journalistic lunch. It was a mix-up, to be sure, a bit of midday comedy that could have made a proper episode of Seinfeld. McEnroe was so single-minded in expressing his culinary desires, and the waitress and I so distracted by his presence, that no one at the table noticed that I had failed to secure a dish for myself until it was too late and the former world number one was the only one among us with solid food. This was the McEnroe I knew from his days of tennis dominance — when he humbled Borg at Wimbledon in 1981 en route to seven grand-slam singles titles in six year...

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