The man is cheeky, no doubt about it. He actually believes he has the right to refuse the COVID vaccine. Where did he get that idea? From Robert F Kennedy, Jr?

We have to censor these people. Cut them off from all public communication outlets. Isolate them. Let them starve in their own homes.

But as you know, in the field of public relations you say whatever you need to say, to please the client.

And I’ve got people who can turn out convincing evidence that JFK, still young, still handsome, is living in Buenos Aires.

Novak Djokovic hired me yesterday, and a few old pals and I sat up all last night and worked out a plan.

Here are the bare bones.

I’m sending this to you and you only. Shh.

Step One: We fly Novak to Tijuana and put him up in a villa.

He grows a full beard. We give him lenses that change his eye color to bright blue.

A week later, we insert him into a struggling caravan of migrants coming up across the border into the US.

Of course, none of those people needs to show proof of vaccination, and no one can fully control them after they enter the country.

So we bring Novak to Hollywood.

He’s in the US and he hasn’t received the shot. All good.

Step Two: We supply him with papers proving he is Lucy Rodrigo, from Panama.

Our crew of makeover experts arrives at the Hollywood house and goes to work. Clothes shopping, make-up, hair.

We rehearse Novak’s new back story. She’s an unknown tennis player from Panama City, who’s lost in the early rounds of six low-rent tour events in Central America. Her parents are dead. She was orphaned and then adopted by a lovely couple from Rio, who moved to Cancun, then Havana, then Panama City.

She desperately wants to qualify for the US Women’s Open.

I place articles in major newspapers detailing her plight. She has no credentials. She’s looking for summer tournaments in the US where she can show what she can do.

Now we unleash her for interviews. A woman in a dress who has a full beard. She’s a transgender female.

The flag suddenly goes up the pole.

Overnight, Lucy is a world celeb.

ESPN is falling all over itself lining up guest shots for her. Liberal sports reporters from New York to Tierra del Fuego are having major orgasms.

This is so big Jen Psaki sits down with Lucy in Hollywood and does a one-on-one. Lucy is talking with Novak’s baritone, but with a Latin accent.

A week later, Martina Navratilova, Rachel Maddow, and Ellen march on to the set of The View with Lucy in tow. Surprise visit. The audience goes full psycho.

In July, Lucy is invited to play at the Cincinnati tour event.

She kicks the hell out of every opponent in straight sets all the way to the finals—but then develops a painful leg cramp and has to withdraw, leading 5-2 in the first against Ash Barty.

Press coverage rolls like thunder for the rest of the summer, and finally…on the eve of the US Women’s Open in New York, the word comes down.

Lucy is healed; and she has a special last-minute invitation to the tournament.

Wall to wall hysteria! A transgender woman at center court. A dude with a full beard in a short skirt who isn’t a dude.

—BUT THEN, early in the morning of opening day, leaks are dribbling out. There is a problem.

Is it with the Tennis Committee? Are they going back on their word? Is Lucy still injured? Are several women players objecting to a former dude being allowed in the door?

—THEN, at 8AM on ESPN, the host of Get Up!, Mike Greenberg, along with special co-hosts, Tim Kurkjian and Jeremy Schaap and Nancy Pelosi, sit at a large table and welcome Lucy on to the set for a serious sit-down.

It all adds up to WHAT’S THE PROBLEM, DEAR GIRL? WHO ARE YOU HAVING TROUBLE WITH? IS SOMEONE OUT TO GET YOU? IS SOMEONE DENYING YOU’RE NOW FEMALE?

Lucy is reticent. She doesn’t want to answer.

It’s like pulling teeth to get her to talk.

Finally, after five minutes of questions and speculations, Lucy leans forward and says:

I WANT TO PLAY IN THE MEN’S TOURNAMENT.

Silence.

A long silence.

Pelosi gently asks: WHY? BECAUSE SOME SON OF A BITCH HAS TOLD YOU YOU’RE A MAN?

Lucy shakes her head.

“No,” she says, “I’m definitely a woman and the world knows it. I want to play in the men’s tournament because I think I can win the championship.”

The knife slipped between the ribs.

Before the SHOCKED interviewers can muster up a coherent thought…

“Can anyone deny me?” Lucy says. “I’m a woman challenging all the men on their own turf. I’m not asking for any special treatment. I want to play as a woman against the men straight up.”

CHAOS.

FULL CHAOS.

…And by the time it’s all straightened out, three hours later…

…The unvaccinated denied Novak Djokovic…as Lucy…

…Is on center court in Flushing Meadows playing a first round match against a big-hitting boy from India.

6-1, 6-2, 6-3.

Piece of cake.

Of course, Novak has changed the look of his game, to avoid detection. He’s slowed down his serve, and he isn’t belting the ball to the corners consistently. He’s using more topspin. He blinks often, as if he’s nervous. He intentionally makes mistakes at the net.

During the next two weeks, he’ll deploy that new-look con as he carves his way through opponents and works his way to…

…the finals…

…where—finally—he launches HIS FULL game against his old enemy, Rafa Nadal.

No one seems to notice.

Everyone is hypnotized by THE POWER OF LUCY.

Novak takes the first two sets, 6-3, 7-5.

The crowd is heart-attack batshit.

In the third set, Novak goes up 3-1 and then holds serve. He’s two games from the title.

Rafa is using towel after towel between points to wipe himself off and cool himself down.

In the booth, the McEnroe brothers are beside themselves. And Chrissy Evert, sitting in, is chattering non-stop like a macaque on meth. She can’t believe what she’s seeing.

“The way Lucy is playing, John, she could wipe the floor with any woman tennis player in history, blindfolded. Her serve is unbelievable. I honestly thought her beard might give her a problem in this heat, but there are no problems for her today. Rafa is confused out there. He gave her no quarter, he went all-out from the beginning, and nothing has worked. This girl is OVERWHELMING. She’s a magician. We’re watching something UNPRECENDENTED. A WOMAN eating the whole lineup of the best men’s players in the world for breakfast. She’s not bothering with topspin today, she’s flattened out her strokes and the balls are shooting deep into the corners on both sides of the court, forcing Rafa to run back and forth like I don’t think I’ve ever seen him run before…”

Novak ruthlessly closes out the set and the match with an unreturnable serve down the middle, 6-1 in the third.

CHAMPIONSHIP!

…In a mind-bending ceremony on center court, holding the trophy high over his head, Novak pulls a small electric razor out of his pocket and shaves off his beard, saying in a loud clear effortless voice:

THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU ATTACK A PERSON’S RIGHT TO REJECT THE INJECTION OF TOXINS. I STAND FOR FREEDOM AND ALWAYS WILL. I THANK LUCY FOR HELPING ME PROVE A POINT HERE TODAY. THERE IS NOTHING YOU CAN DO TO INTIMIDATE ME INTO GOING ALONG WITH SOMETHING I BELIVE IS WRONG. NO PERSON SHOULD BE FORCED OR COERCED TO DO SO. I CAME HERE TO SHOW YOU MYSELF AND SAY WHAY I’M SAYING NOW. THIS IS OUR WORLD, NOT THE WORLD OF THE MEN WHO RULE US. WE DECIDE THE FUTURE, IF WE STAND UP.

Dear Reader:

—When the tidal wave of boos and shouts and screams and curses finally began to subside, a strange thing happened.

Applause began.

It started slowly, unevenly, but then…it grew.

And kept growing.

Novak gently placed the championship trophy on the table in front of him and backed away and held up his hands as a sign that he was leaving it there.

And then there was more applause.

And shouts of NOVAK, NOVAK.

The wave expanded.

In the booth, Chrissy said, “John, I’ve just gone insane. There’s a chill moving up my spine and I don’t know what it is. The PEOPLE are taking over this tournament. Do you understand? How can this be happening? THE PEOPLE are now saying something they’re not supposed to say. But they don’t care. Something inside them has been held down for a long time.”

The wave grew louder.

“Are they going to cut us off the air?” John McEnroe said. “Apparently not. At least not so far. Listen to the fans. It’s all turned around. They’re cheering for Novak. It’s unbelievable.”

Novak stood on the court not moving. Smiling.

A day in the sun.

Some kind of memory of a past night in the wilderness seemed to be dissolving, second by second.

In the booth, Brad Gilbert chimed in. “I’ll probably get killed for saying this, but everybody’s…getting happy. The people, Novak, Lucy, everybody. We don’t know the full meaning of this moment right now, but I’m confident we’ll figure it out in the weeks to come. And when we do, it’ll put certain things to rest, and break new ground. Fire me for this one, but we’ve all been under the gun for too long. We’re supposed to go THIS way and only say THAT, and it’s such a strain.”

The roar in the stands continued to grow.

Novak was going nowhere. He was grinning.

A voice entered the network broadcast. Maybe it came from the television crew.

“Show me some light, baby. Show me some light.”

Novak.

In straight sets.

As a capper, Rafa walked up and took a microphone from a tennis official. He came to over to Novak’s side.

The crowd fell silent.

“Novak, I know I spoke out against you when you refused the vaccine. I was wrong. I’m sorry. It’s good to have you back. This is where you belong. You played like you were from a different planet today. There was nothing I could do. By the beginning of the second set, I knew it was you.”

The crowd roared.

Rafa held up his hand and they went silent.

“So I just kept going all out, but you were unbeatable. Lucy was damn good, too.”

Huge laughs. And another roar.

The sun kept shining.

—Sports.

Love them. Hate them.

You never know.

You just never know what’s going to happen. On the court, on the course, on the floor, on the diamond, on the field, on the ice, in the ring.

In the sun.

— Jon Rappoport