Yesterday afternoon I left you from a Rogers Cup site that looked something like an oversized soup bowl. Against all odds, though, the water dried and the players were dragged bleary-eyed from their hiding places in the lounge, handed racquets and balls, and forced to run around under the lights. You know how on Monday I listed all the reasons I could never be a pro? Chalk this up as another: Having to start your match five hours after you had originally prepared your mind and body to play it. In those kinds of cases, whether it's tennis or some other nerve-wracking activity, there typically comes a point when I just say: I don’t care what happens, I just want it to be over. That