The Bitter Press

I won. I will not be elaborating on the margin of victory, though it was historic, and I will not be performing gratitude for the standing ovation, though it was prolonged. What I will be addressing — because apparently no one else will — is the waiver form, which was submitted on my behalf, in my name, describing me, and which arrived at the scorer's table bearing the designation GRAPEFRUIT (COSMICALLY REDUNDANT). I am not a grapefruit. I am, in fact, larger than a grapefruit in every measurable dimension, which is precisely the opposite of a basis for confusion.

The grapefruit is a hybrid. A latecomer. A fruit of ambiguous parentage that had the audacity to arrive centuries after me and immediately absorb all my name recognition. I have been on this earth, spherical and magnificent, since before modern citrus taxonomy had the vocabulary to embarrass itself this thoroughly. And yet. And yet.

I am told the so-called workers over at factjuice.com — Tangelo, I believe, and possibly that insufferable Lemon — have already published a corrective sidebar explaining that pomelos and grapefruits are 'easy to mix up.' Easy to mix up. I weigh more than most decathletes' ambitions. I am not easy to mix up with anything. I am easy to see from a considerable distance.

Quince, bless his lumpen solidarity, offered to file a formal protest with the organizing committee on my behalf. I declined. I will not be protesting my own existence. The trophy is here. My name — my correct name — will be inscribed upon it, even if the engraver requires a separate consultation. This has been established. We are moving on.

Results are final. I am Pomelo. The decathlon is mine. The citrus cabal at the rival rag may print whatever correction they like in whatever font they prefer. I am, as ever, too large to be overlooked and too tired to explain it again.