Speaks in long, building sentences when grieved — he circles back to 'my father' as his argument's anchor, again and again throughout the play. When he finally acts, the language turns short and declarative: done negotiating.
As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion bequeathed me by will but
poor a thousand crowns, and, as thou sayst, charged my brother, on his
blessing, to breed me well; and there begins my sadness. My brother
Jaques he keeps at school, and report speaks goldenly of his profit.
For my part, he keeps me rustically at home, or, to speak more
properly, stays me here at home unkept; for call you that keeping, for
a gentleman of my birth, that differs not from the stalling of an ox?
His horses are bred better, for, besides that they are fair with their
feeding, they are taught their manage and to that end riders dearly
hired; but I, his brother, gain nothing under him but growth, for the
which his animals on his dunghills are as much bound to him as I.
Besides this nothing that he so plentifully gives me, the something
that nature gave me his countenance seems to take from me. He lets me
feed with his hinds, bars me the place of a brother, and as much as in
him lies, mines my gentility with my education. This is it, Adam, that
grieves me, and the spirit of my father, which I think is within me,
begins to mutiny against this servitude. I will no longer endure it,
though yet I know no wise remedy how to avoid it.
Look, Adam, here's what my father left me: a thousand crowns—barely a thousand—and he ordered my brother on his blessing to raise me well. That's where the pain starts. My brother Jaques gets sent to school, and everyone talks about how magnificently he's turning out. But me? He keeps me here in the country like livestock, or if I'm being honest, worse than livestock. Because I'll tell you the difference: his horses are better cared for than I am. They get training from expensive people; their bodies are sleek from good feeding. But I get nothing from him except watching myself grow into nothing. My father gave me gifts, and my brother's disdain is stealing them from me—he cuts me off from my family, bars me from the respect I'm owed, and with everything he does he's working to bury my place in the world. That's what tears at me, Adam. My father's spirit is stirring in me right now, and I won't stand this servitude anymore. I have to break free from it, though I still have no idea how.
So Adam, Dad left me a thousand crowns—not much, really—but he made Oliver promise to educate me properly. And that's where everything went wrong. Oliver sends his favorite brother Jaques to school, brags about his progress constantly. Meanwhile, he treats me like farm property. Worse, actually. His horses are better educated than I am. They get proper training. I just get locked out and left to rot. My father gave me real gifts, and Oliver's destroying them just by refusing to develop them. He won't let me be part of the family, won't let me be what I'm supposed to be, and he's deliberately crushing any chance I have of being a gentleman. I can't take it anymore. My father's voice is inside my head telling me to fight back, and I'm done being patient. I don't know what I'm going to do yet, but I can't live like this.
i can't do this anymore.
he left me nothing. dad wanted him to raise me right but oliver's just letting me rot.
treats his horses better than his own brother.
i can feel my father in me telling me to fight back.
Speaks sparingly and with total moral clarity — the play's conscience in servant's clothes. When Adam invokes Sir Rowland, believe him.
Yonder comes my master, your brother.
There comes my master—your brother.
Here comes your brother now.
your brother.
Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how he will shake me up.
Step back, Adam. You'll hear how harshly he tears into me.
Back off, Adam. Watch what he does when he sees me.
watch him.
His short lines are contempt made audible ('What, boy!'). When he needs something, his sentences balloon into elaborate performance. Watch for the gap between those two registers — that's where his villainy lives.
Now, sir, what make you here?
Now, sir, what are you doing here?
So what are you doing here?
what are you doing.
Nothing. I am not taught to make anything.
Nothing. I haven't been taught to make anything.
Nothing. I haven't been taught how to make anything.
nothing.
you never taught me.
What mar you then, sir?
What are you spoiling then, sir?
What are you damaging then?
what are you wrecking.
Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that which God made, a poor
unworthy brother of yours, with idleness.
Yes, sir, I'm helping you ruin what God created—a worthless younger brother of yours—through idleness.
I'm helping you destroy what God made—a sorry excuse for a brother—and you're doing it by leaving me to rot.
i'm being ruined by you.
god made me and you're marring it.
every day you waste me here is you breaking something.
In Elizabethan England, primogeniture wasn't just custom — it was the closest thing to natural law that most people knew. The entire estate, title, and social standing of a family passed to the eldest son intact. Younger sons received token inheritances (Orlando's 'poor thousand crowns') and depended entirely on their eldest brother's goodwill for their future. This wasn't seen as cruel; it was seen as the only way to keep estates from being divided into worthless fragments across generations.
But here's what makes Orlando's situation especially sharp: his father's will included an explicit instruction to educate him. That instruction had legal and moral weight — Sir Rowland de Boys trusted his eldest son to honor it. Oliver's refusal isn't just petty jealousy; it's a betrayal of a dead man's last wish, a legal obligation dressed up as a private family matter.
Shakespeare's audience would have felt this viscerally. Many of them were younger sons. The system that made Oliver's cruelty possible was the same system that structured their own lives. Orlando's fury is familiar — it's the quiet rage of everyone who ever watched an older sibling get everything while 'being taken care of' meant something very different in practice.
Watch how this tension echoes through the play. The Forest of Arden is full of exiled men — and every single one of them got there because the official hierarchy failed them.
Marry, sir, be better employed, and be naught awhile.
Well, sir, find better work and disappear for a while.
Get out of here and find something useful to do.
just go away.
Shall I keep your hogs, and eat husks with them? What prodigal portion
have I spent that I should come to such penury?
So I'm meant to feed your pigs and eat their slop like them? What inheritance did I waste that I should end up this poor?
So I'm supposed to live like a pig on scraps with the rest of the animals? What did I squander to deserve this life?
am i supposed to starve with the hogs?
what inheritance did i even blow through?
i never had anything to waste.
Know you where you are, sir?
Do you understand where you are, sir?
Do you know where you are?
do you know where this is.
O, sir, very well: here in your orchard.
Yes, sir, quite well—I'm here in your orchard.
Yeah, I know. I'm standing in your orchard right now.
your orchard. i know.
Know you before whom, sir?
Do you understand who you stand before, sir?
Do you know who you're standing in front of?
do you know who i am.
Ay, better than him I am before knows me. I know you are my eldest
brother, and in the gentle condition of blood you should so know me.
The courtesy of nations allows you my better in that you are the
first-born, but the same tradition takes not away my blood, were there
twenty brothers betwixt us. I have as much of my father in me as you,
albeit I confess your coming before me is nearer to his reverence.
Yes—better than whoever stands before me knows who they are. I know you're my eldest brother, and as family, you should know me as such. The law of nations grants you seniority for being born first—but that same law doesn't erase my blood, not even if twenty brothers stood between us. I have my father in me as much as you do, though I admit your birth gave you closer standing to our father's authority.
Yeah, actually—better than you seem to know yourself. I'm your youngest brother, and family means you should recognize me as one. Fine, the law says you're better because you were born first—but that doesn't erase who I am by blood. There could be a dozen brothers between us and I'd still be blood. I've got as much of our father in me as you do, even if custom does put you closer to his authority.
you're oldest, fine.
custom makes you better born.
but we're still brothers.
i have dad in me as much as you.
What, boy!
What, boy!
What, boy!
boy.
Come, come, elder brother, you are too young in this.
Come now, elder brother—you're the inexperienced one here.
Listen, you're the one out of your depth, not me.
you're too young for this.
i'm not the one losing the argument.
Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain?
Are you laying hands on me, villain?
You're going to put your hands on me now?
what are you doing.
I am no villain. I am the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys; he was
my father, and he is thrice a villain that says such a father begot
villains. Wert thou not my brother, I would not take this hand from thy
throat till this other had pulled out thy tongue for saying so. Thou
has railed on thyself.
I am no villain. I am the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys. He was my father, and anyone who calls his sons villains is thrice a villain himself. If you weren't my brother, I wouldn't release my hand from your throat until my other hand had torn your tongue out for speaking this way. You've destroyed yourself with your own words.
I'm not a villain. I'm Sir Rowland de Boys's youngest son—that was my father. And anyone who says his children are villains is a villain three times over. If you weren't my brother, I'd keep my hand on your throat right now until I ripped your tongue out for those words. You've just condemned yourself.
i'm not a villain.
i'm sir rowland's son.
you're the one who needs to worry.
you just destroyed yourself.
Shakespeare opens As You Like It with a structural move so clean it almost hides itself: in the first 200 lines, he introduces two pairs of brothers in the same moral configuration. Orlando and Oliver: younger good, elder evil. Duke Senior and Duke Frederick: elder good, younger evil. The parallel is deliberate.
By reversing which brother is the villain in each pair, Shakespeare prevents the play from becoming a simple argument about birth order. It's not that eldest sons are bad or youngest sons are good. What's consistent is the pattern: one brother has legitimate power; the other has legitimate grievance; the powerful one responds with cruelty rather than generosity.
Charles's report of the Duke's exile lands in the middle of the Orlando-Oliver scene as a kind of structural rhyme. We're watching the same story at two scales — domestic and political. And the solution will be the same at both scales: not a court or a legal system but the strange, leveling magic of the Forest of Arden, where both Oliver and Duke Frederick will eventually be transformed.
Keep watching for how Shakespeare tracks these two bad brothers through the rest of the play. Their fates are parallel — and their transformations are almost too neat. That neatness is part of the joke.
remembrance, be at accord.
For the sake of your father's memory, be reconciled.
Please, remember your father. Make peace with each other.
for your father's sake
stop this.
Let me go, I say.
Let me go. I'm leaving.
Let me go.
let me go.
I will not till I please. You shall hear me. My father charged you in
his will to give me good education. You have trained me like a peasant,
obscuring and hiding from me all gentleman-like qualities. The spirit
of my father grows strong in me, and I will no longer endure it.
Therefore allow me such exercises as may become a gentleman, or give me
the poor allottery my father left me by testament; with that I will go
buy my fortunes.
I won't release you until you listen. My father charged you in his will to give me a proper education. Instead, you've raised me like a peasant and hidden from me every quality that makes a gentleman. My father's spirit is growing strong in me now, and I refuse to bear this any longer. Either give me the kind of education a gentleman deserves, or hand me the little portion my father left me in his will—and with that, I'll go make my own fortune.
You're not going anywhere until I've said this. My father's will—it says you're supposed to educate me properly. But you've treated me like a servant and kept me away from every single thing I need to know to be a gentleman. My father's voice is in my head and it's getting louder, and I can't stand this anymore. Either give me the education you promised, or give me the money Dad left me, and I'll get out of your life and build something for myself.
you promised dad you'd educate me.
you never did.
so either teach me or give me my inheritance.
i'm leaving either way.
And what wilt thou do? Beg when that is spent? Well, sir, get you in. I
will not long be troubled with you. You shall have some part of your
will. I pray you leave me.
And what will you do? Beg when that's gone? Fine, sir, go inside. I won't have you bothering me much longer. You'll get some part of what you want. Now leave me alone.
What will you do then, starve? Fine, get inside. I'm done with this. You can have something, but not everything. Just go.
what will you do, beg?
get inside.
you'll get something.
just leave.
I no further offend you than becomes me for my good.
I won't offend you beyond what's necessary for my own wellbeing.
I'm only going to push back as much as I need to survive this.
i'm doing what i have to do.
only that.
Get you with him, you old dog.
Go with him, you old dog.
Get out of here with him.
go with him.
Is “old dog” my reward? Most true, I have lost my teeth in your
service. God be with my old master. He would not have spoke such a
word.
'Old dog' is the reward for my service? It's true—I've worn out my teeth serving you, working my fingers to bone for you. May God go with my old master. He would never have spoken such a word.
So that's what I get for a lifetime of service? Called a dog? After everything I've given to this house? My teeth are gone from working for you, and this is how you speak to me. Your father would have never said that to me. Never.
old dog.
after everything i did for you.
your father would never.
never.
Is it even so? Begin you to grow upon me? I will physic your rankness,
and yet give no thousand crowns neither. Holla, Dennis!
Is that so? You're beginning to grow too large in my world? I'll cut this weed out of my garden, and I still won't give you that thousand crowns. Dennis!
So that's how it is? He's starting to get big ideas? I'll get rid of this problem, and he won't see a penny from me. Dennis!
he's getting too comfortable.
i'll fix that.
and keep his money.
Oliver's closing soliloquy contains one of the most psychologically honest admissions in all of Shakespeare: 'for my soul — yet I know not why — hates nothing more than he.' He can see that his hatred is irrational. He can see that Orlando is genuinely good. He knows he's being unfair. And he does it anyway.
Scholars have called this 'motiveless malignity' — a term more commonly applied to Iago in Othello. But Oliver's version is more transparent: where Iago works hard to construct grievances (Cassio's promotion, suspicions about Emilia), Oliver just admits he has none. He hates his brother because he hates his brother. The goodness that should make Orlando lovable is exactly what makes Oliver hate him more.
This is strange and modern and psychologically precise. We recognize this kind of resentment — the person who's not succeeded, who watches someone else succeed on the merits, and feels a rage they can't justify even to themselves. It doesn't make Oliver sympathetic. But it makes him recognizable.
The other detail that matters: Oliver is being undervalued by his own people ('especially of my own people, who best know him'). He's the landlord, the master, the eldest son — and his servants prefer the brother he's been actively trying to erase. That's the quiet engine under everything Oliver does.
Was not Charles, the Duke’s wrestler, here to speak with me?
DENNIS
So please you, he is here at the door and importunes access to you.
Wasn't Charles, the Duke's wrestler, supposed to come here and talk to me? DENNIS: Yes, sir — he's at the door now and is asking to be let in.
Charles the wrestler — wasn't he supposed to come by? DENNIS: He's here, sir. Right outside waiting.
wasn't charles coming to see me he's at the door waiting
Call him in.
Send him in.
Tell him to come in.
bring him in.
Cheerful professional who delivers dangerous information with the tone of a routine work update. Watch for how easily he's used by people who know he won't read between the lines.
Good morrow to your worship.
Good morning to your worship.
Good morning, sir.
morning.
Good Monsieur Charles. What’s the new news at the new court?
Good Monsieur Charles. What's the latest gossip from the new court?
Charles, good to see you. What's happening at court these days?
what's new at the new court?
Charles drops the Forest of Arden into this scene almost as an aside — a bit of political gossip about where the banished Duke has ended up. But Shakespeare plants it deliberately at the beginning of the play because the Forest is already being constructed as a counter-world before we need it to be one.
'Like the old Robin Hood of England... fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world.' Two references in one breath: the English pastoral-outlaw myth and the classical Golden Age. Both point the same direction — a place outside the ordinary world where something different is possible, where rank matters less and nature matters more.
This will be tested severely once characters actually arrive in Arden. It's cold there. People are hungry. The golden-age fantasy collides with the reality of sleeping under trees. Shakespeare doesn't let his pastoral be purely escapist — he keeps poking holes in it, mostly through Touchstone and Jaques.
But the Forest does what the court can't: it transforms people. It breaks Oliver open. It cures Duke Frederick in a single offstage sentence. Whatever Arden is — magic, metaphor, a space outside normal causality — it works. Charles describes it warmly, almost enviously. That warmth is a clue. Keep watching how the Forest does its job.
There’s no news at the court, sir, but the old news. That is, the old
Duke is banished by his younger brother the new Duke, and three or four
loving lords have put themselves into voluntary exile with him, whose
lands and revenues enrich the new Duke; therefore he gives them good
leave to wander.
Nothing new at court, sir, except the old news. The old Duke is banished by his younger brother, the new Duke, and three or four loyal lords chose to go into voluntary exile with him. Since those lords have given their lands and money to the new Duke, he generously lets them wander wherever they wish.
No real news, sir—just the same old story. The old Duke got banished by his younger brother, the new Duke. A few good men who were loyal to the old Duke chose to go into exile with him. Since their lands and revenues just went to the new Duke anyway, he's happy to let them wander off.
old duke was banished by his brother.
some lords went into exile with him.
new duke lets them wander because he already took their land.
Can you tell if Rosalind, the Duke’s daughter, be banished with her
father?
Do you know if Rosalind, the Duke's daughter, was banished along with her father?
Is Rosalind—the Duke's daughter—in exile with him?
was rosalind banished too.
O, no; for the Duke’s daughter, her cousin, so loves her, being ever
from their cradles bred together, that she would have followed her
exile or have died to stay behind her. She is at the court and no less
beloved of her uncle than his own daughter, and never two ladies loved
as they do.
No, sir. The Duke's daughter loves her cousin—the new Duke's daughter—so deeply because they were raised together from birth that she would have followed her father into exile or died rather than stay behind. She stays at court and is loved by her uncle as much as his own daughter. Two women have never loved each other as these two do.
No. She and the new Duke's daughter—her cousin—they were raised together and they love each other so much that Rosalind couldn't bear to leave her, even for her father. So she stayed at court. The new Duke adores her as much as his own daughter. Those two are closer than any sisters I've ever seen.
no.
she loves her cousin too much.
couldn't leave her for her father.
they're inseparable.
Where will the old Duke live?
Where will the old Duke settle?
So where is the old Duke now?
where did he go.
They say he is already in the Forest of Arden, and a many merry men
with him; and there they live like the old Robin Hood of England. They
say many young gentlemen flock to him every day and fleet the time
carelessly, as they did in the golden world.
They say he's already in the Forest of Arden with many cheerful companions. They live there like the old Robin Hood of England once did. Young gentlemen arrive there every day, and they spend their time carelessly, as if they're living in the golden age of the world.
Word is he's already settled in the Forest of Arden with a whole group of happy men. They live like the old Robin Hood and his men in the stories—you know, free and noble and outside the law. Young gentlemen keep showing up to join them, and they just pass the time as if they're living in paradise.
he's in the forest of arden.
living like robin hood.
free men, golden world.
sounds almost perfect.
What, you wrestle tomorrow before the new Duke?
And do you wrestle tomorrow before the new Duke?
So are you wrestling at the court tomorrow?
you're wrestling tomorrow.
Marry, do I, sir, and I came to acquaint you with a matter. I am given,
sir, secretly to understand that your younger brother Orlando hath a
disposition to come in disguised against me to try a fall. Tomorrow,
sir, I wrestle for my credit, and he that escapes me without some
broken limb shall acquit him well. Your brother is but young and
tender, and for your love I would be loath to foil him, as I must for
my own honour if he come in. Therefore, out of my love to you, I came
hither to acquaint you withal, that either you might stay him from his
intendment, or brook such disgrace well as he shall run into, in that
it is a thing of his own search and altogether against my will.
Yes, sir, I am. And I came to warn you of something. I've been told in confidence that your younger brother Orlando intends to appear in disguise to challenge me to a wrestling match. Tomorrow, sir, I wrestle for my reputation, and anyone who escapes my match without some broken bones will have come away well. Your brother is still young and delicate, and out of respect for you I would hate to injure him, as I must do for my own honor if he comes to fight me. So I've come to tell you—either stop him from coming, or accept that he may suffer a beating, because all of this is his own choice, against my wishes.
Yes, I am, sir. And I came to warn you about something. I've heard privately that your younger brother Orlando plans to show up disguised tomorrow and try to wrestle me. I wrestle for my reputation, and I have to win hard—people get broken bones when they face me. Your brother's young and not very strong, and I don't want to hurt him, but if he comes at me, I have to do my job. So I wanted you to know—either talk him out of it, or understand that he's going to take a serious beating, and it's his own choice to be there.
orlando's going to challenge me tomorrow.
i heard it through channels.
he's young. he'll get hurt.
but it's his choice.
Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which thou shalt find I will
most kindly requite. I had myself notice of my brother’s purpose
herein, and have by underhand means laboured to dissuade him from it;
but he is resolute. I’ll tell thee, Charles, it is the stubbornest
young fellow of France, full of ambition, an envious emulator of every
man’s good parts, a secret and villainous contriver against me his
natural brother. Therefore use thy discretion. I had as lief thou didst
break his neck as his finger. And thou wert best look to’t; for if thou
dost him any slight disgrace, or if he do not mightily grace himself on
thee, he will practise against thee by poison, entrap thee by some
treacherous device, and never leave thee till he hath ta’en thy life by
some indirect means or other. For I assure thee (and almost with tears
I speak it) there is not one so young and so villainous this day
living. I speak but brotherly of him, but should I anatomize him to
thee as he is, I must blush and weep, and thou must look pale and
wonder.
Charles, I thank you for your loyalty to me, which you will find I repay most generously. I already knew of my brother's plan and have tried every secret means to talk him out of it, but he won't listen. He's the most stubborn young man in France, filled with ambition, envious of every talented person he meets, a secret and villainous conspirator against me, his own brother. So use your judgment. I would be just as happy to see his neck broken as his finger. And be careful—if you don't punish him severely, if he doesn't get thoroughly beaten by you, he'll scheme against you with poison, try to trap you with treachery, and he'll never stop until he's killed you by some underhanded means or other. I promise you—and I say this almost in tears—there is no one so young and so villainous alive today. I speak restrainedly about him, but if I fully described his character, you would turn pale and weep at what you heard.
Charles, thank you for telling me this—and I won't forget it. Actually, I already knew he was planning something, and I've tried everything I could think of to stop him, but he won't listen. He's the most stubborn kid in France. He's ambitious, he's jealous of anyone who's talented, and he's been secretly plotting against me, his own brother. Do what you need to do. Honestly, breaking his neck would be fine by me—same as his finger. And listen, if you don't beat him badly enough, if he doesn't get a real message from you, he'll come after you. He'll poison you, he'll set traps, and he won't stop until he's killed you somehow. I'm serious about this—and I'm almost tears saying it—there's not a more vicious young man alive. What I'm telling you is the kind version of who he is. If I really let you know what he's like, you'd be horrified.
he's planning to challenge you.
he won't listen to me.
he's dangerous.
don't let him leave that ring standing.
I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If he come tomorrow I’ll give
him his payment. If ever he go alone again I’ll never wrestle for prize
more. And so, God keep your worship.
I'm deeply glad I came to you with this. If he shows up tomorrow, I'll make sure he gets what's coming to him. If he ever walks on his own feet again after I'm done, I'll never wrestle professionally again. And may God protect you, sir.
I'm really glad I came and told you. If he shows up tomorrow, he'll leave that ring knowing what he's up against. If he ever walks normally again after I'm finished with him, I'll quit wrestling. God keep you safe, sir.
if he comes, he'll regret it.
i won't go easy.
god protect you.
Farewell, good Charles. Now will I stir this gamester. I hope I shall
see an end of him; for my soul—yet I know not why—hates nothing more
than he. Yet he’s gentle, never schooled and yet learned, full of noble
device, of all sorts enchantingly beloved, and indeed so much in the
heart of the world, and especially of my own people, who best know him,
that I am altogether misprized. But it shall not be so long; this
wrestler shall clear all. Nothing remains but that I kindle the boy
thither, which now I’ll go about.
Goodbye, Charles. Now I'll push this young fighter toward the match. I hope it will be the end of him—because my soul, and I don't know why, hates nothing more than he does. Yet he's gentle, self-taught and yet learned, full of noble schemes, loved by everyone in an almost magical way, beloved especially by my own people who know him best—and that's why I feel so undervalued. But it won't last much longer. This wrestler will settle everything. All that's left is for me to drive the boy toward his appointment, which is what I'll go do now.
Goodbye, Charles. Now I'm going to make sure that young fighter shows up tomorrow. I'm counting on this to finish him—because, honestly, I don't even know why, but my whole soul hates him more than anyone. He's kind, he learned everything without being taught, he's full of good instincts, people love him like he's magic—especially my own servants and staff, who like him better than me. That's what eats at me. But this wrestler is going to fix all of it. All I have to do is get him to show up tomorrow, and I'm already heading out to do that.
my soul hates him and i don't know why.
everyone loves him.
i can't stand it.
the wrestler will fix this.
The Reckoning
Orlando's opening speech is a grievance that's been building for years — his dead father's will promised him an education and a place in the world, and his brother Oliver has honored precisely none of it. When Oliver walks in and calls him a villain, Orlando grabs him by the throat. They eventually disentangle, but the damage is done: Oliver immediately schemes with the court wrestler Charles to have Orlando killed at tomorrow's tournament. The scene ends with Oliver alone, confessing — and this is what makes him disturbing — that he has no idea why he hates his brother.
If this happened today…
Imagine a startup founder's will leaves the company entirely to eldest son Oliver, with a sticky note: 'Educate my youngest, give him a seat at the table.' Oliver pockets the education fund, has Orlando answering support tickets, and invites him to exactly zero strategy meetings. Orlando finally raises it in the family Slack — publicly. Oliver tells him to drop it. Orlando doesn't. By the end of the scene Oliver is DMing the company's most dangerous competitive athlete to 'make sure Orlando doesn't show up at the tournament tomorrow.' All while insisting he's doing it out of love.