The commentators for yesterday morning's 'epic' semi-final between Novak Djokovic and Andy Murray frequently referred to the match in boxing terms. It was a 'slug-fest', the two of them were 'sluggers', 'middleweights'.
But it was more a sick perversion of a boxing match - where each fighter took it in turns to land one punch and could make it as hard as they could while the other fighter could do nothing about the blow he received. That horrible moment when Djokovic has returned it and the whole world is pent up in Andy Murray's right arm and we hold our breath until he got it back and we could rest safe in the knowledge that for the next two seconds, it isn't Andy's to lose. Then it's back on us again.
Praying Djokovic couldn't stretch himself to it, then sighing in resignation when he did, it was unbearable viewing. Every time Murray returned the ball was a small victory, a sigh of relief. Only when Novak missed could I fully raise myself to happiness. Of course a winner from Murray registered a sort of happiness, but I found it to be far more like relief mixed with an admiration that showed itself in nervous laughter or a full-blooded exhalation of all that energy.
It was that sort of match where the avoidance of error was paramount. That, and running and running for every ball that made it back over the net. It was like a very real playing-out of the phrase, "the ball is in your court now," with all the implications those words carry of just being glad to get it back over the net, happy to not have to worry about it, even for those two seconds.
The end of any great sporting encounter always leaves a trembling pins and needles, nerves exhausted, like I had just been hit in the stomach. Later on, I experienced the come down, like hitting the wall, and realised that for several hours that morning I had been operating on some higher plane of being. That is surely the most powerful drug of all.
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