It's 2012, and Novak Djokovic is one point away from winning the Australian Open. He and Rafael Nadal, number 2 in the world at the time, have fought a war of attrition and impeccable quality. Despite it being after 1 a.m., 15,000 fans fill Rod Laver arena to capacity while 2.4 million people watch worldwide, awaiting the moment when Djokovic claims his fifth Grand Slam crown. Djokovic serves, Nadal hits it too short and before he can get back into position, Djokovic cracks a winning forehead, ending what is still the longest match in Australian Open history and the longest Grand Slam final in the sport's history at five hours and 53 minutes.
For days after, the story of two titans clashing reverberated through the sport. Djokovic was named a tennis great – spoken in the same breath as Roger Federer, Andre Agassi, Björn Borg, and John McEnroe – while Nadal called the match the best of his career. Afterward, commentator Chris Fowler called it "unforgettable [and] unmatched...a new definition of suffering for the title." Since then, few matches have exemplified "epic" quite like that one.
Yet, in the public eye, tennis is anything but.
In my high school, the tennis team were the have-nots. We had nothing else to do and no other sport to go to. Cross country was too boring, we weren't hot enough for soccer and for many members, band was their muse. Through our four years, we had three different coaches, and our record wasn't anything to write home about. Yet, despite the lack of support, for three sets each match, we were gods, cracking the balls down through the court, giving our opponents hell. Nothing, absolutely nothing, is more gratifying than whipping a passing shot; you are invincible.
On the outside, things didn't get much better in college. There were no cheerleaders, the team's parents were our only fans and we still weren't hot enough for the soccer team (although cross country did become less boring for me). Yet, we were still there dripping in the sun, ready for one more sprint and basket of balls for serve practice. And for our hard work, what did we get? A 10 percent winning record two years in a row.
That drive doesn't go away. For every loss, there were 10 shots within that were so perfect, that just looked so damn good, it sent battery acid through my veins and was a pinprick of heroin to the cerebral cortex. It built until a comeback seemed possible. There is no time limit, no referees to say enough; you play until one drops. It's the most satisfying and heartbreaking sport I've ever done, but you keep running, serving, hitting because there is nothing else like it.
It requires the dexterity of a gymnast, the leg strength of a bicyclist, the mind of a chess player, the speed of a track athlete and some insane mental fortitude. It all combines into a single match of grace and brutality, modesty and pride, defeat and strength; it's an enigma. What other one-on-one sport combines all of these attributes? UFC has been taken over by Mountain Dew and other sponsorships that liter the octagon, boxing is dead and no one cares about fencing.
Tennis is the last bastion of primal competitive spirit, combined with the modern grace and poise that kids are taught to emulate; for that, it's pretty epic.
