In this New York tennis centre named after a King, the monarch of the game is bent over like a winded boxer. It’s beautiful to behold because it only means he’s going to have to dig. You want a fight, Novak Djokovic will give you one. There is with athletes a rugged poetry to their suffering.
It’s midway through the second set of the US Open men’s final, a set so ligament-testing, lung-searing, mind-messing that even Djokovic, first cousin of Ironman, will say, “I don’t recall being so exhausted after rallies”.
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