Their white socks turned brown. Hair, disheveled. Frowns covered their faces. They sprinted. Scrambled left, front, right. They banged 22 shots. Then 19. Then 24. Dirt stuck glued underneath the soles of their blue Nikes. Their legs, spring chickens at the first point, wobbled. It was tiresome, grueling and, after over 185 minutes, they still had not finished.
On their fingers, they gripped swords. Rafael Nadal chopped his through the Paris wind while Roger Federer swung and sliced. The red surface they stepped on? The French call it “le terre battue” or red clay. But no, it wasn’t. It was red blood. From the wounds they inflicted upon each other, the rectangle turned into a pool of red blood.