Page 51 of Match Point

That first set was like a heavyweight boxing match. Every time Moreau punched, I punched harder. I was feeling him out, and could tell he was doing the same to me. Neither of us wanted to crank things up to an intense level, yet. Nobody wanted to make the first mistake.

Somehow, I ended up leading the set 6 - 5. And after a double-fault on Moreau’s serve, and tworeallygreat returns, I managed to break him and win the set, 7 - 5.

There was a nervous buzz in the crowd as we took a short rest before the second set. The crowd was wondering if their favorite player would be defeated at home.Hopefully I’ll make that happen.

But Moreau came out swinging in the second set. It was like he was holding back in the first, and wasnowplaying to his skill level. Every time I made a perfect shot that should have been a winner, Moreau managed to track it down and return it. Meanwhile, the clay surface was giving me trouble; I slipped once while trying to chase down a forehand winner, and my confidence was shaken after that.

Moreau won the second set 6 - 4, and then won the third set by the same score.

By the fourth set, I could tell I was outmatched on this surface. To make matters worse, Moreau was playing the best game of his life; he wasn’t making any mistakes. Every serve was perfect, every return flawlessly placed. And then a realization came to me.

I’m going to lose.

Being the top tennis player in the world required confidence. An unflappable attitude. But my confidence was shaken, and I knew I couldn’t win.

As we played out the fourth set, I could feel my career slipping away. I was going to lose this match, and with it drop down to #2 in the rankings. Moreau would gloat about it in his interviews. Maybe we would meet in Wimbledon next month and I would have a chance to retake my spot.

These thoughts were a distraction, and eventually I found myself defending against match point. I held on for three points, drawing out the tension in the crowd that wanted to go crazy for Moreau. And then it happened. My opponent made a perfect serve to my forehand side, and I barely had enough time to flick my racket out at the ball. Somehow I returned it over the net, but Moreau was already charging the net and volleying, hitting the ball into the vast expanse of court that I couldn’t reach quickly enough. Before the point was over, Moreau had dropped to his knees to cover his face with his hands in victory.

I let the roar of the crowd wash over me, like a mudslide destroying everything in its path.

I was numb as I smiled and approached the net. I shook Moreau’s hand graciously. That’s what you did, unless you were intentionally an asshole like Moreau. He shook my hand back and muttered something complimentary, then turned and preened for the crowd that was going wild.

It was just one loss, but it felt like so much more. I could sense my window of success beginning to close. Had my career peaked? Was I doomed to slide into obsolescence, like so many champions before me? The smile didn’t leave my face, but a deep sense of dread filled my chest.

I was still numb during the trophy ceremony. The second place trophy looked like a silver baking sheet. Five years ago, when I came in second place to Rafael Nadal, I wasecstaticto receive the trophy. Today, I wanted to hurl it into the crowd.

They handed the microphone to me. I gave a short speech, but didn’t remember what I said. I was a zombie as I spoke to the press after the match too, and when I took a shower.

Before I knew it, I was back at my hotel. My coach clapped me on the shoulder, said some words of encouragement, and told me to be ready to fly home that evening. I nodded along and got in the elevator to go up to my room.

But before the door closed, a woman came jogging up and slipped inside with me.

Seeing Miranda instantly lifted my spirits. Neither of us spoke as we took the elevator to the fourth floor, then walked to my hotel room.

“I thought you were flying out this afternoon,” I said.

“I changed my flight.”

I winced. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“You have two options,” she said, ignoring me. “I can tell you a pertinent anecdote about my career to cheer you up. Or I can give you a massage and help you relax.”

“I’ll take the massage.”

“Pertinent anecdote it is!” she replied.

“No, I said—”

“I first became the number one ranked woman in the world when I was twenty-four,” she explained, sitting on the bed behind me and beginning to massage my shoulders. “I had just won Wimbledon for the second time, which put me ahead of Serena Williams in the rankings. I was on top of the world.”

“I remember that. I had a hamstring injury and had to drop out of Wimbledon. I watched every match of that run. You were dominant that year.”

“I was dominant,” she agreed, fingers digging into the muscles of my shoulder. “And then Serena bounced back and defeated me at the US Open, and I lost in the fourth round of the Australian Open. Just like that, I wasn’t the top player in the world anymore. I remember thinking my career was over. That I might have to retire.

“It took over two years, but I bounced back. I made it to the finals at the French Open, and then won Wimbledon again. Just like that, I was back in the top spot, which I held until I retired.”

“But you were only twenty-four,” I said. “You had so much of your career left.”

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