It is that time of year when all eyes in the tennis world turn to Paris. And once they have turned to Paris those eyes immediately start watering due to all of the red dust in the air. Underneath this sports created air pollution Roland Garros is presented to an admiring world. Originally designed as a way to weed the asthmatics out of tennis Roland Garros has come a long way since those early experiments in eugenics. Now the tournament takes its place among the greatest contests in the tennis world. The stadium surrounding centre court is filled with a thronging crowd shouting their adulation as two gods of the tennis world vie for glory within the hallowed compound.
But tear your eyes from this display of tennis magnificence for just a moment gentle reader. Look beyond the glittering confines of centre court, look past, too, the other show courts where lesser but nonetheless brilliant stars in the tennis firmament ply their dusty trade. Keep going to the edge of the horizon. There you will see it. It might be an outer court, it might be a disused carpark, with red clay it's a little difficult to tell. So far from centre court that it might technically qualify as a separate tournament a pair of scruffy figures slink to the middle of the space. Here the lowly foot soldiers of the tennis world do unattended battle with each other. The qualifiers, the wildcards, the also rans and the never wases. Those whose tennis rankings are comfortably into three figures. Here unheralded and unloved they will compete with each other for the unimaginable glory of being knocked out in the second round by someone with an infinitely higher skill set. Each of the players is desperate to win enough prize money to afford a bus ticket back to the homeless shelter they're currently squatting in.
A thunderous roar greets these tennis minnows as they nervously approach the net. Unfortunately it is the sound of fanatic crowds applauding the skills and efforts of others on the more select courts. The noise pours through the outer courts drowning out the sound of the umpire's voice as they make the calls and wonder exactly who in the tennis world they offended to wind up officiating this match. In stark contrast to centre court the crowd here consists of a dozen or so people evenly divided between relatives of the players who couldn't find a decent excuse for their absence and derelicts who have so far defied eviction.
After a decent pause to allow both players to think better of the entire idea a figure detaches itself from the tiny crowd and climbs a rickety chair. I thought it was a derelict but it turned out to be the umpire. Both players begin the match with a sort of enthusiastic hopelessness which would be endearing if it wasn't so unendearing. Each player attempts to prove that they can do anything the champions can do only slower and less efficiently. Balls fly wide, sometimes landing in adjacent courts which are so close there is a real danger that the players might become intermingled. Serves are buried deep beyond the base line, the occasional adequate shot is greeted with fist pumps from the responsible player while the opponent mutters and taps dust from their shoes. Despite the best efforts of both players the score limps painfully towards the ultimate conclusion with an air that can best be described as "death march". The occasional flashingly brilliant shot serving only to highlight the overall mediocrity of both performances.
On and on it goes until even the umpire's eyes are weeping blood although whether that's because of the performance or just the red dust that gets everywhere is a matter for debate. Vultures circle lazily sure that one and possibly both of the players will provide them with a meal before long. Finally when the umpire's mental state can take no more they call the final score and flee the court hoping to catch the last train back to centre court before being trapped for the night in this hellhole. The two players approach the net and hands are shaken to a thin spattering of applause (assuming the derelicts haven't passed out). Then both players depart heads held high. For the winner the prospect of being blown off the court by a player that security would normally keep them away from. For the loser there is the comforting knowledge that at the very least they haven't sunk to the level of playing mixed doubles.
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