Everyone knows tennis is a cruel mistress, most of all the
players. She’s exacting, calculating and
fickle. Serves rained down at 130 mph are judged within millimeters; deciding
matches, tournaments, seasons. Every
week the players (and anyone who cares to look) know exactly where they stand
in the grand scheme of things; the tour’s 52-week rolling rankings, virtually
unique in sport, do a fair job of minimizing conjecture. Tennis moves on with devastating speed. No sooner does a player kiss the championship
hardware does the process to replace him begin, a process known all too well by
Juan Carlos Ferrero
