In an averagely lived life, without much going on that would truly disappoint others or put oneself in some serious trouble, it’s pretty normal to get some praise. Some positive word coming from a person you know, “wow that’s really cool! You’re pretty good at this!”

We get used to stuff like this. Well, at least I have gotten used to it. To the minor compliments, the passing grades. The average and unremarkable completion of courses and university programs. I thought to myself, “hey, I can do things if I put my mind to it. Look at all this prof of hard work and accomplishments!” Litte did I know. Idiotic me, who in my entire life just got used to cramming work at the last minute. Compromising, not having time for some deliverables, I would take the ones with the highest percentage and pray I’d make it happen. Well I did make it happen. But what praise does that beget?

“Congrats, me! You did what you were supposed to, at the very minimum you got the degrees you paid for! You finished the work you said you would! How amazing of you.”

And, as life went by, with different interests, and focus at the mercy of a whim, I learned to play instruments, I learned to operate cameras and edit videos, I learned to make music and put tracks together, I read books and researched for personal purposes, I started stories and poems, I wrote drafts and had creative ideas, I started a podcast.

All mediocre.

The unfortunate moment I am going through is realizing how much I left undone. How many articles I started, but never finished. How many songs I recorded parts for, and gave up on them. The creative ideas, all neatly organized in my OneNote app, untouched. Poems on my phone I never came back to after writing a few words. A podcast that lives, but ideas for episodes and videos never see the light of day.

I have learned, now, that hard work is a muscle. It needs training.

Just like my skinny arms scream with some weight, my mind can’t push me over the shortest wall. A bump on the road is enough for me to give up that path.

Accustomed to the easy way, the quick workout that gives enough results to warrant a passing grade, I didn’t realize that those were simply a first draft. Ideas, topics, notions that had potential for proper work to be painstakingly done on, to arrive at a polished, deep, advanced result that I would truly be proud of.

I was told I am good at writing. Sure, add to the list of things I can get a passing grade on.

Even on this very website, I have a list of unfinished pieces I truly cared about, I truly wanted to give myself to, but wasn’t brave enough to finish. To see my own mistakes. To be the biggest critic to my own work.

To suffer through the process.

To suffer.

My mind can’t be bothered, so I watch YouTube videos, thinking that these people put a lot of work into those. Reading books, thinking just how long it took to put it all together. Heck, even to draft HOW to put it all together.

It’s a source of such great frustration. I see an aspect of humanity that is at the core of our existence, without which we’d never have any of the things we do today, and througout history: the need to take on new endeavours, only as a virtue of our curiosity. This curiosity to see what we can discover, what can be created, what solutions can be found for problems we know of, and for those we will encounter. The curiosity to even find out: “how far I can go?”

What is the limit of what I know and can do? There’s no other way to know unless I get to doing it.

And there’s no way to improve on my rough drafts, to truly realize my potential, whatever it may be, unless I suffer through it all. The hard work. The frustration of not knowing. The pain of learning. The arduous process of researching, not guaranteed any answers. The slight embarrassement from seeing the first results, reworking them, re-editing, re-readnig, correcting, changing major things, then minor things, until I can say that this project is done.

And, after taking all the lessons learned, set out to do it all again. Better. Closer to my best, whatever that may look like. It’s part of what I want to find out.

But here I am, tired. And the only reason I am even able to write this now is because it is as hard as I can work now. There’s no research required. Just a quick read-through to search for typos. No fact checking, or wondering even if the message is clear, consistent, congruent. The very format of this is chosen so I don’t have to worry too much.

It’s not to say this letter is only a testament of my inaptitude and laziness. It is also an attempt at a start. A restart.

It is all I can do now before my proverbial lungs run out of air and need to catch a breath. My mind legs are shaking and heavy, and need to sit down.

Well, every tough road has a start. Every person starts to walk with small, awkward steps. So does every recovery.

And as I write all this, I hope to start some new reps to rehabilitate my mind. To make up for lost time in ignorance and arrogance. To truly start working hard.

Right now I am tired. But I am infinitely more tired of never finishing things. As such, I truly hope, from the bottom of my empty and sad heart, that this could, in the words of Troy Bolton and Gabriella Montez, be the start of something new.

Andre

Your smiles are revolting

Your counsel is perverse

In you there is hopelessness

In you there is despair

In you there is darkness

You disguise jealousy for empathy

You preach greed clothed in achievement

You destroy while wearing a teacher’s gown

Torment is what you sow

Hatred is what you spread

Emptiness is what you bring

You are fake

You are hollow

You are putrid

A soigné corpse

A sumptuous carcass

An opulent cadaver eviscerated of meaning

Your company is poisonous to dignity and your words the enemy of enlightenment.

I pray your influence withers away before my flesh

I pray my flesh decomposes before you deprave my spirit

I hope, with tears of anger and misery, your power fades into faint memory

As the next generations see the how vile is this that you have become, and remember the sin you embodied.

Wasn’t like crossing giant golden gates

Into a courtyard of greatness

Where you’re small

In awe

It might just be like the door to your childhood home

Inside your old room with fond memories

The entrance to the studio you first moved in together

The shit door to your own first place without your parents

The protected entryway to the shelter that took you in, out of a nightmare

The small frame where laughter lives inside

Where the lights are on and there’s food on the table

The ordinary door that keeps all the voices outside

Where you can sit alone and breathe in

The unforgettably forgettable door to the place where you rest

In peace.

Through a tiny window

I see them

Devoid of colour is the world

I should close my eyes

Dream of my own hills to climb

Instead, the window calls to me

To see the world and its people

Quietly I observe, fixated

A light shines on me,

In the dark of night

I see all people from my tower

My prison

Where I locked myself in

My refuge

I see their past, their present

Their small glory and their motivation

Their change, a stranger

Their energy, their lives, light like a feather

Their comfort, their community

Their smiles

Through my tiny window in my dark tower

In the darkest and quietest hour

I see them all

I feel their weight

I carry them

I feel them, I want them

But they’re not mine

They burden me

Their smiles

Through my tiny window

I take them

My eyes fixated in this tiny light

That sees a world

Devoid of colour

They do not see me

They do not know me

They live, unaware of me

Of my window, of my tower

These people, my addiction

This light, my life

Their smiles, my burden

Mine is like the arctic

With lengthy, dark and cold winters

Where quiet whispers of deadly winds blow

And springs and summers are mild and brief

As green fields slowly thaw,

appearing beneath the ice like a miracle

Small, yet vibrant flowers bloom under the sun

Which doesn’t fail to make itself known in this short visit, with blinding brightness and a taste of its burning power, as if to tease,

On the edge of something new and beautiful to begin, only to set sail over the horizon and beneath the sea

And the flowers dwindle back into the earth, withering, tucking all colour back out of reach

Fast as though afraid of unspeakable malevolence

And the night falls again

And the white sheets swiftly blanket the land, gently laying their great weight upon the fields

And the winds hurl and scream

And quiet down, not to settle

but to whisper of death again with their piercing tongues

Until the new day comes again

Which now amounts to but a faint flame of hope

Engulfed by the cold, unforgiving, black oceans,

Though alive and not yet dead

Not yet.

It’s tough to be true to

Yourself

When you don’t know who

You are

It seems I question myself

A lot

Uninterested, why do I not just

Call it?

Caught in the ambiguity of

Being

Happy, content, satisfied

Complete

But not really knowing exactly

For whom

I don’t really know who exactly

I am

Floating through the years,

Week in and week out

Growing older all without

Much of a sense of really

What the fuck is happening

What the fuck should I do

What the fuck should I like

What the fuck am I

The calendar numbs my awareness until I reckon with it once a year.

If you die

You can see those you loved

I hear

They calling it rest

So why can’t I rest?

Why must I endure

What else is left?

To rise, then back to bed?

To crave lights and glamour?

Do what we can to last?

Burdened with lessons of our past

Just one answer is assured

Sometimes I try

I look ahead

I step forward

I feel light

I am awestruck

But, quietly, behind me

I hear

The skies and the earth stand
I watch
The trees and houses blur past the windows
I contemplate
The air fills my lungs and the noise hums in my ears
I sit there
In the middle of this day
Surrounded by these people
Moved by necessity
Motioned by the street lights

Though no substance is in any of it
No meanings in these symbols
Nothing past the images
Like a void, separated by this reality which is
Paper thin, fragile, that crumples with a touch
Weightless, empty, assumed
Extending beyond the borders of the universe
Imploding under the frontiers of my epidermis

What powers this machine
But the very need for it to be powered?
What need is there for it
But the fact that it is there?
What to keep it from ceasing operations
But a lack of motive or justification?

And so it moves
Feeling or numbing
Until it crumbles
Like old papers
That pretended to hold any valuable information that was unique.

This story was originally posted here: https://popcorntennis.com/2022/08/27/andy-murrays-u-s-open-title-10-years-later/

When things are really huge, humans have a hard time perceiving them.

We can’t tell the difference between 1 million and 1 billion in our heads.

We have no idea what the speed of light actually is, aside of the theory.

Most of us can’t fathom what it feels like to win a Grand Slam tournament in tennis — the work needed to get there, the mental effort, the fitness, the pressure, the level of the players we’d have to face.

According to Wikipedia, 56 men have won a Grand Slam event since the Open Era started in 1968. 56 people is a simple party that can be fed with a bunch of pizzas and 6-packs of beer, and it wouldn’t even be that expensive for a middle-class group of university students.

As of 2020 there are 7.97 billion people in world.

A maximum total of four men a year can win a Grand Slam title. There are 3.97 billion males in the world (AMAB), which means at least roughly 1 man out of 1 billion will win one of the available titles each year, in normal circumstances.

If it were a million, we would pretend we know the difference but we don’t. It’s absolutely huge. A Grand Slam tournament is something so rare we can’t even properly think about it.

And if you’re Andy Murray in the first years of his career as a top player, you had to add that Roger Federer was the most decorated major champion in the world in 2012 with 16 titles, while Rafael Nadal had 11 and Novak Djokovic had 5. Murray had lost exclusively to Federer (3) and Djokovic (1) in his previous four major finals.

But it’s never quite enough for Andy Murray, is it? On top of all this pressure, the British hopeful was, as many put it, carrying the weight of a nation, with the last British male Grand Slam champion being Fred Perry in 1936 — in 2012 a 76-year wait for a new champion from the nation that invented tennis as we know it.

This time, getting to the US Open final after being defeated in four sets by Roger Federer at Wimbledon, a familiar foe: Novak Djokovic.

Murray had lost to Djokovic twice in Grand Slam matches by then: in straight sets at the 2011 Australian Open final, and in an absolute epic in five sets at the Australian Open 2012.

In the same year, another hard court match, and Djokovic was once again the defending champion.

With what seemed to be the weight of space and time on his shoulders, Andy still managed to inch closer and closer to his goal: winning a Grand Slam title.

Of course, we all know the real goal was Wimbledon, but beating one of your main rivals in any Grand Slam final would be another big step towards the ultimate objective, possibly even bigger than reaching the Wimbledon final earlier that year. The US Open would do just fine.

It is not surprising that no one could understand the pressure Andy Murray was under.

It is not farfetched to think that not even Murray himself could imagine what would mean to win a Grand Slam. It is a feat too immense to comprehend, to wrap his head around it.

And so, at that fateful US Open, he just played.

Seemingly encouraged by his results in the summer — including a dominant win against Roger Federer to win the first of his two Olympic gold medals — Murray played aggressively in the windy conditions inside Arthur Ashe stadium. The mindset, along with Murray’s trademark speed and consistency that allows him to stay in points for way longer than a normal human being should (and win them too, often), could probably be explained by a new strategy: play one set, one game, one point at a time.

Djokovic was visibly the one most bothered by the windy conditions that day, but that didn’t impede the rallies from reaching ridiculous lengths — a feat even more so impressive in the conditions, where most would be mentally defeated by the invisible opponent within the first 20 minutes. Murray started a little shy, rolling forehands and using his counterpunching skills to hold serve and stay in the match, allowing him an early break.

The break of the Djokovic serve wouldn’t last long, and the tie-break followed. A mammoth 22-point tie breaker where both had chances, but where Murray seemed just that more extra-motivated.

As he won the opener, a classic Murray celebration. The strategy continues: this is just a tennis match. Forget about everything else.

In the second set, it seemed like a new Murray was born: perfect from everywhere on court, completely unfazed by the wind against a struggling Djokovic, the Brit went on to take a 4–0 lead.

Today it seems obvious, but back in 2012, Djokovic was just starting to cement his reputation: that of a player who is nearly impossible to beat, no matter how great your lead. And when he had his back against the wall, he started firing. From 0–4 down, Djokovic got one of the breaks back.

As Murray tried to serve for a two-sets-to-love lead, could the pressure have finally pushed it too hard against the door of Murray’s psychic? Djokovic’s efforts certainly started to pay off, with far more aggressive shots starting from the return, but Murray started missing regular shots into the net and well out.

76 years. One in a billion. The final piece needed to form the most exclusive club in tennis, the Big Three, right in front of him — again.

Maybe Murray thought about it, for long enough to remember what he was about to do. And that had a price, almost too costly at that crucial moment in his match — in his career.

But the then best-player-on-tour-without-a-grand-slam forced himself back into the strategy, and it was his turn to do what Andy Murray does best, and not miss again until the set was over.

7–5. The World №4 muscled it out and got rewarded with a “Djoko-smash,” then an unforced error from the Serb’s forehand which came with the break, the set, and a crucial two-sets-to-love lead over the defending champion.

However, it must have taken its toll mentally. With a much more muted celebration — a mere look to his box — Andy just didn’t seem the same player that won the first set like it was just another day of competition. At that point, he seemed like someone who knew exactly what he was doing. And that was not good for him.

Suddenly, it was Djokovic who forgot what the situation was. His incredible attacking game that saw him take over the tennis world in 2011 came to life, especially after an epic rally at *0–1, 40–30 where he ended with a specially phenomenal volley. Then, it seemed as if this would be a one-way traffic, to the horror of Murray fans.

Engaging the packed Arthur Ashe Stadium with his famous roaring celebrations, Novak Djokovic was more akin to the protagonist role, as Andy Murray seemed to battle against himself to once again start playing just to win the next point and not to put to rest a lengthy Grand Slam drought for Britain’s men’s tennis.

The match remained of fine quality, but the mental game had a clear winner at that moment. Something needed to change for Murray. He needed to reset. He needed to forget.

This isn’t Novak Djokovic. This isn’t Arthur Ashe Stadium. This isn’t a Grand Slam. This isn’t the US Open. This isn’t for history.

It’s a tennis match. It’s for competition. It’s for Andy Murray and the thrill of winning a great tennis rally.

Right at the start of the fifth and final set, already something felt different for Andy. Deep breath, stretching, speaking his usual “come on!” to himself as he waited to return serve. Perhaps going second in the fifth helped him. As a player who has been always behind the Big Three, Murray came to love the challenge. To be the underdog. Returning serve can feel this way sometimes, especially at the start of a set.

Showing signs that he was not done yet (words he would famously say himself, coincidentally in that same stadium, years later), Murray broke right away in the fifth. Every point he won, he gave a small, but clear, fist pump to show everyone watching that he was still very much in contention. It didn’t matter that he had yet to beat Djokovic at a major, it didn’t matter that he himself had yet to win one while Novak had five. All that matters is to win the next point.

Even his classic negativity was making a comeback when he lost points. And he was getting louder.

He was back. Just another tennis match.

While Novak Djokovic did recover one of the breaks down 0–3 in the fifth, the damage was already done by a short lackluster period. Trying to come back into the Final, the then five-time major champion went on the attack again, hitting hard and producing some of the mesmerizingly effortless groundstrokes only he is capable of. He managed to hold his serve in a tough game to narrow Murray’s lead to 3–2. He roared, and celebrated the micro-achievement in the scope of the match, not knowing this would be the last game he would win at that year’s US Open.

In the blink of an eye, it was already 4–2. In what was possibly the worst return game of the match for the all-time great Serb, all the effort in the previous game looked completely nullified. In contrast, Andy Murray raced through the game with four speedy and well placed first serves — three of them drawing return errors, and an ace on game point.

The match was now at 4h45.

Now, as it tends to be the case when these two face each other, this match was as physical as it gets. Rallies averaged 6.9 shots at that stage, and the longest one was a grueling, high-quality 54-shot point. Surprisingly, but comprehensibly, Djokovic started feeling some discomfort in his right leg. Perhaps this time it was too much, a reminder that he’s only human after all.

Yet-to-become Sir Andy Murray, on the other hand, was very much on the ascension. With Djokovic shooting for the fences, even though he was already well on the way to become one of tennis’ greatest players, his situation could not look any worse. Already down a break, now a double break in the deciding set looked inevitable against a fresh and motivated Murray — arguably one of the fittest, fastest players on tour, and one of the best defenders of all time.

“I am getting closer.”

After suffering a loss to Roger Federer at the Wimbledon final only a couple months earlier, Andy Murray said those words trying to lighten the mood after certainly the most painful loss of his career. He surely meant he was getting closer to a title at his home slam, in front of his home crowd.

Yet, here he was, now at 5–2 in the final set of the final Grand Slam tournament of the year. He had never been that close now at the US Open.

He looked as fierce as ever after getting the break and a chance to serve for his maiden major trophy. Fist pumping, shouting “let’s go, come on” to himself, putting on his well-known, mean-looking game face, showing his teeth and angry eyes, like an animal in defiance of his challenger.

A medical time-out ensued for Novak Djokovic. His legs were finally giving in. Andy was up and ready to serve quite some time before the break would be over. Hitting the ball against the tarp in the back of the court, it was almost like an eager kid just waiting on his coach so he could start practice.

He didn’t look like he was ready to get it over with. He seemed to want to play for the next point, to compete. He looked impatient, not to get to the trophy and out of there, off with the pressure, but to get into a rally. To play tennis.

It would seem he did not have his mind anywhere near the occasion. The situation he was in did not correspond to his attitude. The years, the players before him, the history, even his own failed attempts seemed forgotten, like it was someone else’s problem altogether.

The game starts. Rally, 15–0.

First serve, called out. Challenged, overruled. 30–0.

The US Open crowd goes wilder now. It’s no use trying to control them.

Another rally. Another challenge. Djokovic hits a forehand which Hawkeye shows sailed long.

40–0.

Missed first serve. Djokovic forces Murray into the net with a defensive forehand slice, then hits a lob which Murray can’t control, leaving it sitting up for the Serb to punch a winner. One match point saved, two to go.

40–15.

First serve, down the middle. Out.

Second serve, in the middle of the box. Djokovic hits a flat forehand down the line…

Long.

Game set match, Andy Murray: 7–6(10), 7–5, 2–6, 3–6, 6–2.

And at that historical moment, Andy Murray, now a Grand Slam champion, fist pumped like it was a normal point. He looked at his box, game face still on.

It looked almost funny for that moment.

But, half a second later, he started walking, like he had just woken up. Looking to his left and right, now walking towards the net for the handshake, he threw his racket, put his hands over his face. He stopped walking. Now crouching he was, in clear disbelief.

All this time trying to forget, fighting against the pressure, playing a tennis match like any other.

Now he remembered.

The weight of his achievement dawned on him. All of Britain’s wait. All the expectation. All the failures. All the people watching him, he could see it all, just could not react in any other way except like a young boy who got a dog for his birthday and was so happy he froze. You could still see he’s happy, but he doesn’t really understand that yet.

It looked like he had forgotten for a second. Now, he remembered.

And he’ll now be remembered forever.

Monday, September 10, 2012. The US Open Championships.

Andy Murray, Great Britain’s first male Grand Slam champion since Fred Perry at Wimbledon, 1936.

NOTE: This will be a post specifically about men’s tennis.

Rafael Nadal.

14 Roland Garros titles, and if not for his very problematic foot, he’d love to see if he could break the 20 mark, I reckon.

Speaking of Nadal’s foot, the infamous foot, it draws a lot of attention, for good or for ill. Some wonder what would have been of his career if his foot was healthy. Some, like me, wish it was healthy just so we could see more of Nadal in a full season, and see him retiring just by old age and normal injuries. Some others don’t believe in the foot. But we’re not here to talk about some others.

The GOAT

The Greatest of All Time, a sports acronym that I’m sure remains obscure, except that the entire world knows what it is.

Every sports fan likes to chat about the GOAT. Every TV broadcasting channel likes to pull up fancy graphics with cool pics of athletes to compare stats and chat about the GOAT. Everyone on Tennis Twitter, a mere product of the social media’s algorithm to keep people seeing the same content from an umbrella topic (in this case, tennis) likes to tweet about the GOAT. Heck we might talk more about GOATs than zoologists and vets. They probably end up on Tennis Twitter every once in a while and wonder what kind of hell hole is this.

I like to chat about the GOAT. It’s fun. I say why I think X player is the greatest, disagree with someone else, we have a beer or a coffee (but most likely a beer) then we change the subject and life goes on.

And that’s what I would have done post-Roland Garros, when the player I personally believe has the highest peak level of all time, Rafael Nadal won a whopping 14th title.

It would have been so much fun. I would be like “but Nadal has 22 Grand Slam titles, the best winning percentage of all and won 22 finals out of 30 played! This is unbelievable! Plus, all that managing foot pain” and then my mates would be like “but no one is like Djokovic, and Nadal hasn’t beaten Novak on hard since God-knows-when. Djokovic also has the most weeks at no.1 and big titles!” And we’d have a conversation knowing that, at the end of the day, it wouldn’t matter. I’m not Nadal. They’re not Djokovic. We are drunk and enjoying the NBA playoffs. The Warriors blew a 3–1 lead. LeBron is the actual GOAT, or whatever.

It’s the fun of sports, for me. To watch it, be entertained, try to analyse what’s going on during the match, be amazed by how damn hard these people hit that ball, and how consistently they are doing it. Be entertained by conversation starters such as someone who just watches tennis during the Grand Slams and basically only knows Wimbledon, Roland Garros, Nadal and Federer, asking the group “but you know, who’s the best player of all time?” and then we proceed to roast the dude who dared say it’s Roger Federer. We’re drunk. We’re enjoying the NBA playoffs in a bar. The Warriors blew a 3–1 lead, heck I can’t get over this, what a tragic series. LeBron might be the GOAT.

I also just love Roland Garros. I love clay, having grown up playing on the beautiful red dirt in Northeastern Brazil, and having my absolute favourite player of all time, Gustavo Kuerten, being a Roland Garros icon and three-time champion. And so, I enjoyed watching the French Open this year, as I do nearly every other year. I love tennis, so the better the matches, the more I love it. And Nadal’s level of tennis is too high for me not to enjoy it. I do wish Casper Ruud could have played the match of his life and made it a little longer and more competitive, though.

I like to talk about the GOAT, because it’s a fun, non-serious topic that keeps me engaged as I chat about the sport I love. Well, with the right people, that is.

Pineapple on Pizza

Are you old enough to remember the time when the internet went absolutely crazy about whether pineapple should be on pizza or not?

It got intense. The memes got funnier. The roasts were unbelievably funny. People were really into it, and some were truly into it, really believing that one or the other was actually the ultimate truth.

Well, I don’t actually know if everyone was just having a good time, but the internet is vast and full of surprises, so I’m fairly certain someone really believed in and was dedicated to defending their position seriously.

People still eat pineapple on pizza and are happy, and are drunk, and are now watching the NBA playoffs. None of the “meme wars of 2010” events made a difference.

What the actual f* am I talking about now?

I have come to the conclusion that the Pineapple on Pizza and the GOAT debate are, in fact, the same in nature. I shall call all these stupid, heated discussions, the Pineapple on Pizza Summit.

The POPS, for short, is a heated debate where people really get serious about it. They research and make excel sheets to prove their points, and get legitimately offended if someone simply disagrees with them. It’s also an utterly useless debate that has no bearing on how people actually engage with the topic.

Just like people still eat pineapple on pizza, just because Nadal now has a double career Grand Slam and 22 major titles, or Djokovic has a double career Golden Masters and was one win away from the calendar Grand Slam last year in 2021, it doesn’t change that tennis is still awesome, I will still watch it when they are gone, and some people who barely watch tennis will only know Roger Federer’s name.

Because no one cares about the conclusion. You might come to the conclusion that, actually, the GOATs are Lottie Dod and Paolo Lorenzi and I will forget about it tomorrow.

I simply wish people liked tennis, had heaps of fun chatting about it and watching it, got drunk or had too much coffee, went home happy and got back to watching more the next day.

It’s simply phenomenal how much the said “GOAT debate” separates people. It’s unfortunate. It’s sad. It’s annoying.

And, by the way, I love pineapple on pizza. Especially with goat cheese.