Caira Conner

In this letter of recommendation, our correspondent reports from the All England's Aorangi Park, where the press can sit and absorb a sense of wonder and astonishment and porous, melancholy outsiderness. Where we are reminded, after all, that we are mere witnesses to these shapes and strokes of beauty, and not their arbiters.

On December 31, 2024, Joe Lynskey was pushed in front of a subway train. He shouldn’t have survived. Now, tennis is helping him live. “I have missed this so much.”

In August, I watched Dominic Thiem play the last Grand Slam match of his career, courtside in Arthur Ashe stadium. Thiem’s family and team were in his box, including former coach Nicolás Massú, their faces solemn in the midday sun. American Ben Shelton, whose star power and biceps have only increased in size since his breakout season last year, was Thiem’s opponent. Thiem played with occasional moments of beauty—the ghost of his US Open-winning self dancing in the shadows of a one-handed winner—but Shelton devoured him. It was heartbreaking, and perversely compelling.