I might be the wrong guy to ask, because I’m constantly seeing greatness on the court. And not just when good-guy Dimitrov slaps an on-the-run passing forehand cannon that paints the line, or Wabi Sabi (our household nickname for Sabalenka) absolutely crushes a serve-plus-one, or Medvedev manages a backhand return pass from fifteen feet behind the baseline against a charging serve-and-volleyer.
I find myself mesmerized even by the most pedestrian, everyday, routine tennis. J.J. “Hide Your Moms” Wolf and Marcos “Quad Squad” Giron hitting clean crosscourt forehands on the Indian Wells practice courts. Taylor “Tay Tay” Townsend and Vika “I’m Still Here” Azarenka in a long backhand to forehand exchange on a smaller court in Charleston, the ball a blur of topspin.
How can I possibly pick a greatest?
Ok, fine, listen, if you twist my arm, here’s an answer: Dane Sweeny—one of those brave souls grinding it out week in week out on the Challenger tour for net negative earnings—gritting out the wildest point you or I will ever see.
Quarterfinals on the teal courts in beautiful Chennai, India, the sun piercing overhead. Arthur Cazaux (ATP #75, French youngster, bedecked in Lacoste, diamond earring, fuccboi haircut, thick neck and torso and skinny limbs, so he sort of looks like Mike Wazowski from Monsters Inc. if you squint hard enough) serves out wide on the ad side and Sweeny (ATP #221, Aussie youngster, rusty mullet and ‘stache, a wiry 5’7” according to the internet, but that must be in platform shoes) hits a backhand return that lands central and short, so Cazaux pounces into the court and slaps a forehand cross out wide, but Sweeny runs it down and hits an acrobatic running forehand cross-court to the waiting Cazaux at net, who dinks a delicate little drop volley, surely a winner with Sweeny so far behind the baseline and so far out wide, but no: Sweeny is already scrambling—he’s a quick and scrappy little fella—and as he slides violently into the ad side service box, his shoes screeching loudly, he hits a backhand dig cross, normally a perfectly fine choice of shot, but Cazaux has anticipated well and is there to hit a short backhand pass, hoping to wrongfoot Sweeny, and again it’s surely a winner with Sweeny moving the wrong way, but no: Sweeny leaps into the air and stabs his racquet out and as the ball bounces off his strings and trickles over the net he himself bounces hip to hardcourt, so Cazaux runs the ball down and hits a dig deep past Sweeny, and this time it just has to be a winner, you must be thinking, but no: Sweeny has gotten to his feet and he’s sprinting again, and somehow, some way, he chases the ball down and slides so loudly and violently that surely his toes are poking out of the soles of his worn-through shoes at this point, and hits an incredible backwards underhand scoop, but yet again it’s right to the seemingly omniscient Cazaux, who wisely stayed at net, knowing there was no way that Sweeny would be able to get any sort of pace on the ball and if it didn’t go into the net it would be, at worst, an easy put-away, and the ball manages to float over the net cord, maybe a tad lower than Cazaux expects, but Cazaux crouches down and hits another dropper because, if you’ll remember, Sweeny, just a moment before, had been running in the exact opposite direction and had damn near done the splits and nearly run into the back wall, and certainly, finally, s’il vous plait Cazaux thinks, this drop shot must be the end of the point, but no way, mate, I’ve got that mongrel in me, Sweeny scrapes his hand against the grit of the court, turns himself around, and flies yet again up to the net, Cazaux staying central, watching in what I can only assume to be utter disbelief, merde! as Sweeny slides violently for a third time and for a second time falls to the concrete, getting to the ball when it’s maybe an inch from a double bounce, tapping a dig forehand volley past Cazaux that lands on the baseline. Point Sweeny, giving him the break.
Un-fuckin’-believable.
Tim Wojcik is a widely published poet and short story writer and the founder of the weirdo garage rock band Cup. He is a literary agent and rights director in New York and is mostly done with his first novel.
