When you're three long sets deep and still trying to win, the match stops being a sport and starts being a silent comedy about human suffering. Every serve feels like launching a small cannonball using a noodle for an arm, and your movements across the court resemble a very tired mime trying to escape an invisible box. You begin to question all your life choices, especially the one that led you to the tennis court on this particular day, all while maintaining a serious "game face" despite the fact you can barely breathe and a small voice in your head is just screaming, "Why are we doing this?!". The winning shot, when it finally comes, is less about skill and more about which player's body decided to stop rebelling first.