Nobody knows about tomorrow. Not even him. If he’ll be there on court, if he’ll wake up not hurting, if he’ll get to Paris via Rome, if his body will last five sets, if his game will be at the per cent he wants it to be.
These incessant “ifs” must drain him and yet to one thing there is no “if”. He’ll go till he can’t any more. That’s a certainty. In Madrid, after defeat finally comes in his fourth match, he’ll say it.
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