THE PERFECT SHOT

"Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Begin it now." - Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

One of the recurring cosmic realisations I've had throughout my life is related to playing sport: the idea that no matter who you are or where you are—committing to competitive action on a court, pitch, back garden, or street alley—and regardless of whether anyone’s actually watching, you can actually achieve deft moments of genius that briefly rival those playing at the highest level.

These occasional moments of greatness can happen anywhere, at any time—often in obscure places far from public view. And yet, magically, they still carry real meaning for the participant, proving that excellence isn't always bound by circumstance, recognition isn't required for validation, and even the briefest mastery of a strike, backheel, or swing can offer the individual a fleeting moment of transcendence that connects them to the greats.

In this way, you become as immortal as that ape in Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey, throwing the bone into the air after realising what he could now do with it—as a weapon—a sudden evolutionary leap in which the primate, by accident or inspiration, tapped into a timeless and universal creative force.

Funnily enough, I felt exactly this way after a shot I played the other day in a tennis rally—one that almost made me celebrate like Eric Cantona after his audacious chip against Sunderland in 1996, when he famously rotated 360 degrees on the spot with his arm held aloft, admiring his own work as if in disbelief at his own genius.

The shot in question, which arrived like a sunbeam harnessed by Michelangelo in the basilica as he chiselled away at a statue of Moses, was a TWO-HANDED BACKHAND SLICE DROP SHOT that came out of nowhere. I’ve rarely, if ever, used a two-handed backhand in any tennis match, but suddenly—like pulling Excalibur from its plinth—I found myself in possession of a new and devastating weapon. It cut short the rally by killing the ball’s momentum stone dead, delicately shaving a few of its lemon-and-lime fuzzy hairs with my lyre-like nylon strings as it fell like a weighted feather over the net, offering barely any bounce on the tarmac surface. My rival dashed forward, arm outstretched, only to be left unrewarded as he scraped his racket along the ground like a snagged anchor.

Marvelling at this unexpected sorcery, I found myself believing in a higher power—as if I had been anointed by God to deliver this miracle. The one tragedy was that more people couldn’t have witnessed it. And yet, I wonder if perhaps the greatest miracles are rarely seen, which is why they remain so elusive—and so doubted.

There’s just something about this divine shot I’ve fallen in love with, as if it’s an extension of my artistic credo as a man (child). It's subtle, comic in a way, and sublime all at once—a perfect summation of how I feel in my soul when I'm at my optimum level of existence.

And now, back to reality, I have to contend with the same problem many unrecognised geniuses face: that true greatness is often found in secret places and fleeting moments— as rare as a ghost rainbow (look it up).

I'm just sad you all couldn't have seen it—or am I now defeating the entire point of my hypothesis?

Guilty as charged, I guess.

Though, if this wonder shot becomes a common occurrence in my play, I may start inviting people to witness it for themselves—so that my on-court immortality is enshrined in the collective memory.

After all, I recognise that miracles like this ideally need to be seen to be believed.

Otherwise, it's just talk—and I might be accused of having delusions of grandeur or greatness with my TWO-HANDED BACKHAND SLICE DROP SHOT.

The perfect shot.