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Taylor gets handed his runner up plate and he likes to think that his hands are steady. It feels startlingly cold against his too warm hands- he had gripped the racquet too tight as he sent the match point, no, championship point right into the net and the US Open trophy straight into Sinner's hands.
He lost the US Open and all he can think about is that he gripped the racquet too hard in what? The last ten minutes of the match?
Taylor feels pathetic.
He knows that he should count this as a win- he had gotten further than ever- a grand slam finals. He still adds it to his list of lost matches.
One more match won and he wouldn't be clutching the too cold runner up's plate but kissing the elegant handle of the US Open Men's Singles Trophy. Realistically, Taylor knows that it was too high of a expectation for him to win. And yet, he had hoped. Hoped for a miracle. He had imagined- no, daydreamed about himself lifting the trophy, full of confidence, soaring as the entirety of Arthur Ashe Stadium cheers for him. Daydreamed about being a hero, living up to the expectations, a break from his continuous record of disappointments.
There was no miracle. The stadium seems to be too quiet when Taylor lifts the runner-up's plate. He mentally adds another tally to his disappointment record.
And then, on the mic, he gives the loser's speech. He speaks all that is expected but all with a melancholy a shade too deep. He wonders whether the crowd can pick out the unspoken words that tumble out of his mouth, in the pauses between his sentences, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. The worst part is, that half the time, he doesn't know what he is apologizing for. He just soaks up the sorrow and it pours out of him in a stream of apologies.
Taylor says that he hopes that he can win the tournament someday. He knows that some players, the ones with the confidence and the grit and talent to get there proclaim that they will, not just hope to but will win the trophy.
Taylor isn't one of those.
So he retreats and holds back his tears though there was no other way this match could have ended, and clutches his plate tighter. He wants to laugh manically- here is Taylor Fritz, drowning in air (Has anyone else ever drowned in air? It is all types of wrong you can't describe, it is like soaking up the sorrow, it feels like-), as he steps away for Jannik Sinner to receive his trophy.
Taylor looks down at his feet. He doesn't want to pick up a racquet or bounce a ball ever again in his life. He had thought today was his day. He can't even find a slight ache in his body to blame his defeat on. It means that he gave it his all and it still wasn't enough. He feels like putting the world on hold and going to sleep for a month straight, maybe spend a couple of months at home. No tennis, no matches, no nothing. He kind of wants to cry, head buried into a pillow, and not emerge for days. He feels like he will never win a match ever again.
But still Taylor hopes and hopes and hopes and that is what makes him keep chasing after the bright yellow ball in the sport he loves, and daydreaming about kissing an elegant handle of a grand slam trophy.
It keeps him breathing when he is drowning in the air, soaking up the sorrow.
And so he imagines a world where he cradles a shining trophy just like the one in Jannik’s hands.