ah! Ahhhh!

Djokovic roared: King, come!

Clenching his fists, shouting to the sky, eyes wide with anger, and full of aura, standing on the final 100-meter sprint track of the championship battle, the world's No. 1 burst out in full force, widening the gap in an instant, Arthur Ashe Stadium The billowing heat wave was fully detonated, and the light exploded all over the sky.

The layers of pressure flew towards Gawain with all their teeth and claws.

The sleeping memory invades—

Roland Garros semi-finals, Wimbledon semi-finals.

In fact, when the game reaches this stage, it has not much to do with skills and tactics, but more of a contest between the spiritual level and the will level.

Gawain understands all these principles, but at this stage of the game, the painful memories of the past two Grand Slams still hold tightly on his heart.

Maybe he did lose that magic; maybe his opponents did decipher his code; maybe he really had no secrets anymore.

Maybe...he'll stop there again today.

His heart suddenly stopped beating, and his breath burned hotly.

but-

so what?

Even if we stop here again today, even if our knees are shaking and our breathing is short of breath, and our brain is blank, even if we fight hard to the end, we still can't bite the score, even if we try our best to save the match point, we still can't stop Djokovic, even if he loses his magic power, he still can't stop Djokovic. No matter how amazing it is, there is no secret...

so what?

Give up? Surrender? Give up?

No.

He refused.

The moment when both feet step onto the tennis court, it is for victory and championship, it is also for challenge and fighting, and it is also for blooming and burning.

He didn't want to waste this second chance in life. He just wanted to live hard and truly, and firmly grasp the hard-won new opportunity.

He doesn't want to regret or regret. Even if he burns to the end, he still loses the game. Even if he tries his best to be broken into pieces, he still loses the championship. That doesn't matter -

At least, he gave it his all.

Whether it's Roland Garros or Wimbledon, those memories cannot hurt him, but will become the fuel for him to continue fighting, moving forward, and fighting.

Listen, he's not fighting alone.

"Fight."

"Fight."

It's not a roar or a cheer, but a low murmur, like a low-flying jet. The sounds overlap like this, awakening the last heat in the blood, the last energy in the soul, and rising from the abyss. The murmur of the earth's core is heard.

Pulan stood up again, straightened his back, and stared at Gawain with clear eyes, as if they were the only ones left in the world.

Fight.

she says. Like muttering to himself.

And it's not just her?

Sharapova and Dimitrov couldn't help exchanging glances, looking around and looking around. No one in the entire Arthur Ashe Stadium was an exception.

Even the momentum of the Serbian fans was suppressed by the murmur of the dark clouds, and all the rustling shouts were cut off.

Then.

Dimitrov stood up hesitantly, felt his heartbeat carefully, and called softly -

Perhaps, this is what he has been missing all along, a little bit of killer instinct, a little bit of burning impulse.

It was not until this moment that Dimitrov truly touched the soul of competitive sports. Thump, thump, like a pulse, beating slightly tremblingly.

Turning his head, Dimitrov saw Sharapova slowly standing up. The two exchanged glances. Although Sharapova still had a cold and expressionless face, Dimitrov did. You can see the stubbornness and fighting spirit in those eyes, shining without reservation.

"Fight."

"Fight."

Dimitrov could feel the roar in his eardrums, an energy he had not felt when he played against Djokovic.

So hot. So turbulent.

Shouting and shouting, blood boiling.

Shouting and shouting, tears welling up in my eyes.

At Nottingham University's Arthur Ashe Stadium, there was only one voice stirring.

And, this is just the tip of the iceberg.

Jiang Yanqing in the bar was shouting. Although their voices could not be conveyed to the other side of the Pacific, their souls fought side by side with Gao Wen.

In addition, the subway was crowded with young people going to work, middle-level leaders who arrived at the company early but secretly went to the bathroom, and the announcers of the TV station who were about to go to work stopped at the door of the studio. Stop for pedestrians.

The head teacher who opened the back door of the classroom to check on the morning reading was about to speak, but he couldn't help but hold his breath when he heard the live broadcast on the radio. In front of the shopping mall's TV wall, there was a bustling crowd of customers, employees, and pedestrians passing by. Even the traffic policeman's pocket at the intersection with a red street light There were also voices.

Fight.

Plop.

Fight.

Plop.

Whispers and heartbeats intertwined and collided, erupting into an unprecedented roar.

Thousands of eyes were watching Djokovic and Gao Wen quietly on the court. The two players completed the court exchange in an orderly manner -

Game, continue.

"5:1".

Every subsequent point is a point with no retreat for Gawain. A little negligence is a match point.

Arthur Ashe Stadium fell silent. When the growl condensed into a roar and released all the energy, it fell silent amidst the applause and cheers. Then, it held its breath and stared, fearing to miss any of the excitement.

On the edge of the cliff, the strong wind is hunting.

The lanterns are on.

At this moment in New York, it is already 8:30 in the evening. The last ray of sunset remains at the end of the horizon. The city lights slowly turn on, and the lights of Arthur Ashe Stadium are also lit one after another. From afternoon to evening, from From the matinee to the night show, this peak showdown continues.

The atmosphere changed quietly, becoming more and more intense, exciting, and tense. Even if you were just watching, your mouth would go dry.

However, Gawain, who stood on the bottom line, was so calm and calm.

a district.

Gao Wen looked up at Djokovic and signaled with his eyes to make sure that Djokovic was ready before serving.

tactics. technology. Game.

These are still important, but Gawain believes that his strategy is correct and does not need to be changed. The only thing needed now is to stay focused and calm.

One shot, inside corner.

The tennis ball was thrown up and got into the light of Arthur Ashe, and the remaining afterglow of the sunset fell down.

Gawain showed no hesitation or mercy at all, as if this was an ordinary and everyday thing.

The muscles are completely relaxed~lightnovelpub.net~The movements from kicking to turning become more coherent, and the remaining strength is clearly and completely concentrated on the tennis ball.

Speed ​​190 kilometers per hour.

boom!

The knife fell with his hand, and the tennis ball penetrated flatly into the inside corner, putting pressure on Djokovic's forehand.

Speed, yes.

There is power.

The landing point is there.

Rotation, yes.

Djokovic rushed out with a single kick, his body fully stretched, and with a light forehand, he hit the tennis ball head-on.

As soon as he touched the ball, Djokovic already realized something was wrong -

Speed, more than expected, hitting the ball a little late.

Oops!