Who would still play tennis after being reborn?

Chapter 158 Doubles requires even more trust and teamwork than singles.
As the two legends walked side by side toward the players' tunnel, thunderous applause suddenly erupted in the arena—applause no longer for victory, but for the courage to choose to stand side by side despite knowing that things might collapse.

After the match, the hashtag "FedNovak" was trending on Twitter at a rate of 2.3 times per second.

The Times sports section headline featured a completely black background: "When Legends Are No Longer All-Powerful: The Cruel Equation of Doubles."

ESPN's feature story included a close-up of Federer bending down to pick up the ball, with the headline "A predicament never before encountered in a 20-year career: The most familiar stranger."

The Italian newspaper Gazzetta dello Sport devoted a full page to a photo of Burelli embracing Fognini, with the poetic headline: "When the olive branch triumphs over the scepter – an epic tale of ordinary people on the tennis court."

In bars on the streets of Rome, fans poured champagne on their television screens to celebrate a moment comparable to Italy's World Cup victory in 2006.

At the post-match press conference, Djokovic rubbed his temples and admitted, "We underestimated the unique nature of doubles, especially at Grand Slam tournaments."

Federer attributed the loss to a lack of coordination: "When you get used to absolute control on the singles court, the chemistry in doubles will eventually be written into tennis history in an unexpected way."

It's like a prism, reflecting the cruelest truth of professional tennis—when absolute dominance in singles meets precise teamwork in doubles, the simple sum of 20 Grand Slam titles and 17 Grand Slam titles doesn't necessarily equal victory.

And those doubles experts who hone their skills quietly behind the scenes proved with this victory that in the world of tennis, there are always untold possibilities.

As the Melbourne sunset bathed Rod Laver Arena and staff began washing the stadium, a few spectators lingered in the stands, reluctant to leave.

They might be reminiscing about Djokovic's sharp passing shot, or they might be regretting Federer's slip-and-grab mistake at the net.

But what most people remember is the sight of the two legendary rivals walking side by side toward the players' tunnel when the final whistle blew – beyond victory or defeat, that courage to break out of one's comfort zone is the most heartfelt tribute to the sport of tennis.

……

The February sun in Melbourne, carrying the fragrance of eucalyptus trees, baked the square outside the stadium, causing it to shimmer with tiny waves of heat.

Gu Cheng clutched his Australian Open junior tournament accreditation, his knuckles pressing pale marks into the transparent plastic cover.

He looked up at the huge electronic screen on the outer wall of the stadium in the distance. The posters of Federer and Djokovic standing side by side were smiling at the crowd, and the tennis rackets in the hands of the two kings reflected a sharp light in the sunlight.

"I said I really should buy a sun hat." Zhang Ming tugged at the collar of his soaked sweatshirt, his Adam's apple bobbing as he gulped down half a bottle of mineral water.

Yu Haoyang's sneakers made a screeching sound as they rubbed against the ground, which stood out starkly against the noisy background of the crowd.

This left-handed boy always pulls his hat brim down very low, and at this moment, in the shadow under the brim, beads of sweat are dripping down his chin onto the shoulder strap of his sports bag.

Cao Hui squatted by the flower bed tying his shoelaces, his metal-rimmed glasses slipped down to the tip of his nose, and his eyes behind the lenses squinted into narrow slits: "It will be cool once we get inside the venue. When I came to observe last year, the air conditioning was so strong that it could make you catch a cold."

He always habitually pushes up his glasses when he speaks, and now his fingertips are covered in dirt, leaving dark marks on the frame.

Cao Hui is a player who loves to do analysis. He does an analysis before and after almost every match, regardless of whether he wins or loses. He also has a rolled-up copy of "Modern Tennis Doubles Strategy" tucked into the side pocket of his backpack.

Yu Haoyang suddenly stopped, his sneakers leaving a half-meter-long braking line on the ground.

This usually energetic teenager was staring at his phone screen, his Adam's apple bobbing violently, as if he had swallowed an unpeeled tennis ball.

The colorful headband on his head trembled slightly with his rapid breathing. "Look at this..." His voice was hoarse, as if it had been sanded.

As Gu Cheng turned around, the handle of the spare racket in his athletic shorts pocket dug painfully into his thigh.

He glanced at the news notification that popped up on his phone screen. The headline, “Epic Upset! Federer/Djokovic 0-2 lose to Burelli/Fognini,” was bright red and glaring. The accompanying picture of the Italian pair kneeling and embracing each other was an absurd contrast to the confident smiles of the tennis stars on the poster.

"Are you kidding me?"

Zhang Ming's mineral water bottle crashed heavily onto the edge of the flower bed, instantly denting the transparent bottle and creating spiderweb-like cracks.

His reach for the phone created a gust of wind, lifting his hat brim to reveal a newly formed scab on his forehead—a mark left from a save from hitting the net post during training last week.

"These are Federer and Djokovic! They haven't even lost a warm-up match!"

Cao Hui's glasses slipped all the way down to the tip of his nose. He subconsciously raised his hand to push the glasses up, but froze when his fingertips touched the dirt.

His Adam's apple bobbed laboriously, and his voice seemed to be squeezed out from deep within his chest: "In the second set tiebreak... Berley's outside serve was 198 kilometers per hour, which is completely out of character for him..."

He suddenly squatted down, rummaged through his backpack and pulled out his tactical notebook, the yellowed pages rustling in the wind.

Cao Hui felt a throbbing pain in his temples, and the knuckles of his fingers gripping the ID turned white.

His memory suddenly flashed back to a while ago when he repeatedly watched slow-motion replays of Federer's forehand shots at the training base. The moment the racket made contact with the tennis ball, the angle of the wrist's force was as precise as a precision instrument.

The image of Djokovic with his lowered eyes in the news photo now overlaps with, yet also tears apart from, the image of him as an eternally spirited and determined figure in our memories.

“It must be a tactical mistake.” Yu Haoyang suddenly grabbed Gu Cheng’s shoulder, his colorful hairband sweeping across their intertwined arms.

His pupils contracted sharply, and the whites of his eyes were bloodshot. "Look at the data! Their first serve percentage is 17% lower than the Italian pair! Federer made three unforced errors in his volleys! That's impossible!"

His voice grew louder and louder, drawing surprised glances from several other boys around him who were also carrying tennis bags.

The hot wind in Melbourne suddenly became thick, carrying with it the faint cheers coming from the distant stadium.

Cao Hui stared at the gradually fading Heavenly King posters on the electronic screen; those meticulously designed smiles now seemed like a cruel mockery.

He recalled his coach's words: "There are no permanent winners on the tennis court." But when those words were proven true in such a shocking way on the altar, the sour feeling in his stomach almost burst his throat.

Cao Hui had already taken out his phone and was frantically refreshing the page. His eyes behind his glasses moved quickly, and beads of sweat on his forehead dripped onto the screen, spreading out as a water stain.

"In the post-match interview...Berelli said they had studied tactics for three months...Fognini's one-handed backhand created pressure from the baseline..."

He suddenly choked up, a suppressed sob escaping his throat, "This shouldn't be their end, they should have made history."

Yu Haoyang's fingers traced messy lines on the phone screen, as if trying to peel away the smiles of the Italian pair in the news photos. "I've been watching Federer's matches since I was six years old,"

His voice was choked with sobs, and his colorful headband swayed weakly in the wind. "When he won Wimbledon last year, I cried in front of the TV for a full half hour..."

He suddenly stuffed his phone into his pocket, and the gust of wind he created as he turned overturned Cao Hui's tactical notebook, scattering the pages like butterflies onto the scorching ground.

Gu Cheng bent down to pick up the fallen notebook. The moment his fingertips touched the edge of the page, he suddenly remembered the first time he picked up a tennis racket.

Back then, my father pointed to Federer's elegant hitting motion on TV and said, "This is the art of tennis." Now, that art, once revered as the pinnacle, is shattered on the real court.

A glance at the long queues outside the stadium in the distance—many fans who didn't go to watch the two players' match probably don't know that the myth in their hearts has already collapsed on another field.

The Melbourne sun grew increasingly glaring, and electronic screens began playing promotional videos for the Australian Open junior tournament, their youthful faces and agile racket swings gleaming in the sunlight.

……

At an open-air café outside Rod Laver Arena, four people huddled around a metal table scorching hot in the sun. Yu Haoyang's phone screen was lit up, playing a video of a match he had just found.

The wind in Melbourne whipped up the tissues on the table, but no one reached out to grab them; everyone's eyes were glued to the screen.

Zhang Ming's fingers tapped unconsciously on the table, making a rapid "tap-tap" sound.

When the footage showed Federer making a mistake at the net during the fourth game of the first set, he suddenly slammed his fist on the table: "Did you see that! Djokovic clearly anticipated that his opponent would hit a straight shot, but Federer couldn't keep up with his rhythm at all!"

His voice was filled with barely concealed excitement, and his eyes under the brim of his hat were full of confusion. "These two are tactical masters when they play singles, so how come they're like two strangers when they play doubles?"

Cao Hui pushed up his slipping glasses; his notebook was already filled with densely packed analyses.

His pen stopped on the line about "service game coordination," and his voice was low: "Statistically, their service game winning percentage is ridiculously low. Federer is good at controlling the rhythm with slice serves, while Djokovic prefers powerful flat serves. These two completely different serving strategies result in a complete mismatch in the timing of volleys at the net."

He pulled up a comparison chart of match data and slid his finger across the screen. "Look," he said, "Berley and Fognini's serve-and-volley success rate is 30% higher than theirs. That's the difference."

Gu Cheng stared at Federer's slightly stiff footwork in the video, his throat tightening.

The king of tennis, who was so elegant on the singles court in my memory, now seemed a bit clumsy in the doubles.

When the camera switched to the second set, and Djokovic's return shot went out of bounds, Gu Cheng finally spoke up: "Their positioning was too conservative."

His voice was hoarse, as if it had been sanded, “Federer is used to standing in the middle of the net, and Djokovic likes to drop back to defend. This positioning gives the opponent too many openings.”

Yu Haoyang suddenly paused the video, poking at the screen with his finger: "And this! Did you guys notice when they switched sides in the third game? Federer wanted to high-five Djokovic, but Djokovic just turned around to get a towel, without even exchanging glances!"

His voice was choked with sobs, and his colorful hairband fluttered weakly in the wind. "This doesn't seem like a teammate fighting side by side at all; it's more like a stranger who was just temporarily added to the team!"

As the match footage was played, the truth gradually came to light.

The Italian pair of Burelli and Fognini hit the ball with perfect coordination, their positioning like precise gears, perfectly complementing each other.

Berlay's volleys always seemed to land perfectly in Djokovic's return path, while Fognini's baseline defense completely neutralized Federer's attacks.

“Their tactics were too targeted.” Cao Hui’s pen drew heavy wavy lines on the paper. “Berley deliberately used wide-angle serves to force Federer to run and wear him down. And Fognini’s one-handed backhand formed an impenetrable wall at the baseline, and Djokovic couldn’t find a way to break through.”

He closed his notebook, his eyes behind his glasses filled with disappointment. "What's worse is that Federer and Djokovic didn't make any effective tactical adjustments at all."

Zhang Ming suddenly grabbed the water glass on the table, tilted his head back, and took a big gulp, but choked and coughed because he did it too quickly. "I thought that as long as Federer and Djokovic teamed up, they could win even with their eyes closed." His voice was muffled, with a hint of self-deprecation. "Turns out doubles really isn't as simple as 1+1=2."

Gu Cheng stared at the gradually dimming screen on his phone, his mind replaying the words Ryuzaki Sumire had said: "Double matches require even more trust and teamwork than singles matches."

At that moment, he finally understood the weight of those words.

Federer and Djokovic, these two tennis legends, may be invincible in singles, but in doubles, they lack not only cooperation, but also trust in each other.

The Melbourne sunset cast long shadows in the café, and the four people sat silently at the table, none of them speaking.

Yu Haoyang and his friends gripped their Australian Open junior tournament credentials tightly, suddenly realizing that this unexpected defeat was not only a lesson for the two tennis legends, but also a vivid lesson for everyone with a dream of playing tennis.

In the world of tennis, there are no eternal myths, only continuous learning and growth.

The silence was broken by Zhang Ming's hoarse voice. He looked up at Gu Cheng and said, "We cannot repeat the same mistakes."

"We'll start practicing cross-positioning in training tomorrow, especially improving teamwork. It's okay in the Australian Open junior tournaments, as there aren't many players who can crack your game. But in the Australian Open main draw, most of the players' skills aren't much of a threat to the professionals."

Zhang Ming slammed his phone face down on the table, making the ice cubes in his water glass rattle: "Tactics alone aren't enough!"

"When I was watching the video just now, did you notice how Fognini encouraged Burelli after his mistake? He gave him a high-five and shouted slogans, not giving his opponent a chance to breathe at all!"

Zhang Ming suddenly stood up, his sweatshirt soaked with sweat. "We need to cultivate this kind of teamwork too!"

"We'll go back and do some low-intensity training. Our teamwork and coordination might not be as good as those of professional doubles players in the short term, but it won't be too bad."

"During the game, I can at least help you a little."

Gu Cheng didn't think much of it; he felt that Zhang Ming was right.

The Australian Open lasts too long, and no one knows what might happen along the way. Perhaps his skills will be figured out. That's when Zhang Ming needs to step up.

In addition to the Australian Open, there are three other major tournaments.

Zhang Ming can't be a spectator on the sidelines for every game.

(End of this chapter)