This is the third installment of my series on the 25 most compelling encounters and happenings in my 25 years of publishing Inside Tennis.

The Journey of 100,000 Miles Begins With a Single Serve
9 Ultimately, tennis is shaped by a distinctive cycle with its own inexorable ebb and flow.

It’s not just that every memorable match resonates with its own pace and pulse. It’s not just that every tournament has its own rhythm (the crackling excitement of the opening days, a certain pause before the climactic rush to the finals). Rather, it’s that the long and winding tennis season itself stands out, offering its own repetitive pattern, filled with sometimes sweeping crescendos and curious detours which define the game; a delicious continuum that, season after season, infuses the game with a feel-good, almost mesmerizing familiarity.

Each January, tennis —having suffered a humbling, back-burner irrelevance — emerges from the holiday bustle and gray winter gloom into the bright Australian sunshine, where the sport’s combatants reconvene, fresh and eager. Never mind the long, lazy rollout of baseball’s spring training. In tennis, our favorites seem to reemerge out of nowhere. Infused with a bright Aussie light and spunk, the game’s cycle kicks into gear as the long journey of 100,000 miles begins with a single serve. Brimming with eager expressions, crowded with storylines, the sport heads off on its nomadic trek. First stop: America. Here, the winter/spring circuit draws stars promising new feats, from San Jose — a sparkling indoor port — to those back-to-back co-ed icons — Indian Wells and Miami.

But no sooner has our visitor arrived than it vanishes, off to the beyond-the-horizon European clay-court circuit en route to the glory that is Paris. The French Open — such a stylish celebration of continental swagger and clay-court savvy — commands its day, only to suddenly defer to the green grandeur of Wimbledon. Tweeds, tea and Timmy (Henman) — the game’s greatest gathering effortlessly weaves its singular tapestry.
Yet, inevitably, all the pomp, pride, passion and propriety of the All England Club yield to the dog days of the North American hard-court circuit. Once just a chaotic maze of disjointed tourneys — a kind of pointless filler-we now get the adeptly packaged U.S. Open Series, brimming with inflated bonuses and sweaty power, an off-Broadway tour that perfectly sets up the mighty U.S. Open, with all its big city flash ‘n’ splash. Gaudy excess, charismatic showmanship—here, tennis seems to spend its very last drop of energy. This must be the end!

But no — greed and tradition conspire to offer a helter-skelter postmortem; a fall mix of distant tourneys, tour championships and exhibitions. And by the time we reach the Davis Cup final, now often played on distant shores, the so familiar, so defining cycle (Melbourne to Miami, Monte Carlo to Paris, London to L.A., New York to Shanghai) has unfolded once again, only to fade with a kind of scattered-to-the-wind whimper. We are drained and spent. But not to worry. Just as we catch our collective breaths, we know once more that the sun will rise Down Under.

The grand journey will again renew.