However, now that the school year is winding down and the end is, finally, in sight, I've got time to catch breath.
In all fairness, ever since the Wimbledon final I've been pretty breathless. That was some humdinger of a match. As those five sets came to their end in the gloom of a July evening, a sense of destiny prevailed. This was a great tennis match - some commentators believe it was one of the greatest - and, whether you agree or not, it's certainly true that it created a buzz around the sport that we - those who read the British press, that is - haven't felt in a long time.
Some of that buzz was generated by Andy Murray's win against Richard Gasquet, a win that was significant for a whole set full of reasons. For me, it was a good win, if only because it broke that fourth round monkey which Murray's carried about since he began his professional career. Importantly, we also saw Murray take a win against one of his fellow 21 year olds. Possibly it's only keen tennis followers who know this, but Murray has a shocking record against his contemporaries - your Nadals, your Djokovics, your Gasquets - which is a fact that has worried me slightly. Part of the problem, though, is that the first two names on that list belong to two players who have stepped far away from the rest of the crowd. Murray, for all his hard work and the clear advances he has made with his game, is still very much one of the top ten names. He's not anywhere near the top three - yet.
The top three! Roger, Rafa and, as of the Oz Open this year, Nole. But come the clay season, only one name mattered.
Rafa. Could he stay unbeatable on clay? I think this was a valid question, back in March. After all, Rafa had seemed god-like until he lost to Roger at Wimbledon; the US hard court swing seemed to see him drop into relative doldrums which he didn't show any signs of rising from once the 2008 season began. Rumours of chronic injury persisted; some people seriously considered the idea that Rafa would lose his no. 2 spot to Nole. It seemed possible.
And then the ATP moved onto clay and all conjecture became ridiculous. Rafa wasn't in any trouble on clay. If anything, unbelievably, he was better.
Then came Roland Garros, and the result - the shock result - that I discussed in my last post. What would happen on grass? Could Rafa improve last year's results? Would Roger keep his grass-court crown?
This buzz followed Rafa onto the grass courts of Queens. But for the first time, I sensed a new approach in the media coverage of him. For the first time, there was respect. For the first time, Rafa was presented as a player who had a real chance on this surface and not just as a clay-court great. BBC coverage was positively - and in the case of Andrew Castle, sickeningly - sycophantic. And then Rafa won Queen's and the buzz became something bigger.
For the first time, the pre-Wimbledon discussions of the potential winner showed a distinct two camps. That the winner would be either Rafa or Roger was never in doubt - sorry, Murray - but which one of the two...well, that discussion went on and on. Both had won their pre-Wimbledon tournaments and both showed great form. But that final at Roland Garros... well, it had left too many questions in the minds of the serious tennis commentator. Look down at my post: it wasn't just the win, it was the nature of the win.
Both Rafa and Roger showed imperious form in the run to the final. Sure, Rafa dropped a set, but somehow never seemed in any danger. As for Roger... I don't have the stats on me, but I don't think anybody even had a break point against him. He seemed so at home at Wimbledon, so at ease. So what if Rafa seemed to be in the same tennis zone that had taken him to the title at Roland Garros? This was Roger Federer. This was Wimbledon. Some things never change, and one of those things is what happens when you put that man in that place on the final Sunday. Right?
Oh, but that final! Two sets of jaw-dropping tennis from Rafa, two sets of jaw-dropping fight from Roger. Every martial metaphor I can think of springs to mind for this match ... everything wonderful about tennis was displayed during that long July afternoon. Roger fought, he fought with every bone and sinew, he fought with every breath, he fought with every moment of long experience, he fought until the very last point and in no way did he let himself down. This was no concession, this was not the bittersweet goodbye of the overthrown king - this was something he wanted, something he cared about and something to which he gave his all.
And against a different opponent, it would have made all the difference. But if there is such a thing as destiny, if fate does indeed interfere in the lives of man, then it was busy in that match. Rafa was the indomitable gladiator, seeing the fight in his opponent... and fighting harder. If Roger fought with every bone and sinew, Rafa fought with bone, sinew, muscle and blood. From the first, it seemed, Rafa believed this was his to lose ... and he wasn't going to lose.
And he didn't.
Two weeks later, and tennis has become relegated to its usual position, third bullet-point down in the 'Other Sports' column. Now all talk is, lazily, of the Olympics and (in the British media at least) of the latest young British talent to show us that we have reason to worry about our next generation of could-be champions.
Yet, I don't think anybody will easily forget the drama that played out during that long July afternoon. When we saw, once and for all, that great sport is the same as great art, with the same breathless humanity demonstrated in each cheer and each groan; when we saw that those human traits which can be used for so much ill - pride and obstinacy and passion - can be turned to such greatness. I felt proud to be a fan of this sport, and proud to be a fan of such great sportsmen. These are the best of times in tennis, at least, I have no doubt.
And just to end this entry in a small and petty way, here's my final thought. I'm a woman, and I think this final, more than any other perhaps, shows what a profound joke the equal prize monies given at a Grand Slam is. If women want to earn the same, they should play best of five sets. Simple as. Otherwise - and excuse the language - they're taking the piss.
