When Bernard Tomic, grappling for an elusive sense of purpose in whatever remains of his professional life, slunk out of Wimbledon on day two and later admitted his love of tennis is being drowned by pernicious feelings of ennui, the mind went back to the first time he saw Novak Djokovic standing on the opposite side of the net.
The memories of that sun-kissed Centre Court afternoon in 2011 should induce fond nostalgia. At best, however, they are no more than bittersweet and are mostly tinged with the kind of regret that can only be caused by the spectacle of watching a precocious talent drift away once he hits adulthood.
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Tomic could be like Andy Murray and run down every lost cause. He would have our respect. Would he have happiness?
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