It was packed court side. The stands were full, including the corporate boxes despite it being lunchtime. Everywhere eager faces, already pink and sweaty under straw hats with the familiar purple and green ribbon. Elbow to elbow, knees jammed against the backs of the blue plastic seating, some fanning themselves with whatever leaflets and brochures they'd picked up on the way in or had had thrust at them before they could refuse.
Everyone was seated but there were still minutes to go before the warm up, let alone the match itself. Apart from the fast backwards and forwards movement of the fanning no one moved.
That might have been because of the officers in their black uniforms and bulletproof vests, helmets tightly clipped with chin guards and machine guns cradled across their bodies who stood facing the crowds. Hands encased in black, armoured, fingerless gloves, mirrored sunglasses glinting as their eyes swept the crowd for anyone who moved too quickly or suddenly.
On court the linesmen were already taking their places and the ballboys stood, arms crossed behind their backs and eyes front despite the buzz and palpable excitement. The place felt as tightly strung as a pro's racquet.
The umpire appeared. He looked middle eastern in origin and handsome in his dark suit and collar and tie. They were always formally dressed at this tournament, the players had to wear white and the officials never took their jackets off, even on the hottest days when you could feel the sweat trickling down your back despite sitting still and being in the shade. I watched the umpire climb up into his chair and begin to tap at the screen in its angled holder on the right arm of the seat. Glancing up and around before standing in his seat and descending the steps again he moved smoothly and without any apparent effort, hands and feet synchronised. He must have done this thousands of times.
Then he walked across the court, looking at the net and laying his hand on the white tape, checking the tension, before returning to the chair and tapping the earpiece in his left ear. Was that some kind of signal? His shrugged his shoulders up and back down as he watched the tunnel where the players would emerge.
There was no music like there was at other tournaments, no booming loudspeakers to announce the players and their world ranking as they strode onto court, voice lifting at the end of each announcement like they did at boxing matches. Instead the spectators were assumed to know who was playing and the only announcements came from the umpire. After years of wrangling the organisers had reluctantly installed two large screens, one at each end of the arena on which would show the player's photo and a brief summary of their year so far as the moved briskly to their bench. During challenges everyone, including the players, would stare at the screen waiting to see the solid, bright yellow line tracing the path of the ball across the court before it bounced leaving a grey elliptical shadow close to or on the line if the player was lucky. Hawkeyes' verdict was objective and used the very latest optical and statistical packages to settle the challenge. People sometimes disagreed but the thousands of trials and research showed unequivocally that it was more accurate than any human eyes.
Would they use it today? I mean would it be needed? Couldn't they just use the contender's visual system? Or, more likely, were there rules about the implementation of the programming? Would the contender even have challenges? Someone must have thought of it and I wondered how I had missed the media speculation about that detail.
A roar went up, filling the arena, people were whooping, clapping and standing - even though we'd been briefed to stay seated at all times until the end of the match. Those who had stood up quickly sat back down when the security cordon facing them swing their guns forwards, pointing directly into the stands.
The reigning champion strode to his chair, two enormous bags slung one over each shoulder, raising one hand and dipping his chin in acknowledgement of the enthusiastic welcome. He was much bigger than he looked on TV: tall, broad, muscles clearly defined on his tanned arms and legs. A giant of a man, over six foot three and 175lbs, most of that muscle. I was so close that I could see the dark hairs on his forearms and a pale thread of a scar just underneath his left knee. I thought I saw a slight tremor of his hands as he started to unpack his bags: bottles, towels, wrist sweat bands and several racquets in their flimsy plastic wrappers, obviously just back from the stringer, coloured tape wound around the base to indicate the poundage.
Another roar went up and then stopped abruptly. A collective intake of breath and then a sudden silence. There wasn't even the usual murmur audible when the crowd stopped shouting and hushed as a point progressed and the players kept the ball in play, apparently defying the laws of physics, before another roar went up as the ball skidded out or pounded into the net like a missile.
At first I thought it was déjà vu. The same dip of the chin and raised hand. The short dark hair, mild, soft expression in the eyes and self deprecating smile. Identical. It had to be weird glitch like the black cat strolling across the landing twice in that Matrix film. Some strange overlap between parallel universes? A tear in the space-time continuum? He, the contender, walked straight past Mann and took the seat on the opposite side of the umpire's chair. As he came closer I noticed the badge on his sleeve and the logo high up on the left breast of his shirt. Just above where the heart would be. I realised that I didn't know much about this technology. How far did they take the imitation? Jesus, there was the scar, a thin pale seam just below the knee.
I closed my eyes briefly then looked again at the players. It was, without doubt, two different people and the only way to tell them apart was the logo on the shirts. Mann's was Under Armour, the Contender's Weyland Corporation.
A new image flashed up onto the screens, against the endlessly repeated Weyland Corporation logo background a photo of the contender came up and basic statistics of height, weight . Of course, apart from the physical information the rest was blank. This was his first match. The information identified the contender's name as Ash, just one word. The birth date as given as just 24 months ago.
The two players were now warming up. I had never seen anything like it. Every stroke was matched: forehand to forehand, backhand to backhand, serve to serve, left, right, forwards, backwards, hypnotic in its rhythm. The only difference came when Mann started to hit lobs - I think it was Mann, but by now I was so disorientated that it was difficult to tell - and Ash (was it Ash? I concentrated for a moment on the logo to make sure) came to the net to hit overheads and then moved smoothly into practice volleys. Mann came forwards as Ash moved back. It was like a well practiced dance. I wondered if they had played together before today and if so who, if anyone had won?
I already had a headache and was starting to feel a little dizzy too. The crowd was so quiet that I guessed they were as disorientated as I was. I don't know what I was expecting when I got my tickets through from the lottery but it wasn't this.
The players returned to their chairs, both taking a long drink from their bottles before jogging back out onto court and tossing their towels to the ballboys behind them. The umpire adjusted his microphone and announced that Ash had won the toss and elected to serve.
Mann took up his familiar, low, angled position to receive serve, his upper body weaving back and forwards, racquet ready and whole focus on what was happening on the other side of the net. He looked relaxed, alert.
The umpire's voice rang out 'Serve.'