I hate tennis with all my heart. Well, all the heart I have left. My back spasm is especially bad today, and I must play in the final of the most prestigious grand slam - Wimbledon, against my archrival, Daniel Monot. More than 20,000 people will be watching in center court, and tens of millions more on TV.  This is what I have been training to do since I was three. I am a relentless competitor. I maximize everything to beat my opponents. Now, though, I can hardly get up from my bed.

Josie, my physio, has given me all the treatments and my back still feels locked.

“Four hours left,” Carlos, my coach, says, entering the room. “How is he doing, is he feeling better?”

“No not yet,” Josie says. “I tried everything; nothing has worked yet.”

“Ugh, this back spasm,” Carlos says, exasperated. “When will it get better?”

I hate this feeling when my team worries about me like I’m not even there. This happened ever since my back issue two years ago, ever since my ranking dropped to 57 after being number one for an unprecedented six years straight in a row. Sports Illustrated said on Instagram I have “lost” it at age 35. I never cared about social media, but the truth is I am in a slump.

“Maybe we should just let him rest,” Josie proposes.

He, him, that’s all they’ve been calling me. Never Alexander Popov; certainly not Alexander. I don’t mind, though; they are the best team I could assemble. I closed my eyes and waited.

Growing up in a sports family, my dad, Peter, introduced me to tennis when I can barely walk. He chopped half of the handle off an adult tennis racquet, put it in my hand, and let me hit foam balls hanging from the ceiling in the living room. I could do it for hours. I am a natural, they said. I kept the ball in the center of the string. Peter noticed my talent and trained me hard since I was three.

Peter - I don’t think of him as dad - was tough on me. He would wake me up daily at 5:00 AM so I could hit balls for free before the members of the tennis club arrived at 7:00 AM. While I was in school, my mind was on tennis, and I could not wait for the bell to ring to step on the courts again at 4:00 pm for another three hours of practice. 

Growing up in Sopia, Bulgaria, our family was not wealthy. The country was in a perpetual recession. The only hope for our family was one day we can play professional sports. Peter worked as a coach at the same tennis club I practiced at. It wasn’t my talent that got me to the top - I made it because Peter trained me extremely hard, provided me with resources, and encouraged me to always challenge myself to the limit.

 “I called the tournament doctor. They’ll try to give him a shot in his back so he can play again,” Josie told Carlos.

“Ok. They better hurry or there will be no final here.”

They took me to a dark room. My coaches filled out the medical forms and I signed. I had no choice - I’m obligated to play. Not for the millions of dollars I would win; I’ve made hundreds of millions of dollars. It’s for my self-esteem. For all the people watching over my shoulder. I cannot let them down. I am a performer. I think all professional tennis players are.

“Are you ready, sir?” the doctor asked.

“Yes.” I kept my voice firm. I am roughing this out. This could be my last match as a professional. Retiring at the peak is the best option for a professional athlete. 

I felt a pinch near my lower spine and then coldness ran through my back. I had to stop myself from shaking unconsciously from the cortisone and numbing medicine to relieve me from pain so I can compete today.

I sat on the Four Seasons hotel room couch drinking fluids and waiting for the cortisone to take effect.  My wife, Joan, came by from a shopping trip with my two daughters, Erica, and Katherine. They each kissed my cheek and wished me good luck, before leaving me alone to deal with the final by myself. 

Joan and I met on a shared private Jet trip to Shanghai, China. I was flying to play in the Shanghai Rolex Masters, part of the lucrative Asian Swing on the Pro-Tour. Joan was on her way to promote her latest movie, Star Wars VII. We shared the jet.

It was love at first sight. Joan came from a completely different background. Both of her parents are professors at Stanford University. Meanwhile, when I reached 13, I won the European Junior Championship and got a sponsor in the United States. Peter and I left Bulgaria and school and moved to Florida to train to become a professional player.

Joan and I bond over our love of tennis. She likes watching the sport and she knows I am vying for being the greatest player of all time, like my idol, Novak Djokovic, who did it two decades ago by winning an unprecedented 25 grand slams, the last being Wimbledon.

Two hours before the match. I flagged Carlos down. “I feel better now. Let’s head to the practice court.”

Josie and I did a dynamic warm up. I took a swig of protein drink and a bite of a small sandwich. It’s best to eat light before the battle.

I need a 30-minute hit with Carlos to test my back and feel the ball. I breathe out as I strike my forehand. It is pure silence. We can hear our squeaking feet in the stadium. The last day in the grand slam is the quietest day. All except two players are eliminated. The women’s final finished; my rival already warmed up earlier. He is eight years younger than me - in his prime. Still, my back stopped hurting. My feet are light. Good signs.

“Thank you, Carlos, as always!” I smiled for the first time today.

“My pleasure, my friend.” Carlos smiled back, looking firmly into my eyes, as he always has as my coach for the last 16 years.

Carlos and Josie are one of the reasons I am still here competing. They are the most honest people I know, and they always provide me with their best effort in any circumstance. 

We did not talk for the rest of the time. I went to the Wimbledon locker room and took a long cold shower, crafting my match plan in my head. Daniel Monot had a powerful serve and was solid on both sides. It would be very hard to win by staying back. I needed to disturb his rhythm and come to the net as much as I could. 

Waiting inside the tunnel to center court, I was ready for the challenge. Daniel kept on shadow swinging and running back and forth in an exaggerated fashion, burning his feet, and releasing his racquet head. My routine was simpler. I closed my eyes. I bounced up and down like a boxer, breathing in and out. Long breaths.

I thought about Peter, my dad. He passed away last year due to a heart attack. I still remembered his last words: “Fight, Son, Fight!” Still trying to cheer me up when I had a slump due to injury. I played 3 close 5 setters in my previous rounds. Now ranked outside the world’s top 50, it is a miracle to get this far in a crowded field of competitors. I laughed, unable to believe my good luck. My grit and experience helped me - old dog’s an advantage over my fresher and younger rival.

We headed out from the tunnel to the lushly green main field. An ocean of fans, some of them wearing Bulgaria flags. I needed to fight for Peter and for my country. I reminded myself to raise my adrenaline level. Across the net was Daniel, 6’3’’, muscular, new world #1, firm eyes. My job now was to control him and make him feel pressured. I tuned the crowd and all the noises out, my ability to concentrate is one of the keys to my success.

I served first. I aimed out wide and missed long. I kick-served to Daniel’s backhand. He took the ball early and played an excellent shot. Within a few minutes, I was down 15-40. I held my breath. I needed to go forward. I hit a great serve, pulling him out wide. I dashed to the net and volleyed the ball away from him – winner.

Uneasiness flickered in Daniel’s eyes. This is working, I told myself. I kept serving and volleying and won the next three points, managing to hold my serve with an ace out wide.

It was a war of attrition now. To prevent me from going to the net, Daniel started hovering over the baseline. We each held our serves for the next six games.

The first set now would go to the tiebreaker. I knew I had to keep hitting as aggressively as I could to Daniel’s backhand and run to the net. Yet, suddenly, his backhand was becoming more solid - this is tennis, fluid, never black and white. The crowds cheered, seeing their money’s worth: a long grinding match is more entertaining.

I missed a backhand down the line wide, putting me down 5-6. My back was starting to ache again. Daniel was serving; I took a long breath to bring back my focus. I had learned to play with pain on the Tour. He served out wide. With pure luck, I hit an outrageous return to the corner.

“6-6, Popov to serve,” the umpire said.

I served two aces to seal the first set.

“Good job, Alex.” I heard Carlos and Josie nodding to me from the player’s box.

I gave them a firm eye signal. I will take this match, I told myself.

Daniel fought back in the second set. Every time I served; I felt a nail pinching my back.  As a warrior, I tried to stay composed - the last thing I wanted was to let my rival know I wasn’t 100%.

Still, Daniel could feel my ball: I lost the second set 2-6.

During the break, I tried to tune everything out. My back hurts, but it was not as bad before the cortisone shot.  Maybe the feeling of the slight pain slows down my decision and I need to accelerate more on every shot.

The 3rd set was a physical battle. Daniel broke my serve again in the middle, leading 4-2, I broke his serve in turn with a forehand winner down the line. He threw his arm up, frustrated. I knew the moment had come when I could turn the match around. I am serving better. I got the pain mentally off my radar. My opponent seems more tentative when he is leading. Patience is paying off. Although Daniel appeared weaker on the backhand side, he never missed a single shot there today. It was the forehand, his strength, that was cracking. I started to move Daniel around and then hit his forehand. He is giving me shorter balls. I ran like a hawk and finished the point with a volley.

“Hooray, Popov!” The crowd surged into a standing ovation.

I won the next four games and sealed the set 6-4.

Peeking at Daniel, he looked down with all the sudden surge of energy from me. He seemed surprised, maybe caught off guard.

I must continue and seal it for the next set.

The 4th set was ugly all the way down to tiebreak. My right leg started hurting, my knees bloody. When I bent to hit low balls, they scratched the grass. Still, I was as determined as ever to close the match.

Yet, Daniel found his rhythm, too. At 4-4, we had an epic rally. I came to the net; Daniel hit a high ball over my head. I ran back and hooked the ball to his forehand. He attacked me cross court. I sprinted forward and sliced the ball deep. The rally continued until I hit a deep and fast backhand cross court to him. He tried to change direction on the ball - but missed!

A thundering cheer erupted from the crowd. I had never experienced something so loud, not even in US Open finals. I held the match point in my hand.

My trained tennis brain told me that I now had to rely on my instincts. “Don’t think too much, Alex,” I murmured to myself, taking a deep breath.

I missed the first serve. No reason, no excuse. I managed to put as much topspin as possible on the second. Daniel hit the return fast to my backhand. I ran and hit a high percentage cross court to him back.

Then - surprisingly - his backhand cross went short and to the middle. I sprinted to the ball, calling on all my energy, fighting through the twinge in my back. The yellow tennis ball loomed as big as a balloon in my eyes. I swung free, sending the ball like a laser to Daniel’s backhand. Quicker than lightning, he touched the ball and it floated. I jumped in the air and smashed the ball. It bounded so high that it flew off court, straight into the crowd.

“Game, set, match, Popov.”

I could hear shrieking from the crowd. When I touched my cheeks, they came away wet. Never in my life had I been so happy. I was almost done with my career, with tennis, because of my injury, but now the spirit of my perseverance would prevail. No one should give up despite the difficulties they might face. I need to write a book about this, I thought, delirious, as I sank to my knees, my back aching but none of it matters now.