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The last one per cent -BILL HARLAN
The clock above the tennis court said it was 5:32 P.M. and the scoreboard in my head showed that I was losing. I prepared to deliver my second serve. As usual, my opponent stood on the other side of the net, nearly immobile, with the same calculated expression on his face into whose abyss I had been staring for two hours already. I placed my serve to his backhand and rushed to the net. His return flo...