"I'm not worried," Muster says. "I'm not afraid of things. That's why I'm saying nothing is going to change my life too much—winning or losing. It's just tennis."
But the fact is, when Muster watched Chang's backhand go wide for the final point Sunday, his eyes grew round as quarters, and he dropped his racket into the clay that has served him so well. He then fell to his back, staining his shirt with the red grit. He quickly shook hands with Chang and jogged to the stands. Then, as the crowd gasped and clapped, Muster pulled himself up and over the rail. He grabbed Leitgeb in a silent hug.
"We talk so much just by looking at each other," Leitgeb says. "We don't need words."
It was, in the end, a surreal fortnight's most impossible moment, a lesson for any victim of a senseless act of violence. Graf knows, Muster knows, and all that's left is for Seles to know. When you least expect it, the game takes you back, and suddenly you're shouting or crying or saying the silliest things, your heart beating faster beneath the Parisian sky.