It's possible you don't like the grunt. Not of any kind. Not the high-pitched shriek nor the multi-syllable one. Not the ones which sound like an unsuspecting fellow hit in the solar plexus nor those which resemble a last, dying gasp of effort.
But when the grunt reappeared on Sunday (Jan 31) it was among the most beautiful sounds I'd heard for months. For it was a signal that tennis was back at work. A sort of music of competitors in conflict.
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