Call it as you want, but what is certain is that Thomas Muster is not a predestined. No genealogical tree that passes the right genes, those that would allow them to grace grace on tennis courts from all over the world. No: he without the caresses that Edberg distributes to the ball, of the illuminated vision of Mcenroe, of the tenacious geometries of Lendl. He was born in Stiria, profound Austria, where winter seems to never end. It grows in silence, away from the spotlight. It’s not an enfant prodigy, but A racket worker.
Each blow builds it in the gym, with the brutal logic of work. His tennis is a tiring job. While around the time of global icons, the time Muster remains all body and will. He trains like a boxer, plays like a marathon runner. Slow to take off, but inexorable in growth. Macchia kilometers on the red, feeds on dust and obstinacy. It is a mastiff: whoever plays against him must make the sign of the cross, because even if you are stronger, the grip does not attach. This is why a nice nickname gives him: Leibnitz’s animal. Except that when the jump seems close, when he starts earning semifinal after semifinal, an infamous destiny literally slams him against.
Is the March 1989 and we are at the Miami Open: Muster is in the semifinal on the islet of Key Byscaine, in front of clusters of festive fans. He just beat Yannick Noah and now He has to challenge Ivan Lendlthen number one in the world. He is 21 years old, he is at the best time of his young career. But the night before the semifinal, while he is about to climb the car, the story carried out in the negative. It is hit by a car. There is a drunk driving. The impact is devastating. The left knee crumbles. The doctors speak immediately clear: season finished, fOrse Finite career.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2lg9o97cqhs
In the hospital, surrounded by gauze and reports, Muster listens and silent. It doesn’t cry, don’t shout. It closes. It isolates. It does not accept the idea of laying weapons. A few days later, while he is still in the hospital, It builds a wooden platform. A platform wide enough to make us mount a chair, keep the leg in plaster lifted, and hit. For hours. Everyday. He trains from sitting, dribbles from Fermo. A way never seen, uncomfortable and to the traits delusional, but to Muster enough. While the others make physiotherapy with prudence, he transforms recovery into a personal battle. He does not just heal. He requires not to stop. He works like this for months. It dribbles against a wall, or with a coach together with a rhythm. It is striking without moving, but it runs, barefoot, fight within itself.
The media, the insiders and colleagues Bollano like madness. For him it is pure normality. When Back on the pitch, less than a year laterdoes it survived it. But he does not seek compassion. He wants to dominate, win. And he succeeds. He begins to grind titles, especially on the battle. Conquers 44 finals, triumphs in the Davis Cup and in 1995 Roland Garros raises to heaven and becomes number one in the world. But those trophies are only the visible part.
The real summit Muster climbed it in the silence of those training, on the wooden platform, with the immobile leg and the arm that never stopped hitting. That’s where his myth was born. There that he is forever contained his most important trophy.