addendum to a pyrrhic victory
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Tears pricked his eyes as he realized just how foolish he was. The face on the screens, the one he didn’t recognize, burned at the back of his mind. Who would give a shit about that scrap-metal boy from District Six? He was not the District One golden boy, Roger Federer, born with a face worth more than a diamond mine and showered with so many sponsor gifts during his Games that the Gamemakers had to impose a daily limit. He was not Novak Djokovic, forged, sharpened, and steeled in the training academies of District Two, the crown fitted for his head before the canon of his first kill. He was not even in the league of last year’s victor, Iga Świątek, who disguised her genius with nervous, flittering smiles, as dangerous and unassuming as a live wire.
Who was he compared to Carlos Alcaraz, wunderkind? Nobody. He, Jannik Sinner, was going to die.
[Jannik Sinner, before and after The 71st Hunger Games.]
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- Part 1 of addendum to a pyrrhic victory