My Australian son-in-law and I play a yearly tennis championship for the prize of butter chicken and bragging rights. Alas I have beaten him only once, in Singapore, on a humid day when he, 20 years younger, wilted like a hydrangea in the heat. He was red-faced, huffing and close to throwing up. It was a beautiful sight.
He took it like a man and complained about the conditions for only six months. But in truth he understood: This is part of sport, these mad variables, this home advantage, this capricious weather.