The Magic Box is buzzing as Novak Djokovic proves he's not made of ligaments but rubber bands. As the ball lands, the clay at the Madrid Open erupts like a miniature explosion. Rallies occasionally last as long as a glass of wine and sweat drips like a salty rain.

Well, at least this was how this week was supposed to be, but like everywhere else the courts are silent. Djokovic is at home and some stadiums are being turned into field hospitals. Eighty years ago, on Oct 11, Centre Court at Wimbledon was bombed during World War II.

I've been writing on sport for 34 years and a life suddenly absent of athletic poetry is bewildering. But only sport is suspended, not our imaginations and, as some of my friends in ESPN India did a few weeks ago, I thought about what I'm missing in sport. Just to make a list was to find a strange sort of joy.

I miss...

... the escape of sport, the ability to sit on my couch and take a ride through Barcelona or New York on the back of genius. Athletes, who don't even care if you're watching, can make you shift your viewing position in the living room. Who else can do that?

... the expression of athletes, for nobody conveys emotion as nakedly as they do, through their self-loathing, their rage, their dismay, conceit and certainty.

... Tai Tzu-ying doing stuff with shuttles that would have made Merlin retire.

I miss...

... athletes at training. Thirty laps. Drink. Spit. Forty laps more. Devotion isn't always sexy.

... the long pass, a simple act of almost inexplicable precision, wherein a ball is curled 35m and lands precisely on the boot of a running man. Lasers? Magnets?

... the lower-ranked players and their earnest, anxious attitude, always hoping that one week will finally be their week. Then they lose in the first round, get on a plane and start again.

I miss...

... old champions, skill fading like an old painting left in the sun, fending off younger rivals.

... the sounds of the game, the club song of belonging, the exclamation of a badminton smash, the "click" of a sweet golf shot, the low murmur before play and, most of all, the hush of dejection when a home favourite falls. Hope interred.

... Tiger Woods on the tee box and Rafa running for a forehand. When I read about freedom fighters, who've nailed themselves to a cause, I think of Nadal. He does not understand compromise.

I miss...

... the little pauses of sport, the bowler at the top of his run-up and the tennis player before she serves. The few seconds to refine a plot. Or even the diver raising her arms like wings on the board. The brief contemplation of flight.

... the rugby tackles that test ribs, ligaments, commitment. Players fall and then rise, hold onto their composure, collect their faith, and go again. Gluttons for punishment.

... the solving of problems which arrive at 150kmh, the ability of Messi to speed-read the intent of two defenders as they close in rapidly like determined bouncers.

I miss...

... the look on Serena's face when a rival hits a stunning shot.

... scowling at the treacly commentary at the Masters, rolling my eyes at nationalism and cursing at those who boo.

... press conferences, minutes after a match, where athletes try to explain defeat. It can be a painful, humbling, combative, reluctant, terse or graceful admission of not being good enough.

I miss...

... MotoGP guys almost kissing during overtaking.

... the fantastic shot because it's what we come to watch and yet we're never quite completely ready for it. Champions invent what we can't imagine.

... Steve Smith and the sheer power of his unorthodoxy. The Australian bats in his own, sweet, eccentric way and tells us that not every successful method is found in a manual.

I miss...

... the athlete who is done and defeated but still tries on the field because of hope and habit. He's a forlorn figure holding himself up with some inner cement.

... Simone Biles' public debate with gravity.

... the repetition of sport because every amateur knows the extreme difficulty in avoiding error. Badminton players mesmerise in the way they can take 70 shots to explore space, weakness, spin, physics, fitness. Then they change the shuttle and do it again.

I miss... referees.

Seriously. They're the ones with the starting whistle.