The Gloom Room

[Andrew and Rosangel here: one of the most distinctive voices in the Tribe is Bismarck's.  More often than not, his is a tone of Teutonic gloom, where even a hint of possible happiness is a siren's call, beckoning him on to destruction. Last Saturday several posters kicked around the idea of a Gloom Room post (hat tip to Grant for the concept, and Sam for the specific naming thereof), where the Tribe could wallow in the despondency of loss.  It seemed to us that only Bismarck could guide us into this shrine of despair...

Please treat this as an On-Topic thread, and share your own most painful memories of defeat (tennis or otherwise). Schadenfreude, or even simple gloating over triumphs, is strictly verboten here (Shhh!! Quiet! Sombreness at work). A little Sturm und Drang, on the other hand, might work very well. We'll turn the lights down soothingly low, so that you can hide your devastated face in the shadows, while we take it in turns to man the TW bar. And we're prepared to bet that Bismarck can see anything you confess here, and raise the bar higher...]

Dark. Quiet. TV just turned off, its screen shimmering in scornful blackness. Still, the scene you never wanted to witness is right before your eyes – or is it behind your eyes?

Match point down. One last short futile breath of hope: its real name is denial. And then, almost suddenly, it´s over. Defeated.

Not long ago this seemed like nothing more than one dreary sorrowful dream. You could have laughed it off with a shrug, maybe a bit nervous, but fairly that confident it's just some illusion: a nightmare.

But that last scene from the match, that last point – lost point! – running around in your head again and again proves to you that somehow it's real. And while this certainty rests heavy on your shoulders and those voices in your mind have already started whispering their little questions, and every single one of them in poisoned “what if..?”-manner, you might rue the day you became a fan. For a fraction of a second. Then you're back to mourning the loss.

This loss. The worst ever.

Oh sure, before it, there was triumph and glory and pure utter joy, but that seems ages ago now, lost in a distant past. All that's left of it are sepia memories. Those earlier victories offer no consolation in this hour. They can't soothe the agony of the defeat. This defeat that trumps all victories.

How to go on after such a day? How can you go back and pretend nothing changed? Some fools may believe that time is a healer, but deep down you know this wound will never heal completely. This is a scar that will stay, one which will throb and pulse in future melancholy nights and make you feel the forlorn pain that comes with chances missed.

And still, human being that you are, you will fall for the cheap flatteries of hope again, choosing their tempting momentary pleasures over the gloom of despair. You'll stand up, knock the dust off your shoulders and march on.

You'll know that behind the next hill on your way the next defeat awaits you. It's clear that around the next bend of the road you'll meet another despair.

But you don't stop. “Don't wanna let them wait, do I?”, so you accelerate your steps. Why? 'Cause it's all you can do as a fan.

So, pray tell, what was the worst defeat you ever had to witness?

-- Bismarck