I'm a bit flummoxed. Got a big package from Sir Pioline today. We decided to have a little frame swap for some temporary fun and knocking about before sending back. MSFs passing in the night. Within my box, a 293.2 Prestige (had this one before, wanted to check it out again even though the 16m version then won out and is now my main jam), a Prestige Tour 600, an Auxetic Tour, and a nice-SW Gravity Pro (330).
Had a fantastic and very intense training session tonight on clay - different drills and regular hitting. The plan was to make this one a 293 night. That Touch Gloss on this visiting Prestige was too alluring. Drills began with volleys and short court, of course, then moved back. This frame was just awesome. The feel, sublime (a bit better than the slightly stiffer 16m). But after awhile the .1 then took over, and again reminded me (how many times does it have to do this?) that it's seemingly made for me. It's the same frame but with more teeth. I get that little extra ease of net clearance, which actually allows me to open up and try to rip flatter. And don't get me started on the slices of both of these 293s. It gets no better. And I've tried and sliced with everything.
After constant drilling and hitting, almost no breaks, I began to wilt with about 15, 20 minutes left in the session. I went for that last sip of water, and just then I decided maybe it was time to see what some more real estate could give my tired limbs. Rather than the Fedora, I pulled out that Gravity Pro. And I think Pioline may have put some cocaine in it. Because those next/last 15-20 minutes were thrilling yet confusing. I'm not supposed to like the Gravity. Very Meh on the Tour I tried once, and then the same with a Pro my buddy demoed and felt too clunky and meh for me. But this? This one was giving me the world, from the first ball. I couldn't miss - and honestly, look at the thing, how could you? Yet usually with sweet spots that size I can't control enough of the depth or trajectory. But here I was driving the ball nicely, knifing the slices, changing the direction and angling the ball when I wanted to, just hitting all of the shots I was testing, and deep, and not making mistakes in the meantime. I'd gone from wilting to this sudden high. Cocaine, man.
Alright. Maybe this was placebo. New, Big Stick Energy. Maybe I was just letting the tank empty into those forehands and backhands that would have been singing also with the others. And maybe actual points will yield blob sloppiness rather than the precision I usually crave when there's a score. I don't know. This was brief. It's all possible and I've been here before. But man. Man that was some good stuff. The crash has to be coming. Has to.