A slice of heaven, a blip of inspiration amidst the dreary monotony of our virus-ridden planet, was nipped at the bud in the city of Dalian: the Women's Tennis Open. To be a fan of the Dalian Women's Tennis Open, you must possess an unrivalled passion for heartbreak, a masochism nurtured by fond memories quickly wiped away by the cold grip of cruel fate. Strolling through the memory lane of the Dalian Open, the vision of muscular women gracefully engaging in furious rallies over a net comes to mind. One could nearly touch the charisma and athleticism that oozed from their shiny sports-wear. The symphony of tennis balls hitting the hardcourts played a song only our aficionado hearts understood - a beat that synchronised with the throbbing of our anticipatory hearts, a rhythm that parenthesized our collective existence. Yes. We dedicatedly devoted each calorie burned from fervently flipping the TV remote, eagerly anticipating the next breathtaking serve, tense rally, and victorious leap. The heroics displayed on the screen fulfilled us, satisfied us, supplied us with the dreams we could never work up the energy to chase. Furthermore, who could forget the deluge of drama that flooded from the Green City? The year 2016, a remarkable match marked by an overzealous racoon intruding onto the court, spooking players and rousing roars of shock and amusement from the intrepid audience? Ah, to witness a legendary encounter between woman and wildlife right in the middle of a decider set - truly, the nadir of spectator sport or was that the zenith? And then there's the heartbreak. As zealous fans, we learned to grow fond of heartbreak, twisting the knife of hope, knowing that the sweet tartness of disappointment came with the package. Our dreams for a stable tournament, unhampered by the practicalities of life, were dashed year after year, for the Dalian Women's Tennis Open was marred more often than not, by a burgeoning potpourri of concerns, financial or environmental. Finally, as a cruel punchline to our tragicomedy, came the news in 2020: there would be no Women's Tennis Open, not just in Dalian, but anywhere. The global pandemic saw to that. As we lamented the absence of our beloved ritual, we realized that there was more to our fandom than mere spectating. The Open, the players, the tennis balls, had become a metaphor for us, echoing our struggle, resilience, and the unending search for momentous glory amid setbacks. So here we are, dear reader, tears in our eyes, holding on to a can of unused tennis balls, romanticizing a tournament that perhaps only held significance to a niche few. A sad comedy unspooled in the realm of Women's Tennis – the Dalian Open – a whirlwind romance that ended before the honeymoon phase was over, leaving us with nothing but a rain-check for passion, a rain-check for what could have been, a rain-check for what should have been. In the depth of our heartbreak, we laugh. We will toast to the lunacy of following a fleeting tournament, cheers to the tears and tennis balls, to the aching affection for the Dalian Women's Tennis Open. After all, isn’t it often said, “Laugh, and the world laughs with you; weep, and you weep alone”?