Tickets, please. Yours is in order. Mine is a 40-foot set of Head Sonic Pro, 16 gauge, 1.30 mm, and I would like to see everybody else's before we leave the platform.
One set, one racquet, no reel to store and no half-spool going stale in a cupboard — that is the whole case for buying string this way. Sonic Pro is a firm co-polyester monofilament, so what you are paying for is control: a low launch angle, real grip on the ball for spin, and a string bed that stays where you put it through a long third set.
The 1.30 mm gauge is the durable choice, the one for players who saw off their strings rather than break them cleanly. Standard advice applies and I will be checking: string a co-poly five to ten percent below your usual synthetic tension.
Now. Białystok, and I want everybody together for this. The Branicki Palace stands at the centre of it, an eighteenth-century Baroque pile with formal French gardens, fountains and parterres, built by Jan Klemens Branicki — a hetman and a man of real power who wanted the Polish crown, never got it, and got this instead.
People took to calling it the Versailles of Podlasie, which is either a compliment or a diagnosis. It is now the Medical University, and yes, tickets are checked at the gate, as they should be.
In the centre of Białystok the Basilica of the Assumption is the finest piece of paperwork in Europe: the parish needed a large new church, the imperial authorities would only permit an annex, so an annex is what they built — colossal, soaring, twin-towered, neo-Gothic — which swallowed the little white Renaissance church whole and left it clinging to the side like a footnote.
Over in the old Jewish quarter stands the monument to Ludwik Zamenhof, an eye doctor born in Białystok who grew up hearing Polish, Yiddish, Russian and German shouted across one market square, decided the trouble was translation, and published an entire language in 1887 under a pen name meaning one who hopes.
And in the middle of the long triangular market square the pink-and-white Town Hall has the tower, the clock and all the civic swagger, and no record of ever governing anything: Branicki raised it as a market hall, so that a man selling cabbages could do so under an architecture of authority.
You will string this set everywhere from a municipal court beside the palace gardens to an indoor hall in a Podlasie February, and it is also perfect for a Białystok market morning on Kościuszko Square, where the building that looks most like a government has always been a shop.
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