Columnist Tumaini Carayol captures the atmosphere of the ATP 500 event in Barcelona with this reflection.

La tarde. 12 noon. En punto. On the dot. They arrive exactly half an hour later, a motley crew of players, bodyguards and two handholders and cameramen shuffling backwards, awkwardly attempting to remain in perfect sync. With perfect timing, a woman arrives in the stands, cascading a pair of beers for all to see. One is presumably for a plus-one, but this is Spain after all.

Back to the court. A cameraman is swooping in, after creeping his way up the steps to rest on the partition that divides the lower boxes rows from the rest. His machinery encases him like a shell as he peeks at every man, woman and child in the vicinity. One little boy melodramatically blows kisses as his image is projected onto the two screens at each corner of the stadium. Another hides away, embarrassed. Behind them, a man sporting a shirt emblazoned with the image of Roger Federer shuffles to his seat. Three women arrived all dressed in scarves take their seats.

Auto-pilot mode is switched on as both players go through the motions, warming up muscles already long since warm. Groundstrokes, volleys, smashes and serves. The crowd doubles, triples and quadruples in the five minutes of absentminded hitting. By now, some of the more curious characters have assembled as well. The woman so insistent on capturing images with her mammoth-sized iPad continues to outrage all those surrounding her. The boys littered around the stadium in full tennis gear, kitchen table-sized racquet bag and all. Some of these may or may not be members of this club in the 50.5 weeks of the year that it doesn’t host an ATP event.

At the highest point of the stadium sit the commentary boxes, all of which have been enshrouded with a camouflaging tape in preparation of advertising that never arrived. They stare down on the crowd like a lingering remnant of Spain's crashing economy.

The match begins, and parity takes its final bow. It's over not long after.  Another performance without a seam or crease in sight from the man who, before this year, abhorred clay courts. Beauty ripples from Kei Nishikori’s game, comprised of effortless, compact strokes straight out of a textbook.  His swift angles launch the opponent to all corners of the court.

Ernests Gulbis had brought a game with a more acquired beauty. His serve has a momentary hitch as he scans the horizon and aims straight for his target. As he measures its future course, the ball seems to dwindle in the air for an eternity, afraid of the blow to come. But his forehand is what steals the show. Some say it resembles a surfer as his arms fall perfectly horizontal, but whatever it is, it's a work of modern art.

It's the end of the match, and Nishikori appears down the narrow path that slices through a route from the stadium to the player area. Brief eye contact is made, and the most snatched of facial expressions appears to sum up the spirit of tennis in its rawest, briefest, but most truthful form: Onto the next match we go.