ArcheDEX

Some players respond to the ball. The General responds to a match he has already seen three shots before it happens. To him the court isn't a court: it's a chessboard with a net through the middle.

The Artist is the one who tries the off-the-glass counter in a situation where anyone else would have lobbed. Ninety per cent of the time it's a disaster. The other ten per cent stays in the group chat for weeks.

Against The Wall you don't lose: you get tired. It's a distinction you only grasp in the third game, when you notice four minutes have gone, you've hit eleven winners, and the score hasn't moved.

The Gladiator has no friendly mode. There's the match, and then there's the after-match: in between there are no shades. Even the warm-up, if you let it run long enough, turns competitive.

The Coach has worked out something the rest miss: winning is good, but watching your partner nail the shot you explained last week is better. The problem is that sometimes he explains it during the point.

The Socialite has never organised a match. They've organised two hundred matches. They're the one who starts the chat, finds the fourth, books the court, reminds everyone of the time, and then loses 6-1 without minding in the slightest.

The Philosopher is the only one who walks off in a good mood after losing in the third. It isn't put-on serenity: he really has found something interesting in that match, and he's probably going to tell you about it.

The Star doesn't just play: you can tell she's playing. There's a difference between winning a point and winning a point everybody watches, and she picks the second one every time — even when the first would have done.

The Professor has noticed that the opponent on the right always drifts half a metre too far back after the volley. He noticed in the third game. By the fifth, that half metre has turned into four points.

The Showman commentates. He commentates his points, he commentates yours, he commentates the wind, he commentates the fact that he's commentating. And the remarkable thing is that the court is more fun with him on it — opponents included.

The Sphinx says nothing for the entire match. No celebration when she wins a point, no complaint when she loses one. At the end you have no idea whether she enjoyed it, and that is precisely the feeling she meant to leave you with.

There are players who win points and players who change matches. The Catalyst is the second kind: his contribution doesn't show in the statistics, it shows on his partner's face after the first "come on, we're right here".

The Bulwark is the one who never plays the match of his life and never plays the disaster. Thirty matches in a row at the same level. If that sounds unimpressive, try finding somebody else who can do it.

The Potential loses 6-2, but inside that 6-2 there were three shots none of the other six players on court could produce. That's what makes it impossible to stop watching.

The Sage barely moves. It looks like laziness until you notice, around the middle of the match, that you've run three times as far and you're a set down. He isn't lazy: he has stopped making the movements that don't do anything.

The Commander doesn't ask permission. He decides the pattern, decides the pace, decides who serves first, and decides that the ball down the middle is his. Nine times out of ten he's right — and the tenth is exactly the problem.