It was a daily parade of the walking wounded who shone not for winning but literally how they survived the game.

Enduring long games in searing conditions was one thing but to do it winged or winded was reason for celebrating dogged determination.

Nothing said it more than the men's final, when we watched in awe as Nadal, niggled by knee injuries from the outset and Djokovic, a recovering hayfever victim, limped into the history books with a record marathon.

Djokovic later said: "You're going through so much suffering your toes are bleeding. Everything is just outrageous, you know, but you're still enjoying that pain."

The highlight for me, though, was in the fourth round, when Kimmy Clijsters, trussed like an Ingham chicken with an ankle injury, smashed Li Na's hopes.

Clijsters initially looked a goner but somehow rose above the agony at a crucial point in the game and forged ahead to a win.

I was trying to channel those admirable qualities the next night when I met my mate, Pete, for our weekly squash swotfest.

Pumped with the knowledge that pain is power, I went out of my way to exhibit every twinge.

My usual wristband to ease a long-standing weakness is beige, which screams shame and camouflage.

On this night I made the strapping from a fluorescent orange band of lycra and did the same on my left knee.

The piece de resistance was the Bunnings tool belt slung low on my hips and filled with an asthmatic's puffer, a box of Band-Aid, some Deep Heat and an EpiPen for good measure.

I walked on to that court on a cloud thanks to the two gel pads in my shoes to support fallen arches.

Pete sensed a change and went on the offensive but it made no difference because my confidence level was through the roof.

Everything about me screeched Sharapova-style "I am in pain and proud", as I scooted around at breakneck speed.

My usual 3.5km/h serves blew out to double that speed and there was no ball too far, too high or too fast to chase down.