By the time they met at the net, there was no mistaking the toll.

Under the sharp white glare of the indoor lights at the Dallas Open, Ben Shelton and Adrian Mannarino looked less like second-round opponents and more like survivors of something far more unforgiving.

“It was a war out there,” Shelton said afterward, and for once, the phrase didn’t feel like post-match exaggeration.

From the opening games, the contrast in styles was stark. Shelton, all coiled power and left-handed violence, detonated serves that echoed off the arena walls. His forehand, struck with that familiar whip and roar, repeatedly yanked the crowd to its feet. He wanted the match on his terms—short points, first-strike tennis, emotional surges.

Mannarino had other plans.

The French veteran has built a career on discomfort. His strokes come off the strings flat and skidding, barely clearing the net before staying unnervingly low. There’s no obvious rhythm to feed off, no heavy topspin to redirect. Instead, he gives opponents something far more destabilizing: pace without shape, angles without warning.

For long stretches, Shelton looked like a man trying to swat at shadows.

Every service hold felt earned, not assumed. Games stretched past deuce. Set points flickered and vanished. Momentum refused to stay loyal to either side. One moment Shelton was pounding his chest after a 140-mph bomb; the next he was lunging awkwardly into a Mannarino backhand that refused to sit up.

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t smooth.

It was survival.

Shelton’s growth over the past year has been measured not just in rankings or highlight-reel winners, but in these exact scenarios—the matches where Plan A blurs and frustration creeps in. Against Mannarino, he was forced to problem-solve in real time. When rallies lengthened, he resisted the temptation to overhit. When returns came back low and skidding, he bent his knees and stayed in the point one shot longer than he might have a season ago.

That extra shot often made the difference.

The crowd, sensing the tension, played its part. Dallas has embraced Shelton’s firebrand energy, and each roar after a hold of serve felt like oxygen pumped into tired lungs. But even the noise couldn’t simplify what was happening between the lines. Mannarino kept dragging the match into murky territory—into awkward exchanges and sudden directional changes.

There were moments when it felt as if the match might tip for good. A loose forehand here. A daring return there. Yet each time, Shelton responded with something emphatic—a body serve that jammed, a forehand ripped crosscourt, a fearless second serve struck as if it were his first.

By the deciding stretch, both men were running on fumes. Shoulders sagged between points. Towels were clutched a little longer. The rallies, though shorter, carried even more weight. Every error felt seismic. Every winner, defiant.

When Shelton finally closed it out, the release was immediate. A shout. A fist pump. Not theatrical—necessary.

At the net, the handshake lingered a fraction longer than usual. Respect recognizes effort. And this had required plenty.

Afterward, Shelton didn’t hide from the grind of it.

“It was a war out there.”

Not a showcase. Not a serving clinic. A war.

If the rest of the draw was watching—and at tournaments like the Dallas Open, they always are—they saw something more valuable than dominance. They saw resilience. They saw a young contender willing to win ugly, to absorb discomfort, to navigate a stylistic maze without panicking.

That matters in February. It matters even more in the deeper rounds.

Because tournaments aren’t won on perfect days alone. They’re claimed in matches like this—where rhythm disappears, where opponents refuse to cooperate, where emotion must be harnessed rather than unleashed.

Shelton walked off the court drained but sharper. Tested but standing.

And in a week that’s only just beginning in Dallas, that might be the most dangerous version of him yet.