Lucky number 13
The US Open is the most exhausting grand slam for tennis fans in these islands, not because it’s the last major of the year, but`because of the viewing-induced jet lag. (I feel your eyebags, NBA fans.) Maybe I should go to sleep now and wake up at 5 a.m. for the men’s final. Then again, I know I can stay up till morning, but I’m not sure I can wake up at 5.
The final should’ve been played last Sunday, but was delayed by the storm in New York. When the rain fell, British world number 4 Andy Murray was outplaying the world number one and top seed Rafael Nadal.
Murray is a fierce competitor — remember his victory over Richard Gasquet at Wimbledon, coming back from two sets down? — but Nadal had been unstoppable all year.
It’s been Nadal’s year, unquestionably. He won his fourth French Open with a sound thrashing of Roger Federer, whom he beat again a few weeks later at what may be the greatest match ever, at Wimbledon.
Nadal finally seized the number one ranking after four years at number two. When he capped this fantastic run with a gold medal performance at the Beijing Olympics, sportswriters began salivating at the possibility of a golden slam — four majors in a row plus an Olympic gold. It’s never enough. You can run down every opponent, reach every ball, and pound the stuffing out of every shot, but they’ll always want more.
That is the burden of Number One.
Nadal seemed tired at the start of his semifinal match. Murray played brilliantly, pushing Nadal out farther and farther on the court. I thought the storm delay would allow Rafa to recharge, but he still looked knackered when play resumed. So Murray now has a shot at being the first Brit since Fred Perry (now a shirt) to win a grand slam.
Wait, wasn’t Greg Rusedski in the US Open final against Patrick Rafter? Oh, right, he wasn’t really British. Kind of like the way Murray becomes Scottish to the British media when he loses.
The Brits are very hard on Andy Murray. He’s a more exciting player than their beloved Tim Henman, but they haven’t quite taken to him.
They make fun of his hair, his clothes, his hygiene for crying out loud. What’ll they mock next, his teeth? Live-blogging the semis, a journalist noted that if it had been a fashion show, Rafa would already have won. During the final a TV presenter noted that Murray’s socks and shoes were dirty, unlike Federer’s. What the frak? News coverage actually noted how neat and clean-shaven Roger — an endorser of razors! — was next to scruffy Andy.
I am a longtime fan of The Federer — not a bandwagon-jumper, but someone who called her friends after his match with Pete Sampras at Wimbledon 2001 and announced that The One had arrived. I sat through his mediocre 2002 season waiting to be proven right. And I can tell you that The Fed is something of a neat freak. His clothes always fit perfectly. At Wimbledon, he hangs his jacket on the back of a chair to prevent creases. I am convinced that his difficulties at the French Open have to do with the fact that the red clay gets on his shoes and socks. The Fed does not like to get dirty.
In contrast Rafa Nadal doesn’t mind getting dirty, but he has some tics that border on obsessive-compulsive behavior. The way he lines up his water bottles so the labels are all facing one direction. The way he always goes to the ballboy with the towel between points. The way he adjusts his wedgie before he serves. Hey, it works for him.
I think I’ll take a nap.
0400h. This final is of particular interest to the tribe of Federer.
As tennis fans know, this is his annus horribilis — no majors won yet, just a couple of little tournaments, shocking losses to players considered unfit to tie his shoelaces, mononucleosis (which causes extreme fatigue), the shellacking at Roland Garros, the spirit-crushing loss at Wimbledon, the fall from number one. Where did Superman, the greatest player of all time, go? Why has he been rudely exposed as mortal?
Theories abound: the effects of mononucleosis, a lack of motivation, the absence of a full-time coach to help prepare him against opponents who are younger, hungrier, and getting stronger; even age (27). One writer suggested that The Fed, whose racquet is the smallest on the men’s tour, should get a bigger one. A larger racquet head would allow him a greater margin of error, at the expense of a little bit of control.
Which explains why The Fed is averse to upsizing the racquet. His game is all about Control.
As another sportswriter put it, Federer’s game is poised between total control and reckless abandon. I’m not saying scores and records mean nothing to me, but the reason I love The Fed is because at his best, he is simultaneously invincible and fragile. His strokes have to be calibrated precisely: a millisecond slower, a half-degree off, and everything goes to pieces. We don’t see where those mind-boggling shots come from, but they are the product of a long series of warp-speed calculations.
Tennis champions are not like most people. As the footnote-happy novelist David Foster Wallace reminds us, they see in a different way.
We see the tennis ball whizzing through the air, and Federer getting there before the ball does. How did he know it was going there? Is he psychic, or has he made a pact with the devil disguised as Vogue’s
Anna Wintour?
That’s what we see. Federer sees a projectile the size of a bowling ball spinning and hurtling through the air in slow motion. He launches himself at it.
0500h. The final is about to begin. Nothing against Andy Murray, but The Fed will win this. I know because I saw something in the third set of Roger’s semifinal match against Novak Djokovic. After The Fed’s uncharacteristically emotional struggles in the previous rounds, something clicked back into place. We heard it in that lob that broke The Djoker’s spirit.
If there’s one place on earth where you go to retrieve your lost mojo, it’s New York.
0700h. What did I say?
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