67 posts categorized "January 2009"
by Pete Bodo
I have a confession to make right up front. While commenting on the Australian Open these past few weeks, I've more or less avoided beating my breast about being a good soldier, rising at 3:30 a.m. each morning to dial up those video holograms of Roger and Rafa, Serena and Svetlana, P-Mac and Enberg. You could say I had an ulterior motive in this holding-back, if being too lazy to ever actually make that effort to get up at what has to be the absolutely worst start-time for a broadcast can travel under the guise of "motive."
I couldn't even roust myself to set that alarm for Blake vs. Tsonga, which has great match-up written all over it. Who's gonna hit James off the court, Tsonga or. . . Blake? Or would Blake satisfy his legion of fans by adding to his fairly meager book of Grand Slam statements?
Instead, I routinely got up at my usual 7 a.m., popped Luke's chocolate-chip waffles into the toaster oven, and fired-up Tennis.com to see just what Tom Perrotta or Abbey Lorge had to say about things. For a while early this morning, I almost regretted making the dawn patrol effort for the women's final. That hour between 3 and 4 is tinged with melancholy and ideal for getting bushwhacked by Regrets (that's no typo) and doubts, and generally tip-toeing around the edges of the hollow spots in your life and sneaking a peek over the rim. As an outdoorsman, I know that pre-dawn hour well, and thank God it's gnawing interrogatives are held in check by the merciful to-do list: you're too busy making lunch, checking your gear, and figuring out a strategy for the day to sweat your goblins.
And there's this: isn't TV something you're supposed to do before, not after, you go to sleep?
In fact, early in the women's Australian Open women's final, I thought that maybe it was a mistake to get up to experience the event,"Live" (is there a more preposterous lie than television's claim to be bringing you something. . . "live"?). That was at about the time that Serena was already up a break, and I found myself being subjected to about the fifth commercial offer of help in relieving my staggering credit-card debt, promising a magical way for me to save my home, enticing me to dip a toe into the soothing waters of. . . debt consolidation. I almost found myself wishing I'd blown my kid's college education on the purchase of an 18,000 square-foot McMansion, so the message of these extravagant good Samaritans might resonate with me, instead of transforming me into a doubting Thomas wondering how these loan sharks can possibly live with themselves.
Harsh, huh? It was the hour.
Besides, nothing I saw on the small screen seemed to demand my attention, at least not until about six games in, by when it was abundantly clear that poor Dinara Safina was in way, way over her head, no matter what anyone had been saying or thinking, and that Serena's passion for kicking buttski is so pure and refined by now that it doesn't even seem personal. Sorry, Dinara, that it had to be you, but get a load of this one: ka-boom! Then she smiles to herself, that big, elastic smile, and takes those oddly stiff, small steps back to the baseline. Oh, it's not as if the match lacked intensity, but it was packaged more as a monologue than a dialog. At one point, we had a close up of Serena shaking her head after she barely missed a winner, and the rebuke in it was so severe that I wanted to insert my two cents: Hey, take it easy there, girl. It didn't miss by that much.
I imagine that some people are going to rake Safina over the coals after her performance, but then anyone who doesn't step onto the court to face Serena with at least a vague sense that she might be better off being somewhere else is insufficiently tuned to the vibrations. You're in the Australian Open final, girl. Against Serena Williams. And in keeping with tradition, your final meal will be. . . whatever your heart desires!
Safina is a big girl, and she seemed to be making an effort to "play big" - as evidenced by that prodigiously stretched-out service motion and ball toss (I had to wonder, do the ballkids spray the ball with wing de-icer before bouncing it to her?). The scary thing is that bringing a 2XL game probably is not just the right the right thing to do but, under the circumstances, the only thing to do. Safina's going to be just fine next time, if you ask me. So long as it isn't Serena she has to play. This was more about Serena's strengths and assets than Safina's weaknesses, physical or mental. It was about Serena's 3XL game.
All of this brings us to That Which No Longer Can be Written, or the cyclical attempt to say something original or searingly insightful about Serena Williams. You know what, I got nothin' for you. But sometimes, backtracking to the basics is at least a way to write your way out of a piece, so let's really strip it down and return to a basic. Serena's greatest asset as a competitor is her courage - her ability to dial up her game when it's most appropriate to do so. It's easy to take this facility for granted, or to under-estimate the degree to which Serena has it. You can write volumes about topspin backhands, or a lethal service action. But how do you spin out a long digression on something as fundamental, and cherished, as . . . courage?
This is a woman constantly in search of an occasion to rise to, and perhaps that also explains her indifference to all the filler stuffed into the tennis calendar between Grand Slam events. But pause for a moment to savor the rarity of a courage of this magnitude. It's nothing less than the magic elixir every players wishes to taste before setting foot on a court, and nobody drinks from that cup as deeply and lustily as Serena. We've seen it time and again, and while there have been exceptions to the pattern, they're few and far between. So let's not talk about anything else - why diminish so fine and rare a thing as her courage with distractions?
It was over fast, that's about the best you can say for Serena, and we in the USA were left listening to a weird argument between Mary Carillo and Chris Fowler, when both of them should have known that the moment was Serena's, not theirs. Everybody, I guess, has his or her 3:30 a.m.
Hi all. With the women's singles final starting shortly, here's today's place for discussing the tennis at Melbourne Park. This will be Dinara Safina's second Grand Slam singles final, and Serena Williams' thirteenth. After today, the winner will be number one in the world. History suggests that it will be Williams who lifts the trophy today - she leads the head-to-head 5-1, and Safina's only victory of the series was their sole match to date on clay.
Good luck to both players. Enjoy today's final, and please keep this post focused on tennis until it's over.
-- Rosangel Valenti
by Pete Bodo
Alright. Now that we've all stopped hyper-ventilating over the Rafael Nadal/Fernando Verdasco bull fight (personally, I had trouble telling the bull from the matador through long stretches of that one), let's just wipe our brows and take a moment to appreciate how lucky we are to have yet another Nadal vs. Roger Federer Grand Slam final.
In fewer than three full years, we’ve been awarded six Grand Slam finals pitting Roger Federer against Rafael Nadal. By comparison, the last pair of players who had anything like a comparable rivalry, Andre Agassi and Pete Sampras, met in Grand Slam titles a grand total of just five times – and that’s in an 11-year span (compared to the mere 37 months during which Nadal and Federer have had at each other).
Any of you Nadal fans who aren't air-kissing your beloved Federer fans are ingrates; you Federer fans who aren't sacrificing furry little animals before Nike posters of Nadal are clueless. It's about time y'all realized that nothing in sports is better than a great rivalry, and a great rivalry can only exist between equals - or players close enough to being equal that the differences are academic, especially when they meet.
What? The outraged Federer fan might say. Roger is 24 hours from equalling Pete Sampras's Grand Slam singles title record. How dare you make that comparison! I'll tell you how: Nadal is 12-6 vs. Federer, 5-2 in Grand Slam play. It's a fact, get used to it. It underscores the validity of the hall of fame quote Mats Wilander uttered when he told me, at the height of the "Wilanders" controversy, "It's weird that Roger may be the greatest player ever, but that there's one guy in his own time who he can't beat."
On Sunday, Federer gets another chance to chip away at the inconvenient truth of the record.
So what we've seen created, in just over three years, is an all-surface, all-continent battle between perhaps the greatest player who ever lived and someone who might have been - fairly - called a "provincial" player until it turned out he wasn't. The speed at which Nadal morphed from upstart into understudy into nemesis was remarkable. And while it may be irritating to TMF's fans, and the source of serious complications in Federer's life, Nadal's maturation into an all-around player has accomplished some things that no number of Grand Slam titles (not 15, not 22, not 38) could really do - heighten the awareness and appreciation of his abilities, add a measure of heft (the kind that can only come from one source - a guy you don't own) to his reputation, and provide him with a unique, personal yardstick by which to measure - and demonstrate - his worth.
We think of great rivalries as consisting of two components: Bird and Johnson, Sampras and Agassi, Namath and Unitas. The truth is that a great rivalry is a unitary thing, organically produced by two individuals. It exists independent of the individuals, even though it could not exist without the principals. A rivalry is an entity as well as a state-of-being; great rivals are Siamese twins, each tries to beat the other's brains out, but he's sustained by the same hot blood and leaves his counterpart showered in equal glory. Pete Sampras, it turns out, was right - we have proof of it right before our eyes: Nothing, but nothing, is as good for tennis as a great rivalry.
And there's more. I think we can all agree that we've got perhaps the greatest player of all time playing against perhaps the greatest clay-court player of all-time (an item that seems to be traveling southward on Nadal's resume, as in: Other Interests and Hobbies: Greatest Clay-Court Player of All-Time). We all love Andre, but Nadal has shown us what the Sampras-Agassi rivalry might have been, had Agassi's attention span in tennis been more consistent. If anything, Federer and Nadal are on track to be the next. . . Chris (Evert) and Martina (Navratilova).
In fact, some of the the parallels are striking, in a trans-gender kind of way: you have the mercurial "talent" pitted against the worker; the artist with the one-handed backhand matched with the bludgeoning double-fister; the slashing, attacking stylist dug in against the dogged, recalcitrant defender; the unsophisticated, un-intellectual athlete squaring off against the world citizen (oh, how often, upon hearing Martina air some vaguely political grievance, have I rolled my eyes, murmuring, . . Oh, please, Martina. Spare me.Thank God the comparison only goes so far. . .)
If they keep rolling down this path, can the day be far off when Federer and Nadal share a bagel (as Chris and Martina once did) while they wait to play yet another Grand Slam final?
I'm going to enjoy these finals - pass the lox.
By Jackie, TW Social Director
Good morning, TWibe! Thanks again for putting up with the change in scheduling. Speaking of which, we're thinking of officially moving the Deuce Club from its regular Thursday evening timeslot to perhaps Friday or sometime during the weekend. As we're looking to use this space more to build a profile of our readership, we'd like to make sure that the new time is convenient for the bulk of you. Thus, I need to know what works for y'all - what do you think about a Friday afternoon timeslot? Or early Saturday? Or are you keen on another time altogether? Please let me know your thoughts in the comments or by sending me an e-mail here. Thanks for cooperating, guys!
Before we jump into this week's topic - another Australian Open-related one, naturally - I had to share a photo of a TWiber who had some AO fun of his own. Above is our beloved naughty t, enjoying himself in Melbourne. I had him pegged as one of the finalists, but it just wasn't meant to be - better luck next year, naughty. And many thanks for sending the fabulous photo!
As the AO draws to a close (*sniff*), I thought we should use this space to reflect on the past two weeks. (Sure it's not over yet, but perhaps it makes some sense to look back at the tournament without the knowledge of who won/lost the whole thing coloring our perception of events.)
We've seen numerous matches, some that we're certain we'll remember come this time next year, others we'd rather forget. Regarding the former category, the following two matches immediately come to mind:
- Fernando Gonzalez d. Richard Gasquet 3-6, 3-6, 7-6(10), 6-2, 12-10: What word befits this match more than ... heart? (Okay, so "riveting" also works!) I was reminded of Gonzalez's stellar 2007 run in Melbourne as I watched him gut out the victory, coming back from two sets down. I also gained tremendous respect for Gasquet, who demonstrated not only his full range of talent but true tenacity, as well. It almost seemed a turning point of sorts for both men, and I can only hope that they bring the same level of intensity to their future matches in '09.
- Jelena Dokic d. Alisa Kleybanova 7-5, 5-7, 8-6: This match contained all of the components that made Dokic's comeback story intensely compelling - namely, hard hitting, waves of emotion, and a raucous crowd that wouldn't let her quit. Kleybanova, too, made quite the impression, as she more than held her own amidst all of these elements. She also proved that her third round victory over Ana Ivanovic was far from a fluke.
As for the forgettable matches, I imagine we're inclined to list those that didn't go "our" way, rather than those that just featured, well, blah tennis. Still, I bet most of us would agree that the Moore-McHale "Cramp-Gate" ordeal or the Monfils-Simon head-scratcher are perfect examples of matches we aren't planning to watch a second time.
But as is so often the case, sometimes the greatest takeaways from Grand Slams aren't the matches themselves but the storylines and characters therein. I already mentioned Dokic's Cinderella story, but what about the emergence of Fernando Verdasco, Giant Killer? Or the near upset-of-the-year-even-though-it's-only-January of Roger Federer at the hands of Tomas Berdych? Plenty happened that made us gasp, cheer, tear up, and yell (and no, I'm not referring to the ESPN commentary).
Keeping all of this in mind, I'd like you to now share your AO impressions. It's likely that the next couple of days' events will alter whatever you're feeling at the moment, but please don't hold back because of that! We can always revisit this in next week's DC, if there's interest. So ... tell us:
- What are your picks for the the best and/or worst matches? (Include a sentence or two explaining why you've chosen each match.)
- What was the biggest shocker? Can be an isolated incident or a match result or an outfit ...
- What will you remember most about this year's AO?
Have fun!
(Reminder: Check out our TennisWorld > Real World Facebook group and make sure to join, if you haven't already. Current members - there are several new photos and discussion threads up, so take a few minutes to catch up on all the group's goings-on!)
Morning/evening all. We're into Day 12 of the Australian Open, and it feels odd that there's only one main-draw singles match to be played. Not that I'm complaining too much, because it starts at 8.30 a.m. where I live (in the UK), which means that last night was the first time in twelve days that I got a full night's sleep.
I noticed last night in the comments section the humorous suggestion (yet again) that the Crisis Center photos are in some way predictive of the outcome of matches - and in fact, though they are not intended to be, I believe I have a fairly good track record on that front, which may have something to do with the selection methods.
In general I prefer to spread around the picture glory during an event among as many players as possible, while choosing images that I think will appeal to fans. Thus I take no particular credit for Fernando Gonzalez' early shock defeat of Roger Federer at the 2007 TMC in Shanghai - Gonzo was simply looking rather photogenic (to my eyes) that day. In truth what tends to happen is that I am more confident that as the draw is whittled down I'll necessarily be using images of certain players later in tournaments, and unless there are notable incidents to picture, try to focus on others in the earlier stages, especially if they appear to be playing well.
And so it transpires that by this stage of the AO, there's only one player remaining in the men's draw whose image hasn't already appeared in these Crisis Centers. A complete coincidence, your honour. Besides, can I really post a picture of Fernando Verdasco and the cockade of his hair for the second time in 48 hours? What would that do to MrsSanta's early-morning sensibilities?
Just look at the size of that left arm next to the head.
I wish both players well in today's match, of course.
Have fun with the tennis, everyone. Please hold any off-topic chat until after it's over for the day.
-- Rosangel Valenti
by Pete Bodo
So, imagine for a moment that you are Elena Dementieva, ready to make your service toss at 3-6, 3-1, deuce. . .a critical game that you know you must hold if you want to sieze the momentum, perhaps even if you just want to stay in this match. It's the semifinals of the Australian Open - one of the four tournaments that comprise the Grand Slam, one of the four "majors" that have persistently eluded you, despite the glories in which you've cloaked yourself over a nine-year career.
You are, you know, most everyone's choice as the best player not to have won a Grand Slam - at least among those players who have accumulated enough of a history for that shortcoming to be noteworthy to the point of seeming an aberration.
So there you are, galloping 'Lena. You settle into your service stance, a position that, yet again, looks a little different to many of those watching, looks less like the utterly natural, critically comfortable product of a lifelong habit than something you've consciously chosen to emulate, and decided to make your own, much like that dance move you practiced before your bedroom mirror as a teen-ager on the night before a big dance.
You look up. The woman you see across the net is a full-figured girl in a pleasantly non-threatening blue dress, with a broad. chartreuse cloth - half headband, half dew-rag - binding back her dark tresses. Her dark skin seems almost to glow beneath that glaze of perspiration, and you can see the definition in her arms - those muscles that, were they on a guy, would cause onlookers to whisper, My god, look at those guns!
And while that cherished Grand Slam title has always eluded you, the quiet, imposing girl at the far end has earned 9, so far, and she's determined to get her tenth (something about her hoping to get "letters" or something out of that deal). A part of you had hoped she wouldn't be there, maybe even thought she might not end up there (when you allowed yourself such fantasies), opposite you, given her unpredictable nature and the way she's played so far in this tournament. She's ridden the ragged edge of risky tennis, at times seemingly indifferent tennis bordering on sulky, defensive, intransigent tennis. Yet once again, somehow, there she is, the WTA Grim Reaper, albeit carrying a Wilson racket instead of a gnarly staff, and wearing a chartreuse bandeau instead of a hood.
Why can't it be someone other than Serena Williams over there?
That ball suddenly feels like a lead shot in your hand and, since you have the soul of a track athlete, you almost wish you could just tuck the optic yellow ball under your chin, spin around a few times, and ooommph it over the net, into the service box. This is tennis, though, and you've got quite a checklist to go through as you get ready to toss the ball - keep the head up, arch the back, keep the wrist loose, etc. etc. It's complicated, all right, but let's be honest about this: the biggest complication of all is that person over - that Serena. . .
And as the checklist shrivels up in the heat and bursts into flames under the pressure, you hit a double fault (advantage, Miss Williams!) and then another (game, Miss Williams!), and just like that you've given up the only lead you've had, or are destined to have. The pressure is off. You can run again, although a part of you knows that running alone won't get the job done. You can smack two-handed backhands that pull you around, square-up to the net, and elicit ooooohs of admiration from the crowd, but that won't do it, either. It's demonstration time: you can still show everyone what you've got, the good stuff that has earned you a perfect record (thus far) for 2009, but when it comes to earning that first major, the chance is gone - snatched like a gaudy straw hat from your head by a fierce, hot wind.
It's hard not to feel for 'Lena, but then it's legitimate to ask whether someone with such a glaring flaw really ought to win a Grand Slam event. Given Dementieva's results since last summer, we had reason to think that she'd hurdled that final, hitherto omnipresent obstacle to ultimate success - the conquest of her nerves, the state of which has always been telegraphed to us by her service proficiency. The message she tapped out yesterday told us that we were wrong. It just took a player of Williamses stature to tease out the message.
After the match, Serena was asked what she "did better" today than in her previous and sometimes uninspired performances. She replied: "Well, I definitely served better. It's so important to serve well against her. She's a really good returner. I moved better and I was definitely more consistent and I kept my cool. . ."
While all of that is true, Serena's greatest virtue may have been the last quality she cited. She kept her cool. It was apparent from the start that Dementieva was jacked-up and jumpy, probably convinced that she had to do too much, too quickly, in order to beat Serena. It was a predictable dynamic, and one that Serena routinely relies on in her matches. To a greater extent than any woman player in recent memory, Serena has imposed herself on the game. Great players of the past - Martina Navratilova immediately comes to mind - have been no less intimidating to play, but it's always been the direct result of their form and recent results. The girls knew they would get waxed, because Martina has waxed the last 123 player's she's met - why should today be any different?
But it's different with Serena. Her opponents quake in their tennis boots simply because of who she is, and the extent to which she's shown that each day is a new day. That's usually good news for the aspiring upset-maker, but Serena has turned the cliche upside down: On any day, there a good chance that Serena will just get a notion to go out and. . . destroy you. The WTA exists in a state of this perpetual fear.
On each new day you face a sum total of experience, talent, determination, and skill that is as absolute as it is unpredictable, and unrelated to the previous day. This can be, as they say, stress-inducing. Sit back to sniff the wind and try to get a read on how she's playing that day and you may quickly find yourself running for cover. Attack too eagerly and you get shot to rags. I wonder how many women players have been taught, or told: Now, it's really important to get a good start against Serena. Keep her off balance. She hasn't been playing that great, so if you can get a good jump you can take control of the match. . .
Hahahahah!
My advice to a player going out to meet Serena would be: Go try to find a rock or something to hide under for a little while, then stick your head up slowly to take a look.
Seriously, though, I honestly think discretion is the better part of valor when you face Serena, although I completely understand the temptation to go out and swing from the heels - at least nobody is going to accuse you of hiding under a rock.
The interesting - and novel - element here is that any opponent of Serena's, in any match, knows that she is capable of . . . anything. And how do you adequately prepare for anything? The terms of engagement immediately put you in a defensive position, a place no player with even a soupcon of pride likes to be, and to which the almost reflexive response is aggression - a determination to take the game to Serena. The temptation when you face Serena must be to run right out of your sneakers, crank up the dial to the proverbial no. 11, take the game to her - and that's exactly how Serena lures her victims to their doom.
That cool you left behind? Guess who's got it?
And before you really figure out what's happened, you're up at the net for the handshake. Serena thanks you for the match, and if she wanted to be honest about it, she'd add: And here's your hat, m'am. . .
Hi everyone. There are many hours to go before the Day 12 singles action begins, but with the last thread stuffed full of comments, it's time for a new Crisis Center - I'm sure you'll all find plenty to talk about. Maybe before the singles begin some of you will find ways to watch the doubles final, involving the Williams sisters against Ai Sugiyama and Dani Hantuchova. I'll have a new Crisis Center ready to go once the men take the court for their second semifinal.
-- Rosangel Valenti
Hi all. We're open for business again, with two women's semifinals to come shortly - Elena Dementieva versus Serena Williams, followed by Vera Zvonareva versus Dinara Safina. The first of the men's semifinals, involving Andy Roddick and Roger Federer, is the first night match on Rod Laver Arena. Please keep this space for discussing the tennis, and hold any off-topic comments until it's over for the day.
As always, enjoy the tennis.
-- Rosangel Valenti
by Pete Bodo
Howdy, folks. I got home from DC late last night, after attending a memorial service and reception in honor of my late friend, Jim Range. This was one of those services that you wish would never end, it was so full of wonderful stories, laughter, tears, the whole nine. What can you say about a guy whose second-in-command at TRCP, George Cooper, said that working for and with Jim made him a. . . happier man? Not a wealthier, or more successful, or more powerful person, but a. . . happier man.
Jim was known for his, er, colorful language, and it was impossible to ignore that in the tributes to him - so here was this enormous tent (pitched at the Fletcher's Cove boathouse on the Potomac, one of Jim's haunts) filled with proper Washingtonians and their children of all ages getting an earful of Jim stories, which invariably contained Jim's salty language. A highlight: Senator Fred Thompson described how both of them were part of a group of Tennesseans who went to Washington "hoping to make a mark on the world, and hoping to do some good." He said that while all of these fellows from the hills and hollers were lawyers, Jim was the only one who ended up representing only people he. . . liked. And when the Senator joked that if Jim had the Senator's agent, he could become the next Marlboro man, Jim immediately replied, "How about I take your agent - but also keep my anonymity?"
On the way back from the capital, I checked my Blackberry and learned that Andy Roddick had advanced with a win over Novak Djokovic, and will meet Roger Federer in the Australian Open semis. It's funny, I always liked Roddick for some of the same reasons I loved my friend Jim Range. Each is, or was, a man who wears his emotions on his sleeve (that isn't a virtue, in and of itself; I've done my fair share of eye-rolling when some characters begin to share), tackles questions and issues head-on, speaks plainly and unequivocally, lacks pretense, has a sense of humor, and tends to engage others in a direct way. It's a generalization, and thus a little dangerous, but I think of these qualities, and the sum they produce, as distinctly "American," although the truth is probably that this type of man or woman is universal, but enjoys a more robust and favorable climate for success in the U.S.
It's a pity that the rivalry between Federer and Roddick is so one-sided. The most interesting thing about their relationship is that in the period before Rafael Nadal emerged as a world-class threat, Federer's superiority prevented Roddick from winning a few more majors. It's hard to be precise about these things, but every once in a while you get this situation. I shudder to think of how many more majors Ken Rosewall might have won had Rod Laver not been around to throttle him. And let's be honest about this - you don't think of Federer "overshadowing" Lleyton Hewitt, Marat Safin, Nikolay Davydenko or even Nadal, circa 2006, quite the same way as you think of him overshadowing. . . Andy Roddick.
That's partly because the contrast between the two players is compelling, and in a way that's even more sharply focused than the differences between Federer and Nadal. Not that I'm complaining about the rivalry we have - it's flat-out glorious. But Roddick-Federer seems laden with contrasts and associations, many of them quasi-cultural, that seem easier to articulate. And the difference between the two men seems to trigger our urge to judge or favor them based on what they represent to a deeper, if not more passionate, degree than does the contrast between Federer and Nadal.
Personally, I always felt that the northern European (Federer) vs. Mediterranean (Nadal) aspects of this generation's definitive rivalry are rich, but every time I comment on them I end up accused of stereotyping. The only thing that really bugs me about that criticism is that what might be called Fear of Stereotyping also leads to the destruction of any meaningful sense of diversity and, at least for me, it makes the rivalry less multi-layered. If we're all just unique atoms in a human cluster, our functional notion of diversity (and Lord knows we talk about it enough) is weak, redundant, and, ultimately, useless. If we're not representative, to some degree, there's no point in savoring or defining different views and approaches to life, even though letting the cart get ahead of the horse is a mistake none of us should make. That is, what a player represents should never overshadow his unique nature.
This, I think, is precisely the mistake many make with Roddick. The things he represents - the triumph of power over skill, the ascendancy of determination over talent, the conquest of artistry by self-belief coupled with that bane of all our existences, work. . . those victories somehow don't seem right. It's especially easy to go down this road if you look at tennis through the aesthetic rather than the athletic prism. For example, how often does a silver-medal winning high jumper get criticized for getting over the bar in his or her own way? Did the advent of the Fosbury Flop send track-and-field fans into a tizzy or, more appropriately, now that it's the universal approach to the high-jump, does anyone truly mourn the passing of the old, hurdling approach that all high jumpers once practiced?
One of the funny things about this is that most of the people who feel an antipathy toward Roddick seem to forget that all the triumphs listed above are, in fact, imaginary. Roddick's matches with Federer have, if anything, produced the opposite result in each category. This is one of the reasons that Roddick fans - and apologists, like me, although heaven knows Roddick doesn't need me to speak for him - are living in hardened bunkers. They sense something disingenuous and deeply unfair in the standard-issue complaints against Roddick; they're using this big, raw-boned, boyish kid as a canvas on which to paint their prejudices in colors that are deemed acceptable because of their intellectual context.
But where is it written that skill is a higher virtue than power (or a lower one, for that matter)? If you believe it is, you ought to try splitting a log with a scalpel instead of an axe. We all admire and appreciate talent, right? By contrast, determination is a dull virtue - an insidious field-leveler that, among other things, often leaves us wondering how so-and-so got to be Assistant Vice-President, while the vastly more creative and intelligent so-and-so is still stuck in the cubicle. Well, perhaps determination is, in and of itself, a talent - as evidenced by the fact that so many otherwise talented people don't have it. In fact, in many it's the missing link. If it were the missing link in Andy Roddick, he would have spent his career somewhere in the second 50.
And then there's this "work" thing, especially when it's positioned as antagonistic to artistry. Let me offer a context-appropriate definition of a good "artist": A person who manages to disguise the incredibly hard work that has gone into his or her creation by the particular way he's structured and presented that work. Or put it this way: does anyone doubt the extent of work that The Mighty Fed has put into his seemingly effortless game, and if he has indeed done that, is his work somehow superior to the work of Roddick, or has he just married it to his other talents to create a more satisfying - and seemingly work-free - product?
I have to 'fess up here; I'm a big work guy. And the harder, dirtier and more dangerous the work is, the more it fascinates me, which is why my motor vehicle of choice is America's ultimate symbol of hard, physical work, the pick-up truck. This makes me pre-disposed to appreciating a tennis player who obviously seems to be. . . working. I'm glad I never believed that TMF's artistry has been achieved too easily, or with work-avoiding shortcuts, and it's also why the players who least move me, no matter how bewitching their games or personalities, are those who seem lazy. I can think of very few successful people in any field (including manufacturing prose), whose status isn't partly the fruit of simply working harder than their counterparts. It's not very romantic, I know. But there it is.
Anyway, despite these issues, the towering fact is that Roger Federer has owned Roddick, through almost their entire history. I would expect that to have created a little more sympathy for Roddick, given that his nominal virtues have been trumped by those of TMF. At the most shallow level of the discussion, the skilled artist has subjugated the brute and determined worker. But it's hard to be an American these days (although easier since last Tuesday), especially if you appear to represent the qualities that seems stitched a little more conspicuously into the American soul, or are accorded greater value and respect in this nation.
By the way, I thought Roddick's presser was a gem - a pretty good window on not just what he thinks and why he feels that way, but on how he meets the world (although the mirror of the press room can be a lot like the one at the funhouse). And it's interesting to compare his comments with the ones TMF made just a few hours later, after his own big win. Actually, a comparison of the comments themselves is less interesting to me than the contrast between the way they're delivered by the respective men.
The thing that comes across most clearly to me is TMF's instinct to qualify what he says, his search for nuance and a form of speech that seems fundamentally diplomatic. Curiously, his most unequivocal statement is the speculation - only semi-solicited - that Novak Djokovic wouldn't have quit the match against Roddick if he were up instead of down by two sets. TMF has become quite skilled at surgical criticism. He may couch his thoughts in pauses, digressions, tangents (you can almost hear him beeping as he backs up from a comment) and verbal ticks born of ambivalence (and a desire to see all points of view), but they're just anesthetics he injects us with. In the end, he always gets his point across.
For example, let's look at the way the two men responded to basically the same question - how they feel about the rule allowing trainers on the court, and the effect it has on the momentum of the match. In Federer's presser, the question contained the observation that he himself eschews calling the trainer out.
Roger Federer: Yeah, I mean, it's a fine line, isn't it? We'll never find the perfect scenario for that. What shall I say? I never usually call the trainer. Exactly.
When I came out on the tour and I was young, back then the rule was different. You could take a toilet break any time you wanted except obviously between the two games you were on the court. So you could basically take it at 6 5 in the third set. So that's changed. Now you can only take them on set breaks, which I think really works out well now.
But then with the trainer, I guess it's a tough thing. I really felt when I was coming up the young players abused it, especially against a player like me. (They were) A little bit unsecure [sic] about finishing matches, you lose a set easy, and then you go to the toilet and call the trainer and strap your ankle.
Next thing you know, you're twenty minutes extra out on the court. Things go through your mind. Then once I got out on center court, you know, I guess I got the respect I deserved. People stop doing it against you. I think that's nice, in a way.
Probably on the outside courts it's still being abused at times. It's there to be used, so why not use it to give yourself a better chance to win? You don't fly to Australia to not give it your best shot.
I'm almost in favor to just say, you know what, if you're not fit enough, just get out of here. But if something really bad happens, okay, it is just unfortunate, I guess. It's a tough call. I mean, I don't know. I guess we'll speak about it and see what happens.
Now, here's Roddick's response to a similar question: A: I would disagree with it for if it's for - let me preface this so no one twists it: Everything Novak did today was well within his rights and the rules. It's simply about my opinion of a rule.
I don't think you should be able to [[get a massage?]], if you want to get something on a switchover for cramping [[presumably, salt tablets or some other ingestible aid]], I think that would be okay. Actually, one of the trainers came and talked to me afterwards, and he said his idea is. . . if you're going to take that (injury timeout) for cramping, (take) an extended break, make it a rule that you have to do it before your own serve. I thought that was a pretty well thought-out idea.
But as for physical condition, it's very easy to say, you know, it's one injury, but you can get rubbed for a cramp. I looked over and I was confused, because I thought it was one injury per timeout, and I saw a calf, a neck, and an arm. But I guess cramping is one condition.
There's obviously some wiggle room, a little bit of gray area there. Hopefully we'll be able to do something about it. I think the (suggestion) that you have to take it before your own serve, and if you don't want to do that then you concede the game until it is your serve, I think that's a good idea.
There are a few interesting elements at play here, starting with the fact Federer tends to de-emphasize the personal nature of his response (even though his reply is much more personal than Roddick's) by using the second-person singular pronoun "you" instead of "I". Federer tries to objectify himself, and the situation, while still making a pronounced point about how the rules have been onerous on him, and how he overcame that less by using grievance procedures than, well, opening up a can of whupa** on everyone.
Federer tends to speak in code. He seems torn between the urge to be diplomatic and show forbearance, and to understand all points of view (including that of a theoretical journeyman who flew all the way to Melbourne). Yet he clearly thinks the rule is being abused, and he's not about to let that go unnoticed. And let's not forget, the guy he's standing up for here is Andy Roddick, although the codebook some of you are using undoubtedly will suggest that what he's doing is trashing Djokovic and the entire hungry upstart gestalt.
By contrast, Roddick tackles the question in a straight-forward fashion, while taking pains to ensure that he's not directly insulting Djokovic. Roddick's focus is on the rule itself, and how it is applied. In this instance, I like the way Roddick handled the question, and while I don't believe it was Federer's best moment in a presser (nor was it his fight to wage on that given day), this is a pretty good (or is it extreme?) example of his tendency to speak in code, to rely on nuance and innuendo, but in a skilled way that doesn't give short shrift to to his own rights and grievances, and the authority he feels he's earned by virtue of being such a great champion. Reading his comments, you could almost be lulled into missing this almost comically un-Federerian quip: I'm almost in favor to just say, you know what, if you're not fit enough, just get out of here. Whoa, Roger!
What we see in Federer is the tension between the necessarily ego-centric world view of a man in his position, tugged at by his decent guy's attempt to be fair and understanding of all points of view. A lot of former champions (Jimmy Connors, anyone?) would just ask, "Why bother?"
I enjoy the contrast between these two players, and the fact that we're hard-pressed to call it a "rivalry" is a shame. I think Roddick, especially in his loose cannon moments - could bring out things that even Nadal can't in Federer. Those things could be dangerous to Roddick and others (we all know about playing with matches, right?), and I think the fact that Nadal, by virtue of his personality, can't tap into them is too bad. It's also one of Nadal's best weapons, but let's leave that for another time.
Hi everyone. Time for a fresh Crisis Center to start the evening session on Rod Laver Arena, where Rafael Nadal will play Gilles Simon. Please keep your comments focused on the tennis until after the match is over.
We've just finished watching the match between Fernando Verdasco and Jo-Wilfried Tsonga. Verdasco's imperious form today secured him the victory over four sets, and has also ensured that this year's Australian Open will have at least one new face in the men's final - the match between Nadal and Simon will determine whether that face will definitely belong to a Spaniard or to a bolter (I believe that's the Aussie term for the rather traditional appearance of an unexpected high-performer in the final). We already know that there will be at least one new face in the women's final: Serena Williams is the only former champion left in the draw, and none of the other contenders have previously reached the final here.
As always, enjoy the rest of the day's tennis.
-- Rosangel Valenti
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