46 posts categorized "June 2010"
by Pete Bodo
It's the cruelest swing of all, in a game that can be full of them. One moment, you're up 5-4 and serving for the match at Wimbledon, where a single service break can be insurmountable. It's match point, but something goes awry and you fail to convert. Deuce. You lose the next point, and you're now down break point—one measly forehand error or double fault away from dead even. You've slid from the summit of achievement all the way down into the valley of despair.
Tomas Berdych found himself in just that position today, in the fourth set of his match against Roger Federer, the defending Wimbledon champion and six-time singles titlist. Worse yet, he then served up a fault on first serve. The world, or at least that portion fixated on tennis, held its collective breath. And Federer could provide them no reason to exhale. As the ball approached his powerful, quick-strike forehand, his knees locked up and he more or less waved at the ball, sending it on a leisurely trip into the net.
It was a telling moment, and don't for a moment think it had anything to do with the back or leg injuries that Federer cited in his subsequent press conferences. It wasn't his back that failed, and it wasn't his leg. It was his nerve. That's how it is when a great champion's determination and courage begin to ebb. And, like the proverbial cuckold, he's always the last to know.
True, it isn't as if converting that break point would have guaranteed Federer yet another back-from-the-brink win of the kind he managed in his first-round match with Alejandro Falla. And it's not like Federer has morphed from the greatest player of all time into chump-of-the-month. But that point represents Federer's present dilemma, and it will stand as a handy symbol for the price Federer has had to pay for emerging from that cocoon of invincibility in which he's lived so long.
For most of this year, Federer has—consciously or not—operated on the premise that when it really matters, he'd be able to summon up not just his A-game, but his A-desire. His A-appetite. His A-determination.
Not true. What he conjured up today, when he most needed to perform like a storybook hero, was his A-humanity. He's just like you and me. Only better at tennis. As he would say, after an unconvincing if healthy bout of excuse-making (turns out he was "unlucky" as well as hurt), "I definitely gave away this match, I feel."
The man Federer "gave" it to saw it a little differently. Berdych was reasonable in his assessment of Federer's post-match comments, suggesting without malice that Federer was just "looking for excuses." He dismissed the bad-luck motif, and told us that all this stuff about the back and whatnot was news to him—when he'd read the newspaper in the morning, Federer said he felt "fine," and pointed out that despite Berdych's win over him at Wimbledon, Federer won "pretty easy" the last time the men met there.
Neither Federer nor Berdych is given to trash-talking, and Berdych understands that a multiple Wimbledon champion and owner of 16 major titles is unlikely to pronounce himself unworthy of beating a guy who's only made the semifinals at one other Grand Slam event—a month ago in Paris. But it's also unlikely that Berdych is going to melt back into the tour woodwork, just another big guy with a big serve and equally menacing ground strokes who happened to come up with a hot hand when it most mattered.
Greg Couch, an AOL.com columnist, asked a pertinent question of Federer: Are these big, strapping guys taking your measure, do you need to do anything differently to combat the threat they represent? After all, Berdych, who's now 2-0 against Federer in 2010, as well as Robin Soderling, who blasted Federer out of the French Open in the quarterfinals (thereby ending TMF's Grand Slam semifinal streak at 23) are among the top performers this year (Soderling lost today to Rafael Nadal, albeit while suffering from an injury that was confirmed by a televised close up of his heavily taped foot during an injury timeout).
The way Berdych and Soderling have been playing is bound to resuscitate the "big men will rule" predictions that began when Marat Safin astonishingly belted his way to the U.S. Open title back at the dawn of the new millenium, and which Roger Federer, with assists from Rafael Nadal and the unreliable Safin himself, stopped dead in its ontological tracks. But now that Federer appears increasingly vulnerable, and Soderling and Berdych have shown themselves capable of beating both icons, it's bound to re-emerge—with a vengeance.
 Federer dismissed Couch's suggestion, saying, "Well, if I'm healthy I can handle those guys, you know. Obviously it's a pity that [Juan Martin] del Potro is not around, because I think he would have a run at world No. 1 or a run at another Grand Slam. It's unfortunate for him. But, you know, he's been playing well, and these guys do play very well. I played these guys 10 times. They're not going to reinvent themselves in a year, you know."
Funny that Federer should mention del Potro, who overwhelmed him in the U.S. Open final last September. Del Potro has been sidelined since the beginning of this year with a terrible wrist injury, and his return has been put off month after month. But put him in the company of Berdych, Soderling, and perhaps even Jo-Wilfried Tsonga, as a new wave of big men reviving an old theory. Perhaps Federer, in his signature passive-aggressive way, is not as oblivious to the big man theme as he made out. It's undeniable that in the last four Grand Slam events he's played, he's lost to one of the towering, physical players three times (on the fourth occasion, he beat Andy Murray for the Australian Open title in February).
Federer was talking about his sore back when he said, "It's just not nice when it doesn't go away and you can't play freely. That's what I was missing today." But it was not simply Federer's back that prevented him from assuming leadership in the match, and working his magic untrammeled. As he said a little later: "He [Berdych] played well when he had to. It was brutal for me. Every time he had a chance, he took it. On the break points—he played great on those. Then when I had chances early on, I was actually not too bad, I just felt like I got the unlucky bounce once in a while, you know. Thirty-all he got it on the line over and over again. I just felt like I couldn't create enough chances to really get the breakthrough. When I did have chances, I played poorly. It was just a frustrating match the way it all went."
With those words, Federer gave a fair description of exactly why it can be so hard to beat a big, powerful player who can lean on you, take your time away, irrespective of the state of your back, or leg. It's true on any fast surface, and particularly so here at Wimbledon. Sure, the courts have been slowed down, making life easier for ground-strokers and baseline players. But the impact on the serve has been less pronounced, and the serve remains a greater weapon on grass than any other surface.
So what of that critical swing at the end of the match, with Berdych going from match point up to break point down?
"I think it was one of my, like, toughest close up of a match when I was serving. I would say through all my career matches, this one was the toughest one to close up, this match against Roger, Centre Court in Wimbledon. But, you know, I handle it pretty well. I just closing up with my serve. I didn't lost it. And, you know, I mean, that's how it is. It was a really close match, about a few points. This day it just went on my side."
That's an honest and humble assessment from a man who made the round-trip from the peak to the valley and lived to tell about it. Luck had very little, if anything, to do with that exalted journey.
By Pete Bodo
Howdy. I was just over at Radio Wimbledon, chatting on air with the station's talented interviewer, Sam Lloyd. RW is one of the nicer features at Wimbledon; it's a very professionally run operation with a robust, expert staff. More than a million people listen via the Internet, and I like thinking that some kid in Mumbai, or Uzbekistan, is sitting there, daydreaming about Wimbledon - imaging what it must be like to be here, to watch Roger Federer or Serena Williams swing the stick. Yesterday was a remarkable day here at Wimbledon, and today could offer more of the same. Let's face it, three of the four matches are very close to pick-ems - the only quarterfinal prediction that would strain credulity would be Yen-Hsun Lu of Taiwan bouncing Novak Djokovic. This is a shame, because I really like everything about "Randy" Lu, starting with his ultra-clean game. Things were a little hectic after Lu took out Andy Roddick the other day, so I didn't catch his presser. It's a pity, because it was a gem.
Lu is 26, and has been a pro since 2001. Unfortunately, his father - the guiding hand in his tennis development - died right around the time he turned pro. "He was always planning which direction I should go," Lu remembered. "I should go to school or keep going professional? In the moment (I decided to go pro), he pass away. So I'm just upset that he didn't (share it) with me.That's why I'm just very sad about this. But today I think he's here and he also very happy for me. . . yeah." Lu's father was a chicken farmer, raising the animals for tablefare. "I can catch chicken," Lu revealed. "I can show you. Yeah, I'm serious. I can catch a chicken. It's very tough work. You work between 1 and 6 in the morning, because that time the chicken cannot run away because they cannot see." But Lu had no desire to follow in his father's footsteps in the barnyard, "I don't really like because it smelled so bad. It's tough work." In school, Lu was asked to choose an English name for his class in that tongue. He explained: "In Taiwan, it's difficult to pronounce my (proper) name. So the English teacher, they want us to get American-style name." For reasons Lu didn't disclose, he chose "Randy." At the time, he didn't know the meaning of the name when it's used as a common-slang noun (okay, consult your Urban Dictionary, folks), and when asked if he wanted to know, Lu said, "No, better not. . ." He smiled. He knows now. Given the frosty relations between China and Taiwan, I can see weeping and hear the gnashing of teeth - as well heads rolling - in the Chinese tennis development program, which hasn't produced a single male player of Lu's caliber. I don't see it as an embarrassment for China, but the way I see it doesn't count; it's how the Chinese see it.
The bitterness between tiny Taipei (aka the Republic of China) and giant China runs deep; in a capitulation to the Chinese, Wimbledon lists Lu as a native of Taipei (TPE), which is the Chinese name for the place the natives (including Lu) prefer to call Taiwan. Why Wimbledon would capitulate to the will of the Chinese on this I don't know, but will attempt to find out. Anyway, Novak the Entertainer is a prohibitive favorite in the match, but the way things have been going here that hardly means he's safe. Maybe Lu can pull off another upset, and celebrate with the chicken dance. He's on the run of a lifetime, and that always diminishes the significance of the form chart.
As Lu said the other day, trying to explain how he felt after surviving Roddick: "I make this result. I'm really proud myself to share this victory with him (my father) in the sky. I hope he see this match. So in that moment, I just sit and tell myself, I done it. I done for my father. I done for myself also.I done for all the people support me." Enjoy the tennis, feel free to post your comments on the action here.
 by Pete Bodo
Tsvetana Pironkova comes from Plovdiv in Bulgaria, a nation that has not a single grass court (although it sure has no shortage of consonants). It doesn't have a single tennis academy. Pironkova's father is a canoeing champion-slash-tennis coach, which is a little like being a shoemaker-slash-dentist.
Pironkova, ranked No. 82, lost in the first round in nine consecutive tournaments during one horrendous stumble in a generally dismal 2009 (she wasn't the only Wimbledon quarterfinalist who'd just as soon forget 2009; Kaia Kanepi crashed and burned in the starting blocks 11 consecutive times). And Pironkova had won exactly one match at Wimbledon before this year. But she never lost faith. As she said after her sensational upset of Venus Williams in the quarterfinals: "Wimbledon has always been, you know, like a religion to me."
Which sort of implies that Venus Williams is something like Athena, Buddha, the earth mother, Joan d'Arc and Oprah all rolled into one. That made no difference to Pironkova, for even the gods get a little tired of hurling all those thunderbolts and imposing their will on recalcitrant mortals. Pironkova capitalized on Venus' alarming inconsistency (the five-time Wimbledon champion won just 38 per cent of the points played from the baseline, and hit the same low number of aces as her opponent—three—while tossing in four more double faults for a total of five). Pironkova played solid tennis on the key points, which is all that was really required to topple Venus from her pedestal today. The biggest mistake she avoided was trying to play too well.
Pironkova's reverence for Wimbledon is no small thing. It's easy for many of us to forget that in more of the world than not, Wimbledon remains the mecca of tennis, often the only outpost of tennis with which people are even vaguely familiar. Whether Pironkova's reverence for this tournament played a role in her career-defining moment was a factor today can be debated, but the daunting nature of her mission—to play well here in London—can be established. She hadn't set foot on a grass court until she traveled to nearby Roehampton to play Wimbledon qualifying. It was so long ago that she doesn't even remember the year (she guessed 2005); she may be just 22, but as she told us today:
"I started [tennis] ever since I was a baby actually, because my father is a tennis coach. Maybe the first time I hit the ball I was around three years old, and later on I started to play more seriously. My first tournament I think I played when I was seven years old or something like that. That's pretty much it. My father is a coach. So I spent, you know, almost the whole of my life on the tennis court."
Trying to recall that first experience on grass at Roehampton, she said: "Back then, I thought, Wow, it's impossible. How can I play on this surface? But with every match that I play on grass I feel better and better."
All those hours spent entrenched on whatever baseline was handy back in Plovdiv, and her expanding portfolio on grass, paid off for Pironkova today—a day with a double-barreled surprise for the pundits. While Pironkova stood her ground against Venus, Kim Clijsters went to pieces against a young lady who knows a thing or two about melting down herself, Vera Zvonareva. Clijsters' collapse—although "paralysis" would be a better word to describe her general demeanor in the decisive third set—was especially shocking in light of how well she had played yesterday while wrecking her countrywoman, Justine Henin.
But never mind about that. Clijsters and even Zvonareva are known quantities, each in her own way a flawed competitor to this point in her career. Pironkova, though, is relatively unknown, through no fault of ours. She was refreshingly direct and clear-headed in her press conference. She said of her win, "Well, I didn't have a particular strategy against her. I just tried to play my game, which is like move her as much as possible. I tried to put my first serve as much as I could in the court. Yeah, I think I also did a very good defense. Well, I cannot say what surprised me. But I think it was quicker than I thought. Winning 6-2, 6-3, it was the biggest surprise for me. I expected like a longer match."
So did Venus. But give the older of the Williams sisters credit for how she handled this disaster, if not for how she played. She was forthcoming and humble during the post mortems; there was no trace of the familiar opacity despite the magnitude of her hurt.
"It's very disappointing," she said. "I felt like I played some players along the way who played really well. You know, I think she played really well, too, but maybe not as tough as my fourth round or my third round or even my second round. You know, to not be able to bring my best tennis today and to just make that many errors is disappointing in a match where I feel like, you know, I wasn't overpowered. I wasn't hit off the court or anything, where I just kind of let myself exit. So obviously I'm not pleased with this result, but I have to move on. What else can I do? Unless I have a time machine, which I don't."
Venus was particularly weak in the take-charge department. Pironkova is the kind of player who's expert at poking at the dog with a stick. She'll leave an opponent with a chance to take a fairly neutral, mid-court ball, daring her to do something with it, and trust in her own ability to retrieve or counter-punch. She lured Venus into going for too much—although the favorite's inability to produce even just enough was just as much a part of her undoing. Venus put it this way: "I just let it spiral and didn't get any balls in. I mean, I had a lot of opportunities and a lot of short balls. I just seemed to hit each one out."
She wasn't being coy; she made 29 unforced errors, to six by Pironkova.
Some losses—or wins, for that matter—are triumphs of technique. Others are propelled by emotions, intelligence, technique or strategy. In which of those departments was Venus most lacking?
"All." After waiting for the sympathetic laughter to subside, she elaborated: "I didn't bring my best tennis today. And sometimes, like I said, you really have to live in the moment. I got too caught up in the mistakes I was making instead of just letting it go and moving on. I expect a lot from myself, especially at this tournament. When I missed a few shots, I think I just kind of, you know, maybe was a little too hard on myself. Usually I stay, you know, for the most part, pretty positive."
By any standard, this was a most unusual quarterfinal day at Wimbledon; and here I was, expecting to focus on the journey taken by two fairly obscure players—Kaia Kanepi and Petra Kvitova—into the great unknown kingdom called Semis. As it turned out, neither of them embarked on the trip with a decent GPS. Kaia Kanepi blew a 4-0 third set and multiple match points to allow Kvitova to survive 8-6.
Kvitova was so transported by the challenge that she added a new phrase to the grunting lexicon. Upon winning any of a number of notionally "crucial" points in the final set, she turned to her coach in the player's box and uttered a short, sharp squeal - as if she had just seen a mouse, but had no stool to leap upon to escape.
 All this means that either Zvonareva or Pironkova will play her first Grand Slam final come Saturday. And on Thursday, Kvitova will have to look across the net at Serena Williams, a cat with considerably sharper, larger claws. Still, Kvitova has a huge game; if she can find a heart to match, Serena will have her hands full. But I wouldn't count on it. Kvitova was asked in her press conference if she believes she can win, and she answered with a frank but not very confidence inspiring "No."
In some ways, Venus losing before she has to meet Serena might be liberating for the surviving Williams. After all, Serena need feel no conflict or stress about having to take part in another intra-family war. Nor does she have to peek at the draw to see how Venus is doing, which must always remind her of their unique, emotionally tricky situation. Did Venus think she made Serena's life any easier by losing today?
"Hopefully it makes everybody's life easier in the draw. . . maybe. But, you know, regardless, I hope that she can win."
Serena also chimed in on the subject, later: "No (it isn't a blessing). I obviously always want her to do well and want her to be right there."
No doubt about it, Serena towers over this reduced field of four. It's hard to see her leaving London an also-ran, but stranger things have happened. And that was just today.
by Pete BodoMornin', all. The second Tuesday at Wimbledon, the Grand Slam event that most scrupulously sticks to the SFD (Scheduling Fairness Doctrine, which mandates that all players compete with as close to equal rest as possible), is off-the-cliff day.
Monday, it's like the battle of Stalingrad, with all those intriguing and competitive fourth-round matches featuring both sexes playing out. You can almost hear the screams of agony and outrage, the bellows of courage and rallying cries. Bodies blow up (just ask Andy Roddick) left and right, chaos stretches from Henman Hill all the way to Court no. 2. Then comes Tuesday. Women's quarterfinals. All four matches played in the exclusive confines of Centre or No. 1 Court. No men's singles, because the wounded are recuperating to fight again Wednesday.
Tuesday is a good day for ladies walking around in big floppy hats, their fleshy arms roasted pink by an unfamiliar sun. Proper gentlemen, including members of the All-England Club, escorting their wives, who emulate the Duchess of Kent, not, like the kids, Lady Gaga. Greasy-haired and pimply teen-agers in ghastly t-shirts and hip hugger jeans, frayed all around the edges down at their flip-flops. British youth have disheveled down to a science.
Sorry, but it's kind of dull on Tuesday. Er, did I say "Sorry?" Forgive me for adapting the protective coloration of the local species. Ever notice how the British have mastered the gallant, ineffably polite, utterly insincere, one word synonym for any number of sharper words or expressions, including. . . Whatever. . . .What's your problem?. . .Get out of my face . . . Goofball. . .Sometimes, you can imagine the thought bubble accompanying that crisply or enthusiastically rendered "sorry": Forgive me for failing to remember that it's your planet! The other night, I watched a guy in a restaurant complain about the cigarette smoke wafting in through the open, floor-to-ceiling windows, where a few slackers stood around on the sidewalk sucking down Rothmans. One of the kids took a half-step away and said, "Sorry." Then he grinned from ear-to-ear. Three women are blocking the narrow sidewalk as you walk up; at the last moment they part just enough to let you pass and sing out in unison, in a flirty, gay tone: Sorry!
A guy in an intersection drops his umbrella and looks up as you pass him by: Sorry! You think, What the hail are you apologizing to me for? That would be the pre-emptive "sorry." Just in case his dropping his brolly has cause you an inconvenience. But there are other sorrys, too. All kinds of sorrys, to cover all kinds of situations. I think if you inadvertently broke wind while walking down the street, you'd tease a sorry out of someone, even as you were so aflame with shame that you couldn't bring yourself to utter your own word of apology, which is really the one that's required. Instead, you get the sympathy or empathy "sorry." Sorry! Hate to be present to see you embarrass yourself! Which, come to think of it, is one of the nicer manifestations of the "sorry" obsession. It would certainly be less consoling if, instead of saying "sorry," the gentleman or lady said: My, what a pathetic, gross creature you are. . . Of course, that's exactly what he's thinking, but the "sorry" softens the blow and invites you to lie to yourself: Well, I guess that wasn't so bad. These folks sure are nice and polite, so maybe I'm over-reacting here. The only problem with that, of course, is that next time you might be more inclined to allow yourself a little lapse in manners, or judgment, either knowing you'll be forgiven, or at least not called out about it. But that's okay, the British love to be tolerant, and having the upper hand is a little like money in the "sorry" bank. When they turn you down for inappropriate dress, or some other consideration you seek, they can smile pleasantly. Sorry!
But on the whole, British have been very good about not taking advantage of their orgy of apologetic exclamations. Thankfully, this doesn't appear to be one of those slippery slopes, although it's slicker than it once was. If these folks weren't truly polite, down deep, they'd be barging into each other left and right, blowing smoke in each other's faces, knocking over little old ladies, belching on the bus, filling the air with the war cry of politesse, real or imagined: Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry! Remember, kiddies, you can do anything you like as long as you remember, when taken to task for it, to say, Sorry!
Okay, so today I'll be watching all four women's matches, but I'm planning on writing about the Kvitova vs. Kanepi match. You watch, this big, serve-and-volley capable Czech girl, Kvitova, has the game to win this whole thing.
Sorry!
by Pete Bodo
Lord knows the WTA branch of tennis has offered up no shortage of drama, palace intrigue, sniping, distractions and fashion statements in recent times. But today, in back-to-back matches, a quartet of Grand Slam champions declared detente and provided great competition instead of emotional crises, beatdowns rather than emotional meltdowns, a triumph of poise to go with the customary noise—the desperate, blood-curdling shriek of Maria Sharapova and the Amazon battle cry of Serena Williams.
Call it "no frills" day at Wimbledon; I'm surprised they weren't offering the WTA calendar at a 50 percent discount. Even the wardrobes were toned down. Justine Henin and Maria Sharapova looked positively chaste in plain, pure white; Kim Clijsters looked unconvincingly commercial with a patch sewn on her white dress above each breast (the one on the right seemed to hang over the edge of the fabric, as if were a sticker pasted on mommy by little Jada), and Serena couldn't resist complementing her pretty white dress with a seditious pair of red bloomers. Was this echo of the St. George's flag donned in commiseration with the host kingdom, whose World Cup squad was so badly drubbed yesterday?
And we saw a lot of those red bloomers today, as Serena launched one atomic serve after another, the white hem of her skirt boiling up around her waist like an angry surf. In this second of the ill-timed fourth-round encounters, a face-off between two Wimbledon champions (it followed the clash of the two most credible of Wimbledon wannnabes), Serena rained down 19 aces, to three for Maria, while hitting just five double faults—two fewer than Sharapova.
The ace-to-double-fault ratio is significant here, because this was that rare, welcome exercise: a WTA match in which the serve was accorded its rightful place at the apex of the pyramid, anchored in a base with strategy at one corner and execution at the other.
But the serving stats tell us very little about how well Sharapova actually served. Serena dominated the ace count, but Sharapova produced a bushel of unreturnables. The numbers also obscure the costly nature of those two more double faults Sharapova hit—both of them were in the excruciatingly close first set tiebreaker, and played a major role in its outcome (11-9, to Serena).
That surfeit of aces helps explain how Serena managed to win 84 percent of points played on her first serve (compared to a healthy 74 percent for Sharapova), but Serena's first-serve conversion rate of 68 percent was just five points better than Sharapova's. After that first-set tiebreaker, reporters could be forgiven for quaking in their boots at a prospect of another John Isner-Nicolas Mahut stalemate. It says a lot about this match that the comparison can be drawn.
"She (Serena) served extremely well, "Sharapova said. "Some of the best she (ever) served against me. And, yeah, I think today that was really the difference. You know, I had a few looks at her serve. But I think even when you had a good look and the ball's coming at you in the 120s, it's pretty tough to do much with it."
A few other service stats to digest: while Serena's fastest first serve (125 mph) was a hefty nine miles per hour better than Maria's, her second serve was, on average, just one mph faster (102), and Serena's first-serve average speed (113) was just three mph better than Sharapova's. They were tied for average speed of second serve at 96 mph.
Sharapova is one of the very few women who can stand toe-to-toe with Serena and take big cuts, letting chips fall where they may. The grass surface works to Sharapova's advantage, enhancing her strengths (precision, power, and even reach) while minimizing her liabilities (consistency and general movement). And Serena's superb serving seemed to lift Maria's own efficiency at the notch. As Sharapova said, "By serving so well, Serena makes you think that you really need to hold on to your service games. You know, I did a good job of that. Just not enough. I was going for it when I had my opportunities. Just fell a little short."
I wondered if Serena likes the challenge of facing an opponent who won't be cowed, and seems happy to play at the high-stakes poker table: Aggression-plus, meet aggression squared. But it was a discussion in which Serena had little interest. She said, "It doesn't matter (who I play). You just have to be ready for anyone and everyone. I don't really care who or what style I play, to be honest."
Well, there's no love lost between those two. At one time, the same could be said about Henin and Clijsters, although the Belgian rivals figured out along the way that is in their best interest to remain above it all and capitalize on the honor they've jointly brought to their tiny nation. A week after Wimbledon, Champagne Kimmy and The Sister of No Mercy will meet on home soil in an exhibition match that might shatter the record for the largest live audience to watch players of the same sex battle it out.
The last few matches between Henin and Clijsters have been expressionistic affairs, filled with mental anguish and emotional tension, error-fraught, almost lurid. If the confrontations in Brisbane and Miami (both of which ended 7-6 in the third) were painted, it would be by the ghost of Edvard Munch. It looked for a bit like we might be in for the customary chaos angst and woe. Clijsters, after having played in a semi-paralyzed state in the first set, won the second set by the same 6-2 score. I reached for an air sickness bag, but the expected turbulence never materialized. The women kept their emotions leashed and their groundstrokes dialed in, and Clijsters won it, 6-3 in the third.
This has to rank as a crushing blow to Henin, who has let everyone know that perhaps her main reason for coming out of a brief, premature retirement was the lure and challenge of winning Wimbledon. She thereby sparked a renewal of a familiar narrative that the only Grand Slam she hasn't won is the one to which her versatile, skill-based game and nimble feet are best suited. I embraced that theme as wholeheartedly as anyone, although lately I find myself rethinking that position. For Clijsters, mercifully free of anxieties, demonstrated the value of an aggressive, physical game played from on or inside the baseline.
Henin's problems were—and perhaps inevitably are—manifold on grass. There's that big wind-up, especially on the backhand side. There's that shortfall of pure power—Serena or Maria-grade power—that can earn you that welcome number of free or at least easy points. And there's that awful, critical lack of time that an aggressive player forces upon you. The single most striking symbol of some or all of the above was the number of times Henin was rushed, forced to hit her backhand while on the verge of falling over backward, or from a position so awkward that at times she looked more like a bumbling understudy trying to hit a backhand like Henin's, and making a hash of it.
It took Clijsters the entire first set to get her bearings, while Henin started fast and well. "I was just very overwhelmed by the speed of her game in the beginning," Clijsters admitted afterward. "She was just on top of every shot that I hit."
Finding room to operate on Clijsters’ forehand side, Henin pounded away at it—so much so that once Clijsters settled in and began to find her rhythm, Henin fed her such a steady diet of forehands that Clijsters got grooved, and more accurate and consistent as the match chugged along. By the mid-point of the third set, Clijsters had found her range and she pushed Henin way behind her baseline, thereby opening up the court for her own incursions. And by the end, Clijsters looked like a player with a skill-set, based on strength and mobility, better suited to grass courts.
With this match, Clijsters appears to have overturned the long-term status of her rivalry with Henin. It now looks like perhaps Clijsters is the one who "ought" to own a Wimbledon title, and she's open to that theory. When I raised the issue in the Clijsters' presser, she said:
"I've always had a lot of respect and admired Wimbledon as a tournament. But in the past, I've never had that same comfortable feeling out there as I did on hard court in America or the U.S. Open. I have to say since I've come back, I feel definitely a lot more comfortable. . . I definitely feel that I'm more at ease moving from side to side. Especially those first two steps forward on grass are extremely important, especially against Justine, because she has that slice that kind of drops dead a little bit. . .I really felt that on grass now I can really, yeah, just step up."
Or, if Clijsters was taking her first two steps forward, Henin was more inclined to take them sideways and admitted as much: "I wasn't moving forward enough, that's for sure."
 About that "drop dead" slice: It was nowhere in evidence today, which was the second of Henin's two greatest tactical mistakes (over-working Clijsters’ forehand being the first). She seemed willing to play the game on Clijsters' physical terms, and trying to manage instead of neutralize or even preempt her opponent's aggression by taking the game to her. All of which raises an interesting issue when it comes to Henin's coach, Carlos Rodriguez. Her steadfast mentor spent the match enthusiastically coaching Henin out of contention, which some will interpret as a satisfying form of poetic justice.
After all, coaching from the gallery is forbidden at Grand Slam events. And the impunity of Rodriguez's coaching activities was such that it was—rightly, I thought—much discussed by Lindsay Davenport, who's working as a color commentator for the BBC. At one point, Davenport said: "I believe in allowing on-court coaching. But if you have rules you ought to police them. The coaching has been very blatant, so you have to wonder, were the Wimbledon umpires told to ignore it?"
But let's focus on all the positives produced this day. Serena is imposing a welcome, much-needed sense of order and structure on the matches she plays. Clijsters has emerged to become the accidental contender. And Maria Sharapova seems headed for the lofty region she once occupied in the rankings.
"I was very happy that I got myself in the situation to win the match," Sharapova reflected. "I certainly could have done a little bit of better job in executing. You know, I can sit here and whine about that. But the fact that I gave myself a chance and I went out there and I'm feeling, you know, just really happy to be playing out there the way I want to play, and the way that makes me happy playing, uhm, it's a joy."
That too was a welcome if unexpected element on no frills day at Wimbledon.
 Mornin' from tropical London, folks. I rolled in last night and had a nice, late dinner at a local Italian joint with Rosangel, who picked me up at Heefrow. There was only one other couple in the restaurant, until Jeff Tarango and a couple of young kids came in and sat at the next table. I always have to chuckle when I see Jeff at Wimbledon (he does color commentary for Radio Wimbledon), given that he was once a pariah here, after playing the lead role one of the most bizarre and comical (to us, if not Jeff) controversies in recent Wimbledon history. That incident occurred in 1995, and the most striking thing about it was the way Benedicte Tarango, Jeff's wife (they've since divorced), strolled out onto the court and slapped chair umpire Bruno Rebeuh across the face. Not once, but twice. Rebeuh isn't seen in the umpire's chair very much anymore, and all I've heard recently is a rumor that he's the tournament director of a small event in France. Wouldn't it be a hoot if he hooked up with the hot-blooded and (presumably) single Benedicte?
Anyway, the tennis is starting here, and as you all know this is the best of all days at any Grand Slam event - the second Monday, when the event is awash in great match-ups and still intriguingly chaotic, as a dozen story lines struggle to emerge from the smoke and din of the battlefield. It's downright distracting; I'm watching Justine Henin battle Kim Clijsters as I type this (Henin is up 3-1, and playing like she means it), and also trying to keep an eye on Venus Williams and Roger Federer.
I expect I'll write the women today, and probably post some thoughts on one or more of the men's matches tomorrow morning.
Justine just called for the trainer. She appears to have a right elbow problem, but says she's alright, and said she's already taking medication for her shoulder. I like that you can hear the dialog, and wonder if the players are aware of it. Don't say anything nasty about Champagne Kimmy, Justine, unless you want to end up on YouTube. . . Justine seems to be finding her groove; that win over Nadia Petrova (see photo) was one of those over-the-hump matches that can really loosen up and energize the winner. Henin had every right to walk off the court after that one, thinking, Hey, I can do this. Piece of cake. And she's getting slaphappy now, expressing her exuberance right in Kim Clijsters face via a 5-2 lead. But you know the recent history of these two, so this is probably far, far, far from over.
Catch you all later. This is your Crisis Center post for today. -- Pete
by Bobby Chintapalli, Contributing Writer
If Serena Williams wins Wimbledon, I’ll remember Dominika Cibulkova’s smile. The way she was beaming during the handshake after her third-round match against Serena you’d think she won, maybe even served up a bagel along the way. (She lost 6-0, 7-5.) I can only guess what the smile was about, and I’m going with disbelief and relief. Disbelief that Serena served like that, relief that finally it was over.
I saw the stats before I saw the match. They showed that Serena served 20 aces. I was suspicious, because who does that? Not Lucie Hradecka, I knew; she served the most aces in one WTA match this year, but that was a mere 18 in a French Open first-round match against Alexandra Dulgheru (Hradecka lost). Not even Serena Williams, I thought; she served 17 in that I’m-awake-now-and-ready-to-play Australian Open quarterfinal win over Victoria Azarenka. To make things more perplexing the stats showed Serena served no double faults. (Incidentally the Wimbledon website’s match stats, which first showed 20 aces for Serena, now show 19; I counted 20. They also show 13 aces for Cibulkova, and that’s not close to true, by my count.)
I also read Serena’s presser before I watched the match, and her words suggested she had a good serving day, even by her standards. She wasn’t thrilled with her whole performance, but she was happy about the same thing that stood out in the stats: “Serving that well feels awesome… I wish I could serve like this every tournament.”
The only thing left to do was watch the match. And count. The aces were there all right, all 20 of them. Watching Serena in that match I didn’t think of those things I call her out for off the court, not even about that "strawberries and cream" tennis kit or those eye-popping nails. I thought about that all-powerful serve. What must it be like to possess a shovel you know can dig you out of almost any hole, and for your opponent to know it too? It was the most dominating WTA serving I’ve ever seen.
First Set (6-0, 6 aces)
The serveathon began as you’d expect – with Serena serving an ace, about as out wide as you could go. A point later she served another ace, about as down the middle as you could go. Six games and 18 minutes later, the first set was over. Cibulkova had won one point on Serena’s serve, and Serena had racked up six aces.
“As a player you just feel so helpless playing against a player like Serena when she’s playing this well,” said ESPN commentator Mary Joe Fernandez of Cibulkova. “It’s crossing her mind right now that this could be a love and love match.”
Second Set (7-5, 14 aces)
Things changed some in the second set though. Cibulkova showed she “packed a punch”, as Serena put it. She served better and went for her shots more. (Billie Jean King cautioned Serena that if an opponent gets bageled “you’ve got to expect them to really come out loose, like they have absolutely nothing to lose.”) Serena made a few more unforced errors and didn’t return serve as well.
But her serve never went away, not to Hawaii or anywhere. She served two aces in every game except one – in that one, she decided to serve four. By the end of the second set she’d served 14 more aces, taking her match total to 20. ESPN’s Mary Joe Fernandez and Dick Enberg couldn’t help but feel for the unwitting participant in Serena’s serving practice.
Enberg: “This is a heavyweight fighting a bantamweight.”
Fernandez: “My goodness – this doesn’t seem fair sometimes.”
Cibulkova, like Azarenka at the Australian Open, seemed calmer than you’d expect. She twirled her racquet, bounced around, prepared for every serve like she had a shot at it. If it was another ace, she walked quickly to the other side of the court and started her routine all over again. A few times she shrugged, threw her hands up or looked up at the sky or her box, but for the most part she seemed resigned to her fate.
After 20 Aces
After match point it was Serena who looked annoyed. She looked at her box and shook her head slightly. A few minutes after walking off the court she said, “I served well in the second, and that’s about all I did well. Hopefully I can keep serving well, but I have to play better than I did today.” Surely she’s thinking about the level of tennis she’ll need to summon for her fourth-round match against Maria Sharapova, the only former Wimbledon champion in the draw who’s not her sibling.
If Sharapova remembers one thing about this match – she’ll study it, won’t she? – it will be the 20 aces. They’ve taken Serena even higher on the ladies’ singles ace list. She now has 43 aces. That’s more than twice as many as Jarmila Groth, who’s in second place with 21, and more than Venus Williams, who served 18.
How does she do it? John McEnroe has commented that Serena practices her serve more than others do, in a way that others don’t. Maybe. And the serve seems too simple to be so effective, but is the simplicity the secret sauce? There are no long rituals beforehand, few retosses, hardly any moving parts. It’s toss, hit, ace… and, on a special day, repeat 20 times.
Hi all. On this Wmbledon middle Sunday please feel free to use this post to carry on discussing the tennis. Pete will be making his way across the Atlantic today, to cover the rest of the tournament onsite at the All England Club. I'll have a chance to catch up with him later when I meet him at Heathrow. -- Rosangel Valenti
Hi all. I'll keep this brief because a few computer glitches have already delayed its appearance. We should see another fine day in SW19. Andy Murray faces Gilles Simon last on Centre Court, and before then we'll get to see Serena Willians take on Dominika Cibulkova and Rafael Nadal versus Philipp Petzschner.
As always, enjoy today's tennis.-- Rosangel Valenti
By Jackie Roe, TW Social Director Evening, everyone! In just a little bit I'll get into the crazy week that was at the AELTC. But first, I wanted to thank so many of you for the thoughtful birthday wishes via e-mail, Facebook, and Twitter. It's weird, but I can't remember how I ever got along without you, my "tennis friends." When I first started posting here, I was someone who believed "real life" connections were far more substantive, meaningful, and true than online ones. I never imagined it wouldn't be so, never fathomed a relationship born on a blog (and rooted in tennis!) could offer so much gratification. And here I am now, realizing that in all the ways that really matter, they're the most fulfilling bonds I've forged in years. I'm really blessed to have you guys in my life - know that your presence is valued beyond measure.
Enough with the sappy stuff! *blows nose* It's time to talk Wimbledon. First up is a Suicide Pool update from TalkAboutTennis.com's Mariya. Note that she sent this to me last night, so this doesn't take into account today's action:
On the ladies' side, there were 46 people from the TWibe. The survival rate through Day 4 was pretty low, sadly; only 7 are through to Day 5!
"beautiful tennis" fan: Wickmayer - Zheng - Zvonareva - Azarenka
Bismarck: Kleybanova - Hantuchova - Petrova - Sharapova
cneblett: Flipkens - Rezai - Kirilenko - Pennetta
jbradhunter: Makarova - Rodionova - Kleybanova - Kanepi
Papo: Kleybanova - Pavlyuchenkova - Zvonareva - Pennetta
Peg: Groth - Errani - Kirilenko - Dulgheru
white line fever: Kulikova - Jovanovski - Petrova – Pennetta
The TWibe is faring better on the men's side. There were 48 TW participants in the men's pool and 16 are still alive at the end of Day 4:
"beautiful tennis" fan: Llodra - Bellucci - Kohlschreiber - Querrey
Beth: Hanescu - Petzschner - Kohlschreiber - Bellucci
Codge: Roddick - Isner - Monfils - Simon
Dave G: Llodra - Simon - Montanes - Bellucci
Gcatcee: Melzer - Simon - Kohlschreiber - Bellucci
GVGirl: Dent - A Beck - Hewitt – Bellucci
Jamaica Karen: Dent - Petzschner - - Kohlschreiber - Ferrer
Maedal: Fish - Benneteau - Lopez - Youzhny
Markic: Dent - A Beck -Brands - Petzshner
Mr. X: Llodra - Chardy - Hewitt - Bellucci
Musab: Lopez - Petzschner -Monfils - Querrey
Observer: Llodra - Simon - Melzer - Fognini
Sher: Davydenko - Tsonga - Kohlschreiber - Simon
Sokol: Melzer - A Beck - Monfils – Bellucci
White Line Fever: Kohlschreiber - A Beck - Monfils - Malisse
yello fuzzy: Lopez - A Beck - Hewitt - Querrey
Keep up the good work, TWibe. I hope we still see some of these names come next week's Deuce Club. (beth, you've rebounded nicely from your RG debacle!)
This week, I considered doing the usual - soliciting your favorite presser quotes from Week 1, fashion hits and misses, biggest upset, that kind of thing. But as I started to draw it up, I just kept coming back to how odd the tournament has been thus far. Federer escaping a first round loss by the skin of his teeth, the James Blake vs. Pam Shriver squabble, and of course, *that* match. What event surprised/shocked/unnerved you the most?
Rhetorical question, maybe. If you answer with anything other than the Isner-Mahut marathon, you're lying. We've talked about that record-shattering battle for days now, but I haven't seen very many "where were you when it happened" accounts, and you know me, I'm more interested in that than in match analyses. So let's use this space to share how we experienced the Isner-Mahut epic. Where were you? Were you watching, scoreboarding, or neither? How did you react to what was happening?
Here's my story:
Wednesday. I remember being late to check scores since I was having major computer issues that morning. When I finally did, I noticed the Isner-Mahut 5th was somewhere in the teens. Whoa! A few e-mails came in about it, including one that referenced Mahut's 24-22 victory just a few days earlier. I thought, "No way they're going to hit that, but boy, it'd be cool if Mahut could make it happen twice in the same tournament!"
Ha.
Right then I remembered I had an 11 AM meeting. Convinced the match would end any minute, I asked my friend (aka our resident Julien fangirl) if she wouldn't mind sending me e-mail updates while I was in the meeting. Just let me know when it ends, I told her. No e-mails. Well, none aside from "This may go on all day." Indeed, when I came out of the meeting, it was almost as if nothing had changed in that hour. The match was still as deadlocked as ever. Went to lunch with my co-worker Dominick, who also loves tennis (he was my Cincy partner-in-crime a couple of years ago). We couldn't focus on anything but the match, manically checking the live scores on my phone as we ate. Take bite of pizza - hit refresh - gasp at score. Repeat. Before the check came, I put my phone away, and Dominick yelled, "What are you doing?!", to which I responded, "Come on, you know we're going to go back and it'll be 47-all - you're not missing anything." I was half right; we were only missing one of the most historic matches of all time.
Back at the office, I was fixated on my scoreboard. At that point I decided to check out Twitter, and I was amazed by the amount of attention this match was getting. My feed filled up every 30 seconds with commentary, jokes, reactions, exclamation points. Yet there was no snark, no negativity, no raining on anyone's parade, as is wont to happen on Twitter. Everyone was just in delirious awe of what was happening. I felt lucky to be a part of that communal experience.
I started off the day rooting for Mahut, considering he'd already been to hell during that Bogdanovic match (I called the 24-22 score "obscene" over on Twitter ... more like child's play now), and because he was the one serving from behiind. Then as the hours passed, I cared increasingly less about who I wanted to win, or even if I wanted anyone to win at all. I could only feel admiration for these two warriors who were busting their behinds and giving all of themselves to a first round match on little court 18. How were they still doing this? Who knows. They just were.
And I was proud to be a tennis fan, too. I marveled at the sight of Mahut and Isner as the top trending topics on Twitter and was pleasantly surprised to receive e-mails from co-workers who had never before watched a tennis match in their lives. Finally, everyone was seeing what you and I have always known - that, in the words of Andy Murray, tennis is "one of the toughest sports in the world." If only it didn't take a basketball scoreline for people to realize that.
Thursday was a little anticlimactic, after Wednesday's drama. I pulled up the scoreboard again, prepared for a repeat performance. And then, in an instant (relative to the day before, anyway), it was over. Isner wins, Mahut loses. I guess I never wanted it to end.
I'll stop there and save the rest for the Comments. Now tell us your Isner-Mahut story. As always, feel free to go as OT as you please here. Have a wonderful weekend!
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