35 posts categorized "November 2010"
 by Pete Bodo
Hey, anybody know who won the final in that tournament in London over the weekend?
Seriously, though, Roger Federer's win over his nemesis Rafael Nadal this weekend brings with it a significant sense of "closure," at least to the tournament year in tennis. But, as I wrote in a post for ESPN, "closure" works better following an unexpected tragedy or bout in a court of law than in sports. So let's remember, there's still this little matter of the Davis Cup final coming over the weekend.
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Bad News for Davis Cup Reformers
The run-up to this Davis Cup final vividly demonstrates the significance of the tournament to all but the most transcendent of international stars, and it ought to resonate with those who cling to the idea, promoted mostly in the American Davis Cup-averse media, that the premier annual international team sports competition is passé, or of no interest to anyone not wearing a seersucker suit and straw boater.
When Novak Djokovic said the impending Davis Cup final in Belgrade (where Serbia will host France) was a distraction that prevented him from perhaps having the kind of World Tour Finals he would ordinarily hope for, you know that this "nobody really cares about Davis Cup" meme is somewhat threadbare. And guess what? The increasing number of emerging, top-quality players from nations other than the U.S. is only going to boost the luster of the competition.
Belgrade may not be a major tennis capital (yet) or media center, but if this final delivers what it promises, Djokovic may pull off a John McEnroe. When McEnroe arrived on the scene, Davis Cup was at low ebb in the U.S. He reinvigorated it, and it's safe to say he took the whole world with him. It was simply because he believed in the concept and credibility of Davis Cup. Also, McEnroe more or less shamed a number of his countrymen, including Vitas Gerulaitis and (briefly) Jimmy Connors into re-examining their indifference to the competition. So forget the problems of marketing Davis Cup, the so-called overloaded calendar, the trials of having to play a Davis Cup tie in the after glow of a major). The blunt truth is that top players—most top players—have the utmost respect for the competition and do their best to take part in it.
The Bureaucrat
While next weekend will belong to Djokovic, Janko Tipsarevic and company, this last one was all Federer's, although he did recognize his own supporting cast of two, even though neither man lifted a racket. After winning, Federer acknowledged the impact Paul Annacone has had on his results since they began working in earnest in June. Here's the exact quote from The Mighty Fed:
"I had to regain some confidence. That only comes through winning matches. After having somewhat of a disappointing clay season, Halle, Wimbledon stretch, where I wasn't able to win any tournaments and didn't play my best tennis, played a bit passive, it was important that I was able to pick up my game. I started moving better, started feeling well physically and mentally. I'm sure Paul has helped in this regard. So has Severin (Luthi). That's why I'm very happy with my team at this stage of the season."
This is typical Federer commentary, and it confirms the feeling that the guy could have a heckuva second career after tennis as something like a high-ranking UN official. Notice the baroque, elusive touches. "I'm sure Paul has helped. . ." not simply, "Paul really helped. . ." What exactly did he mean by "happy with my team at this stage of the season?" I thought the season was over. Note the patient stating of the obvious: "It was important that I was able to pick up my game." How about the nod to Severin Luthi (how many part-time coaches can one guy have)?
The instinct to spread around the credit and not give anyone too big—or small—a share, to not leave anyone out while also not admitting to over-reliance on anyone, is typical Federer and not all that different from the hard-working bureaucrat's mindset. And yes, I know that you could parse anyone's comments, delivered in a press conference, in a similar fashion. There's a lot of fat and grisle in most conversations. But TMF's is of a certain kind that I believe sheds a little light on his personality. I have to admit that this manner of speech and the thinking it implies leaves me a little cold, because, hail, it is cold.
I don't want to take credit away from Luthi; he's served Federer steadily if, to us, opaquely. That's fine. But from here it looks like the big change in Federer's attitude as well as certain aspects of Federer's game, owe to Annacone, the apostle of aggressive, "show your opponent that you're Roger Federer and he's not" tennis. Or, if you prefer something less blunt and more literal: "Play to your strengths." (As in, don't just bunt back some kind of return with your shotmaking arsenal.)
The rounded edges of Federer's speech can be explained various ways, starting with his talent for and presumed desire to avoid making waves. Note that Federer divulged no state secrets in praising Annacone and Luthi and contrast that to what we know about the working relationship between, say, Andy Roddick and Larry Stefanki, or even the late-career technical analyses freely offered by Andre Agassi, or even the obsession with the role of character in tennis so often indulged by Boris Becker.
Ironically, Federer's approach brings to mind something Becker once told me about Annacone's other iconic protégé, Sampras. I paraphase: Pete has a great talent for setting up walls that keep the rest of the world out and help him stay focused on his mission. You could say the same of Federer.
Three Things You Can't Avoid. . .
It's funny, but the news in tennis tends to come in bunches having a greater relation to the Grand Slam and Masters calendars than any other factor. That's because outifts like the ATP and WTA like to drop their big news items during moments when the eyes of the world are focused on tennis. Hence, it was a pretty big week for all kinds of news, resounding as well as ephemeral. Did you see that Serena Williams pulled out of Hopman Cup as well as the Australian Open? She's still recuperating from surgery and issued a heartfelt promise that she'd be back and "better than ever."
 Maybe, when she's fully healed, Serena could have a heart-to-heart with 40-year old Kimiko Date Kumm, who recently averred that she may not be able to compete in the next Asian games (she lost in the semis this year) because by then she'll be 44 years old. I'm just hoping Serena and her sister Venus Williams can stick around long enough to hit, say, 32. On the other hand, starting in their late 20s, players are basically hostages to the unpredictable master, injury.
Kimiko said she's been feeling the strain of top-grade WTA tennis in her 40-year-old body, and I say we need to immediately launch a Don't go, Kimiko! campaign. I'm not a sentimentalist who thinks players ought to quit while they're on top or near it. Play as long as you want and can, knowing that there are three things in life you can't avoid: death, taxes and the WTA or ATP ranking/entry system. That's something Serena will have to deal with as well, if and when she returns. She'll probably be out of the Top 10 by then.
Spouting off the Starboard Bow. . .
How about that tempest in a teapot in Wales, where the chief executive of Welsh Rugby Union got his shorts all in a bunch because the BBC stayed with that thrilling Andy Murray vs. Rafael Nadal match at the World Tour Finals. Because of the length of that match, viewers were denied the first seven minutes of a match between the Welsh and the All-Blacks (New Zealand). It's usually tennis advocates complaining about the lack of respect they get in the big picture, so while I sympathize with the Welsh, all I can say is: a food chain is not a pretty thing, try to live with it.
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Well, I'm already over my promised 1000 words, and I haven't even touched on the Aussie old guard, who are back in the news. John Newcombe called out 18-year-old Bernard Tomic for being in poor physical shape (while admitting he doesn't actually know what Tomic is—or isn't—doing, fitness-wise), and Tony Roche is back for another stint as Lleyton Hewitt's coach.
Let's leave the implications of those two items for the start of next year, when we'll be homing in on Melbourne and the Australian Open. For those of you who care, this is a spinoff of the News of the Day, which was a hard format to float because it appeared at random, and often dwelt on items (as does this piece) that are not exactly hot off the presses.
But this, or something like it, probably will become a regular feature at TennisWorld except during weeks when I'm traveling and providing on-site coverage. I'll try to keep to the word count, too. . .
by Hannah Wilks, TW Contributing Writer
On the protracted journey to North Greenwich this morning (London transport is laboring under major engineering works and facing a tube strike), almost every conversation I overhear is a discussion of Federer and Nadal. It makes me so pleased that on a weekend when the first Ashes test is underway, England have taken on South Africa at Twickenham, and the usual round of high-profile Premiership football clashes are on—Spurs v Liverpool being today's hot ticket—tennis can still fill the O2 arena.
It also makes me feel slightly ashamed of myself for not being more excited. As far as I'm concerned, the greatest rivalry in sport—as I understand we're now obligated to call it—reached its zenith at Wimbledon 2008 when Rafa carved out the heart of Roger's empire and more or less devoured it, and since then it's basically been one-way traffic. Rafa is the best player in the world right now, Roger has had one of the greatest careers; these things seem obvious to me. They don't even play each other that much—twice in 2009, and this their second meeting in 2010—meaning that their rivalry is mainly played out in records and statistics, and on their behalf in forums and blogs across the internet by their fans.
If I'm not excited though, I'm clearly the only one. The crowd applauds politely during the doubles final, a straight-sets victory for Daniel Nestor and Nenad Zimonjic; the trophy ceremony resembles a game of musical chairs as all four players acknowledge the end of old partnerships and the forming of new ones. It's good fun, but it's not what everyone's come for today.
Never has the O2 arena been so full of flags, Swiss and Spanish, and signs, some painstakingly-sewn and impressive, others scribbled in felt tip on what looks like scrap paper. The reach of the Federer signs is impressively global: 'Lugano Greets King Roger!', and more bafflingly, 'Namibia Loves Roger.' The Nadal supporters' signs read 'VAMOS RAFA' or simply 'RAFA!!!!', as if the man needs no introduction, just punctuation. It's a breathtakingly international crowd, too; in the past few days I've met people—not journalists, just fans—who have come from all over the world to be here. For every estuary voice which howls 'come on, Rog!', there's an 'allez Rafa!' or an authentic 'vamos!'
I've heard enough serious discussion of the crushing psychological blow that one opponent can inflict on the other by making him wait at the beginning of the match to note down how events turn out. This time, Federer manages to stay seated, visibly twiddling his thumbs, until after Nadal has got up to join him at net for the coin toss. It's either a minor miracle or a bold statement of dominance, but Nadal strikes back immediately by being substantially late in rising for play. In the chair, Mohammed Layani is already holding his head in both hands, like the mother of two squabbling siblings on a long car journey.
By the time the first three games have been played, it's obvious that we're not going to see any huge tactical surprises; nobody's come up with a masterstroke since the last time they played. Federer is going all-out aggressive, ending points quickly wherever possible; Nadal is trying to break down Federer's backhand. Not earth-shattering.
Stationary, Nadal looks squat and chunky across the net from the lithe Federer. That impression all but disappears once they both start to move. Nadal's feet scuttle across the baseline like a beetle; it's better to watch the unbelievable speed with which his racquet whips around his head as he delivers each forehand like a grenade. Despite that, it seems to have been all Federer so far, bounding on to every short ball like an eager puppy to smack a forehand winner. More impressively, his backhand doesn't seem to be leaking errors; indeed, more often that not he finishes a protracted exchange by finding an acute and unexpected angle off that side. The same shot gets him the first break, his fifth forehand winner the first set, 6-3. He hasn't lost a point on his first serve yet.
Federer is playing great. Nadal isn't, quite. Whether it's the remarkable speed with which Federer seizes his opportunities or not, the Spaniard looks a step slow, and his shots don't have the same penetration they did against Murray. Time and again his balls have been landing short and Federer isn't giving him a second chance at any of them. At the changeover, he sits miserably with his hands in his lap, looking between coach and umpire as if unsure who to expect a telling-off from first. His is the only long face in here; Maradona, Princess Eugenie, Thierry Henry all get big cheers from a happy crowd. Boris Johnson gets the biggest, proving once again that the fact that people in this city have the good sense to fill arenas for tennis doesn't mean they display the best judgement in all areas of their lives.
Nadal, inevitably, regroups. A return winner at 1-2 lets him fist-pump and strut, predatory for the first time, and he breaks on Federer's first significant forehand error. When Federer slips and falls in the next game trying to reach a bounce off the net cord, the Swiss is starting to look a little frantic and Nadal firmly in control. One weak service game and the set is gone.
The crowd at least are pleased about it; everyone would have felt short-changed if this one finished in straights. It feels almost like the match proper is starting now, and the rallies are growing ever more spectacular; the tennis that these two men can produce on pure instinct, playing on their veins, is breathtaking. Nadal is hitting much deeper than he was at the beginning of the match, but Federer's serve—after a brief vacation in the second set—is clicking beautifully, time and time again leaving Nadal stranded by the wide serve to the deuce court. He's still finding those angles off the backhand, giving him a toehold on Rafa's serve at 1-2 down. When that toehold becomes break point, the roar from the crowd is earsplitting. Lars Graff would have barked 'Please!' down the microphone as if having to restrain himself from adding 'stop embarrassing yourselves!'; Layani, on the other hand, milks the moment, drawing out the words 'aadvaantaaage Federer!' Federer manages to box Nadal into a corner until his attempted passer flies wide and consolidates the break despite alternating service winners and groundstroke errors, and is suddenly looking rather impregnable at 4-1. When he breaks again, the Federer fans are ecstatic and the Nadal fans are putting on their jackets. It's a cold day outside.
There's a slight oddness to the end of the match, as Federer's winning forehand looks out to seventy-five percent of the stadium. The fans sitting behind that line are the first to cheer, then as Nadal shakes his head and starts walking to the net, Federer is next. He's actually won, even if it's taken everyone a moment to realize it.
During his speech, Nadal's voice creaks with fatigue. In a possible Freudian slip, he thanks the crowd for their support 'in Wimbledon.' Federer quickly reiterates the mention of Wimbledon in his own victory speech. Deliberate or not, both of them know that the real battleground is elsewhere. This has been an extended trailer for Roger and Rafa, 2011; coming soon to a Slam near you.
Watching the confetti and camera flashes, I think about the significance of this victory. I'm starting to share some of Pete's skepticism about the format and implications of this event. Nadal may have been defeated, but no-one can deny it's been his year, and a rocky one for Federer by his lofty standards. I doubt that this defeat will impact Nadal for long; and I don''t know what Federer's victory can give him in terms of motivation and confidence for next year that the champion doesn't already possess. The Fedal numbers may have shifted a little, giving the hardcore fans fresh ammunition in their ongoing battles, but I'm not sure it means much more than that.
But it has been a week of great entertainment, of tennis that's encompassed the entire range from execrable to exceptional. It's given the ATP a chance to showcase their product, and London an opportunity to demonstrate another facet of its nature as a tennis city. On a personal level, it's been a week of staying up until 3 a.m., trying to find the right words for the best players in the world; a week when taking longhand notes during Nadal matches left my fingers blistered, and Djokovic's smile distracted me enough that I left my mobile phone in his press conference. (He didn't call.)
It may not quite be the 'fifth Slam' just yet—but it's been a bloody good week all the same.
by Hannah Wilks, TW Contributing Writer
The biggest challenge in writing about Rafael Nadal (apart from not letting my bitterness as an Andy Murray fan overwhelm me) is finding something new to say. It’s not just that his undeniable brilliance has already been heavily chronicled, as much as the fact that it’s very hard to avoid a certain mythologised persona, irresistible because it participates in the reality of the man. It’s difficult to see beyond the stereotype. It’s hard even to avoid certain words—raw, brutality, power. Before you know it, you’re using bodice-ripper phrases like powerful thighs and gleaming muscles and then there’s officially no help for you.
There’s one word that hovers in the air around Andy Murray. Slam. More than any other player I can think of, he’s defined by the lack of one. It’s the reason that he can’t really win today, or at this tournament for that matter. If he beats Nadal, he’ll only get asked why he can’t do it when it really matters, at Wimbledon this summer with the prospect of a Federer-less final waiting. If he doesn‘t, he’ll be a loser. It may seem logically impossible that someone with nothing to gain can have so much to lose. Welcome to the world of the British No. 1.
From the first point of the match when Nadal blasts an inside-out forehand winner, only for Murray to respond with his own forehand and an ace to hold serve, there’s a sense that this might be the one we’ve been waiting for, an epic contest to set the World Tour Finals alight at last. The arena has been filled every day by people hoping to see the promise of the event realized; the best in the world playing their best tennis against each other. Nadal has looked sharper with each match, shaking off whatever nominal rust was accumulated by skipping Paris. Murray has been at his best and his worst this week, but today he is playing, to paraphrase Carrie Bradshaw, like himself at his most fabulous; aggressive, striking out on his forehand with supreme confidence, thumping down ace after heavy ace. Using his groundstrokes like a crowbar to pry open the cracks in Nadal’s supreme defense, he works his way to the net to drop soft volleys into unreachable places on the court. It’s the game that the fans and media beg him to play on a more or less daily basis; intelligent, courageous, a sight to see.
Such an equal match-up has the effect of making me see Nadal in a different way after all. As commenters wiser and wittier than me have pointed out, when you tend to be rooting for Nadal’s opponents, it’s difficult not to view him as a larger-than-life automaton possessed of a preternatural ability to slough off multiple death blows and come back stronger, like the killer in a slasher movie. Not so tonight. When there is a kerfuffle at 4-5 with challenges and scoreboards, it displeases both the crowd and Nadal, at one in wanting things to be just so. A noise in the ceiling between first and second serves brings a double fault. With Murray seemingly intent on hitting winners past him at every opportunity, one is forced to accept Nadal as vulnerable, fallible. His concentration can be threatened, his invincible self-belief disrupted.
This only makes what he does in the tiebreak more remarkable. Murray fluffs a forehand down the line that would have given him the mini-break, then nets a defensive slice he should be able to make in his sleep. Once he gets to set point, Nadal is always in control of the rally; a backhand cross-court, a short ball down the line that leaves Murray floundering in no man’s land, and a volley that the world no. 1 is not about to miss. Game and set because one young man kept his head better than another. I think I preferred him as an invincible force of nature who was simply too good.
The spotlight now falls on Murray’s resilience and self-belief, or lack thereof. Surely, Nadal will steamroll from here, as he did to Berdych yesterday; capitalizing on the momentary floundering that comes from losing the tightest of tiebreaks. Once he gets the bit between his teeth, he’s unstoppable. When a net cord takes Murray’s ball wide, followed by a successful Hawkeye challenge from Nadal to get the point replayed, it’s impossible not to feel that events are conspiring against Murray. He plays his first tactically ill-advised drop-shot; he’s driven to his knees by Nadal’s forehand in the next game as the DJ, displaying a masterly sense of timing, plays ‘Sledgehammer’. It’s understandable; after the loss of the first set, I want to take to my bed in a darkened room for a week or so, and I‘m just watching.
But I’m not Andy Murray. Break point down, he hits a backhand cross-court winner and gives it a “c’mon”! At deuce, he opens up the court again as only he can and finishes it off with a drop-dead volley. Game point is his eleventh ace. He gets to 0-15 on Rafa’s serve at 3-3 when Rafa pushes an attacking forehand long. If a point on Rafa’s serve in the first set was an opportunity, right now it’s an offer Murray can’t refuse. A superb backhand winner gives him the break, his fifteenth ace consolidates. I cry aloud; we all do. A return winner gives him the set on Rafa’s serve and the match we‘ve been waiting for is going the distance.
There’s a moment, when Murray has 0-30 on Rafa’s serve at 0-1, when neither are playing as well as they have been. Both have an opportunity to seize the match. Two unforced errors, a drop-shot that bounces before it reaches the net, and that‘s it. You can’t give Rafael Nadal an opening and gamble that he won’t come up with something spectacular, because he will. He breaks with a return ace.
The point at deuce on Murray’s serve at 3-5 is the match in microcosm. A sequence of unbelievable shots and yet all it accomplishes is to highlight Nadal’s brilliance and tenacity. Little kids are already running down the stairs to wait courtside for the chance to get Nadal’s autograph, and I am mentally composing a biting epitaph for the match. Murray has won six more points, but all he’s done is give Nadal a nice work-out, buffing up those muscles until they shine with sweat, making sure he looks good for the final. Nadal will not let an advantage like serving for the match go.
He doesn’t. Murray takes it back, forcing errors and sealing it with an inexorable backhand down the line. The roar from the crowd when he takes it to a tiebreak shakes the stands, but it pales in comparison to the one when Murray goes 0-3 up with an ace and two gorgeous winners. This could really happen, I think. These are the matches that can leave careers forever changed.
Before you know it, Nadal’s beaming and raising his arms, telling us once again how many Slams Murray’s going to win. I don’t think I can be the only Murray fan who is tired of hearing those words from him under these circumstances.
Murray takes it like a man. His press conference is dignified, honest; he doesn’t shrink from the harsh realities. "It was a great match to finish the year. But I need to improve because I’m competing with the two best players of all time. So if I want to win these tournaments, I want to win the Grand Slams, I need to get better."
I’m back to my semantic conundrum. The word I keep finding to describe Nadal’s performance is ‘terrifying’. On his supposedly worst surface, against an opponent who’s capable of beating him playing at his absolute best, he still won. The narrowness of the margins merely emphasize his victory. If his opponent tomorrow and the rest of the ATP aren’t viewing 2011 with a serious dose of apprehension then they’re simply not paying attention.
As for Murray, he played about as well as he can play. He stretched Nadal to his limits and brought the tournament to life. He played one of the best matches of the year. He gave the 17,500 people inside the O2, as Mark Petchey tells us in Nadal’s post-match interview, a memory that they will never forget.
Great. What trophy does he get for that?
by Pete Bodo
Somehow, we might have known all along that it would come down to this: Rafael Nadal has one man to beat to win his first ATP tour championships, a title that has been won at least once by almost every iconic player who spent his entire career playing in the Open era. Oh, there are exceptions—Marat Safin and Mats Wilander prominent among them—but through thick and thin, despite lingering questions about the format and the validity of the results, the top players have supported this event and the very top ones have secured it more than once.
Nadal stands poised to join that elite company (although he's already numbered among them on the sheer strength of his resume) Sunday, and the last man standing in his way, in the last match of the year, is Roger Federer.
Surely you remember him? The "former world No. 1." The man whose lunch Nadal, the current No. 1, has so often snatched off his plate. The man who's fought a grand battle but has been unable to stop the Nadal onslaught, even in places where he was once thought impregnable. . . Wimbledon, the U.S. Open, the Australian Open. But there's still one fortress high up on the hill, one redoubt where Federer has sought and found refuge as well as distinction and confirmation of his ascendancy—the annual year-end championships.
Federer, 29, has won the tournament his 24-year-old nemesis has yet to master on four occasions, leaving him just one shy of the high-water mark established by Ivan Lendl and Pete Sampras. The latter bagged his fifth title at the year-end championships, now called the World Tour Finals, in 1999 when it was played in Hanover, Germany.
If you had to choose a place for Federer to make a last stand, it would be at the O2 Arena, the site of the World Tour Final. He's 33-7 in year-end championships (both round-robin and single-elimination matches), and is a perfect 4-0 this year, ripping through opponents, suffering not a hiccup thus far.
Nadal, by contrast, was a paltry 4-7 before this year's World Tour Final (now improved to 8-7, one match above .500). Most significant, he's lost twice in the semifinals to Federer in previous year-end championship meetings without winning a single set or even forcing a tiebreaker.
Although Nadal slashed and bolo-ed his way through three straight round-robin matches to land safely in the semis, he was almost cut down by Andy Murray. Nadal had to go into overtime, 7-6 (6) in the third and 3:11 on the clock before he emerged as a finalist. Battle-hardened or battle-rattled? Take your pick.
So what you have here is a classic confrontation between a player looking to cap one of the most glorious years of Open era tennis ever (Nadal is the first man since Open-era pioneer Rod Laver to win three consecutive Grand Slam titles in the same year) and one looking to salvage one in a big way. Federer won the only major where Nadal faltered this year (the Australian Open), but the value of bookend wins over Nadal in 2010 can't be lost on him. Federer is too great a player to be driven by some sort of "stop Nadal" impetus, but he's not so great as to ignore the value of the old saw, "Revenge is a dish best served cold." With no chance at regaining the year-end No. 1 ranking from Nadal, there's no doubt that whatever lies on the plate is, at best, at room temperature.
This role of spoiler is something new to Federer, and we don't really know how he'll react to it. He's played some glorious tennis this past week, but he's still shown fleeting signs of his greatest shortcoming over the past 12 months—the inability to lift his game at those crucial moments usually traveling under the name, "break point." The tale of match points squandered is one of the principal themes in the larger saga of Federer's fall from the peak of grace.
It's good to remember that Federer is like certain race horses. Give him his head, let him run free and unlimber those muscles and instincts, and he's hell on wheels. But crowd him, make him taste the bit or the crop, and it can be a slightly different story. Although Federer has come through plenty of perilous situations, the feeling remains that wars of attrition are not his forte. He can handle stiff competition alright; he's shown that time and again, in major after major. But at times it also seems to have an inhibiting influence on his genius, as if being harried by an opponent is a unpleasant distraction.
Nadal, by contrast, seems at times to relish the basic insecurity that defines a very tough match. He's hell on wheels in a very different sense, less interested in demonstrating his genius than on showing off his ability to overcome the most daunting of challenges with strength, stamina and determination. That's why he was, almost from get-go, such a problem for Federer—what larger challenge can any tennis player have imagined when Federer was at the peak of his game?
More than any other player, Nadal has shown a willingness to be thrown into the fire, seemingly just to discover whether he can find a way to escape getting burned to death. His kind of courage is more visceral and elemental, Federer's is more ethereal and abstract, in the sense that execution under pressure is still in the end a matter of technique, or the ability to play with impeccable technique while under mental and emotional stress.
So these two long-standing and starkly contrasting rivals meet again, and don't for a moment think that each time isn't different. Nadal has to be bouyed by the fact that after his dismal showing last year (sure, there were reasons for that, but it was dismal nonetheless), he's shown that he's capable of winning this event. Federer has to be encouraged by the way he's playing, which is like a guy on a busman's holiday, with the understanding that in the end he doesn't really have a whole lot to lose should he come second, no matter how much he has to gain with a win.
To some degree, though, the performance of both men this week has to be seen through the narrow lens of court surface. It's had an impact on how both men have fared. The court has been slow enough to offer Nadal the options he likes, vis a vis how far back he plays from the baseline, or how willing he is to engage in rallies, which for him can almost be defined as opportunities to turn defense into offense—to sting and hurt an opponent just when the poor guy is entitled to feel like he's making progress.
But the height of the bounce, a characteristic easily as significant as court speed (and related to it, but not quite as obviously as it may seem), will work in Federer's favor. If he can hit more backhands somewhere within instead of above his strike zone, he'll feel more confident in the rallies. And both the whiplash forehand and go-for-broke down-the-line backhand will get great penetration on this surface. The fact that the tournament is indoors also helps Federer, for he's more comfortable laboring in the lab, while Nadal seems to take great pleasure out of working in the field.
Lastly, Nadal is entitled to feel ambivalent about his need to win this event. A player can't face too many moments of reckoning in a given year, not if the concept is going to have real meaning. And Nadal faced a number of them already in 2010, starting at Roland Garros. Those of us who were there had no trouble accepting at face value the enormous sense of gratitude and relief Nadal showed and articulated when he proved that he could indeed come back from a difficult 12 months to win his most beloved major again. And then there was the U.S. Open, where he faced the challenge of completing his career Grand Slam.
It's hard to imagine Nadal feeling like this is a "must win" tournament, as much as you might argue that it is. And losing to Nadal is just as unlikely to send Federer into crisis. He's beyond that. Both men are entitled to go out there and give the ball a ride, just to see how things work out. And that, I think, tilts the scales to Federer, for nobody can put on a comparable demonstration of sheer shotmaking skill and versatility.
by Hannah Wilks, TW Contributing Writer
Sometimes you expect much more from a match than it delivers. This has been the case a lot this week, whether because of the weaknesses and flaws inherent in the round robin format or because sometimes it just happens that way. The strength of the ATP is so concentrated in its elite players that even among the top eight, a natural division has quickly emerged between the best and the rest. Three semi-finalists have already been settled, with the fourth to be determined by tonight's clash.
Surely this one won't disappoint. Two players from whom one never knows quite what to expect; Novak Djokovic, an unpredictable firecracker, prone to lapses of concentration and bizarre physical reversals, and Roddick, the workhorse who can be relied upon to give his all, but whose game can run the gamut from almost unbeatable to ineffectual.
Their head-to-head is 5-2 in Roddick's favour, which in theory looks one-sided, but most of those wins have come for the American during Djokovic's prolonged slump. I understand it's strange to use the word to describe the progress of a consistent trophy-lifter who has been, during his 'decline', as high as no. 2 in the world. But since Wimbledon 2008, Djokovic's game has touched for periods on every variant of toothless. His serve has been broken down and rebuilt, he's visibly struggled for confidence. He's often looked like a shadow of the cocky upstart who barged on to a world stage dominated by Federer and Nadal and demanded that they yield the floor.
But all of that has seemed like ancient history since Djokovic's September resurgence in New York, wher he defeated Federer and stretched Nadal in the final of the US Open. Surely this time he can take it to Roddick.
An extra frisson is added by the fact that at times these two don't seem to like each other very much. Whatever latent animosity exist came to the fore following Djokovic's last victory over Roddick at the 2008 US Open, when the Serb's attempts to retaliate against Roddick's mockery saw him booed by the New York crowds. That the spat was public seems inevitable, as both have well-deserved reputations for being entertainers, earned with Djokovic's impersonations and willingness to make fun of himself, Andy Roddick's sardonic wit in press conferences and on chat shows. They're frequently referred to as 'characters', actively seeking to be larger than life.
One thing that doesn't disappoint is Djokovic's entrance. Aware of the fact that the abiding impression he has made this week came when contact lens problems derailed what promised to be a classic encounter with Nadal, he takes the court accessorizing his grave expression with a rakish black eye patch. Solemnly letting the small mascot lead him to his chair, he fits the eyepatch on to her head and sends her on her way. It's possible to read the stunt as a plea for affection, but the twitch of his lips, betraying his own enjoyment, suggests that in the final analysis he did it because he knew he would relish the joke more than anyone. It's a generous piece of slapstick, and the crowd love it. It's hard to imagine Roddick doing the same thing.
There's an odd, tense atmosphere. The crowd are more well-oiled than usual, enthusiastic but ragged, with no consensus favorite. Someone yells out during Djokovic's service motion and is roundly tutted for his pains. On the evidence of the first few games, it's going to be a proper tussle - maybe not in terms of quality of tennis, but it promises to be a prolonged bout of psychological grappling. Roddick pushes from the baseline, mixing up spins and pace, giving the Serb all the rope he needs to hang himself. It works; the rallies end more often than not with an error from Djokovic. Seduced into these circuitous exchanges, Djokovic's aggressive instincts seem to desert him. It's puzzling; how can Djokovic be out-defended when he's so much better at it? The simple answer is that Roddick seems to bring out the worst in Djokovic.
But Djokovic has come a long way. He rapidly gathers himself and finds purpose and aggression. As soon as he starts hitting forehands moving forward into the court, everything is different. You expect Roddick to hold his ground, but as soon as he meets with resistance, he crumbles, giving up the first service break with a backhand slice that drifts wide. He holds the next game, but cannot find the wherewithal to finish points. At one point, he was obliged to wait for Djokovic's third defensive, desperate lob to get the miss. Roddick gives up the set - and I do mean gives up - with another unforced error long over the baseline, and we plunge deep into the realms of the anti-climactic.
Djokovic has qualified for the semi-finals, and he knows it. All that is left on the line for the American is pride. It seems like that should be enough, but he still cannot capitalise on the momentary lack of attention with which Djokovic starts the second set. In fact, it's the American who is lacking in intensity. The usual audible heavy breathing, the huffing and puffing like a steam engine which seems to get him around the court, is absent. After a failed Hawkeye challenge, Roddick stares at the umpire with obvious displeasure. The crowd cheers, hoping for Roddick to shed his patience and get fired up. But his unbelievably passive play continues. Roddick has had his health issues this year, but this seems almost a trend, and it's worrying. How can such an energetic and forceful person play so timidly?
One could also ask how someone as complex as Djokovic, with all the faults and fissures of his past, can play a game so miraculously smooth? I could watch him hit all night, not that Roddick seems likely to enable it. I've been searching for an image that describes the flight of his groundstrokes, when it comes to me; the limpid parabola of a stone skimmed across water. There's so much talent evident in every stroke. It's exciting to watch, simply because we don't know yet how his week, his year, his career, will turn out.
Roddick, it is plain, has no surprises left. He makes a gallant last stand to hold his final service game, but succumbs on yet another unforced error long over the baseline. He leaves London with no wins, but the crowd cheer him out of the arena with an affection that clearly demonstrates that Roddick is best-liked these days as a plucky loser.
Djokovic stays to chat, joking with the crowd, friendly and adrenaline-drunk. He's twenty-three years old and has proved he has the ability to stay in the mix; he has unnumbered chances left to shape the rest of his story. Roddick's opportunities are growing few and far between; his time in London has already run out.
 by Jackie Roe, TW Social Director
Evening, folks! Did you miss me last week? (Lie if you didn’t.) Thanks to Pete for the break, and TWibe, make sure to get your paws on his new book, Whitetail Nation.
So what did all of the stateside TWibers do to celebrate Thanksgiving?
My holiday was pretty low-key, as I spent the day connecting with loved ones (including a 4-hour Skype call with my sister . . . I guess we’re really thankful for each other!) and had a quiet dinner at home. Quiet but lavish; even vegetarians can pull off a heckuva Thanksgiving spread. Stuffing, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, roasted pumpkin, pumpkin pie . . . we didn’t miss the turkey for a second.
Did anyone brave the crowds and catch some good Black Friday deals today? (I saw a commercial for one door buster sale starting at 3 AM. Really? I’m not even asleep by 3 AM most nights. Come to think of it, that would’ve fit in my schedule perfectly.)
In last year’s Thanksgiving DC post, I wrote a “What I’m Thankful For” list, focusing on tennis and TW. I’m reprising it today, since it gives us a chance to step back from the debate, the snark, the frustration, and the frazzle, and simply reflect on how this sport has enriched our lives, however superficially. Here’s my light-hearted effort this year:
- Somehow pulling off trips to four tournaments this year—Indian Wells, Toronto, Cincy, U.S. Open—and having the time of my life at each
- The bonds I’ve forged with members of this wonderfully insane (insanely wonderful?) TW community, both online and in person
- The collegial, warm, harmonious Deuce Club atmosphere
- The absurd accessibility to players, journalists, and fans afforded to us via Twitter (actually, my love affair with Twitter has ended, but I still appreciate how it's transformed the tennis-following experience)
- Live streams!
- 70-68
- This stunning tribute to the women's game
- John Isner Tweeting about wrestling
- Those Basel pizza party photos
- Elena Dementieva
- Pros having just as much difficulty with contact lenses as me
- . . .
I could go on and on. Now it’s your turn. What are you thankful for as it relates to tennis and/or TW?
Have a fantastic weekend, guys!
 by Hannah Wilks, TennisWorld Contributing Writer
Numbers are a big part of any tennis fan's life, and there’s always a day at the year-end championship when the numbers take centre stage. Last year, Andy Murray was denied a place in the semifinals by an abstract mathematical calculation, a del Potro second-serve ace and a Hawkeye challenge; a matter of millimetres and the progress of the championships was altered. This year, Murray is ranked No. 5 and back at the O2 among the elite; del Potro, last year’s finalist, played six matches in 2010 and is currently ranked No. 262 due to the vagaries of injury. Sometimes numbers do tell the whole story.
It’s clear today that the organizers here at the ATP World Tour Finals have learned from the embarrassments of last year. Everywhere, the big screens flash group standings and qualification scenarios for the crowds; the media are handed briefing notes updating the latest outcomes and possibilities at regular intervals. Permutations and probabilities are bandied back and forth at the bar, on the stairs, in whispers inside the arena. It starts to feel like a drinking game (sponsored by Corona, of course)—Soderling took it to a tiebreak: two fingers! Murray won more than four games in a set: down in one!
As it turns out, however, everybody might as well have left their calculators at home, as the Group B progressions were settled by the simplest of eventualities; Roger Federer defeated Robin Soderling 7-6 (5), 6-3 in a majestic defensive display, leaving himself in solitary state as the first player to qualify for the semifinals. The Swede is eliminated from contention and heading home for the holidays, with the second semifinal spot to be decided between Andy Murray and David Ferrer. The consensus is that Murray has to win a set, or win a minimum of seven games in losing. It sounds simple, but when is anything with the Scot ever as straightforward as it should be?
It turns out you can’t even depend on Murray to be undependable. He starts off in woeful fashion by losing serve, but before anyone can hunker down for a long night, he recovers and doesn’t look back, winning not just the first set but the second to book his semifinal spot. David Ferrer leaves London without winning a match, Murray gets to experience a semifinal Saturday at the O2, and everyone’s left with rather an anticlimactic feeling.
But the most interesting numbers of the day for me are the ones that come up in the Bryan brothers’ press conference, after the twins have sealed their qualification for the semifinals by beating Lukas Dlouhy and Leander Paes in straight sets, afterwards being presented with the ATP fans’ favorite award. Their numbers in 2010 tell their own story: two Grand Slams, in Melbourne and New York. Their 600th match win in Delray Beach. The sixth time they have finished the year ranked No. 1. Their 62nd championship win in L.A., surpassing the all-time career titles record. Those are GOAT numbers, even if they have to be marginally qualified with the insertion of' 'team.'
Having accomplished all of this, there’s a sad inevitability to the main thrust of the questions—the health of the doubles game. Usually, it’s the aging of the viewer demographic that is the concern, not the participants. But the average age of the players in this year’s draw is 32, as opposed to 26 in the singles; the youngest player in the doubles draw is the 26-year-old Philipp Petzchner, a relative baby next to 39-year-old Dick Norman. The oldest player in the singles is Federer at 29 and the draw includes two 23-year-olds, Murray and Djokovic. A Bryan (I can’t tell them apart when they’re not holding their racquets) acknowledges the problem: These 20 guys are the same guys we’ve been playing against for the last 10 years. We’re all still at the top of the game. There aren’t a lot of guys breaking through. It’s being repopulated by singles players. It used to be the Top 50 guys used to have two or three singles players in it. Now it’s half and half.
Think about that for a minute. Then name, if you can, one successful doubles specialist who is under 25 and who promises much for the future. It’s easy to dismiss doubles, an attitude that I’ve been guilty of myself; it’s an opportunity to see more of your favourite singles players, perhaps, or a way to kill time while you’re waiting for some real action to begin. I’ve had the opportunity this week to watch the best playing the best, and yet until today, the most attention I’ve paid to the top seeds is to enjoy the slo-mo replay of Mike getting hit in the back of the head with Bob’s serve. Or possibly the other way around.
Doubles doesn’t just require discipline; it is a discipline. Jurgen Melzer, No. 11 in the world, teamed with a solid singles player in Petzchner, still found himself eliminated today by Mariusz Fyrstenberg and Marcin Matkowski. Nobody’s going to stop the latter team in the street, but they are masters of their sport and the specific skills it rewards. Power from the baseline can accomplish much, but it can still be rendered impotent by the cool head and practiced hands required to finish a point at the net. How different might today’s singles results have been had Robin Soderling had the split-second confidence to put away Federer’s high, floating ball?
It may all too often be treated as an encumbrance at worst, a consolation prize at best—not a lot of kids growing up wanting to be the best in the world in doubles, as even said best players admit—but if doubles as an end in itself dies, to be replaced by singles players supplementing their incomes and match play, something will be lost. Not just the particular skills of serve and volley, familiarity and precision at net, but a sport that rewards eccentricity and uniqueness, the coming together of two players that separately would have been very ordinary to become something greater than the sum of their parts.
Any commenter or commentator is familiar with those who lament tennis’ increasing homogeneity; they should watch more doubles. Yesterday, a day that saw public complaints from one singles player about the time his opponent was taking in order to be physically able to continue the match, I witnessed Max Miyrni bending down to the ground to chat to his partner Mahesh Bhupathi while he received medical attention, folding his angular limbs to put their heads close together. Their opponents, meanwhile, the soon-to-split Nestor and Zimonjic, were as far apart as two players could be, Nestor slumping in a chair shrouded in towels while Zimonjic took energetic practice swings at the far end of the court. Talk about the range of human experience. And today, I’m listening to two people I’ve often derided talk with warmth and a total lack of self-pity about the senescence of the sport they have dedicated their life to, the sport that has made them extraordinary.
That at least is one thing that the World Tour Finals has going for it, despite the occasional limpness of the round-robin format. I haven’t seen the arena less than two-thirds full for a doubles match this week; they’ve been cheered, slow-clapped, bemoaned, had their names chanted. There’s nothing like it, a Bryan says; when you have intros, smoke, lights, music, you have goosebumps … We feel like rock stars.
To be treated like stars one week out of fifty-two isn’t the best ratio, but for a team who have broken the greatest of records, it’s a lot better than none.
by Pete Bodo
While the ATP World Tour Finals at the Urch (the giant sea urchin, formally known as the O2 arena in London) have gone along swimmingly and may allow Roger Federer to make a major parting statement at the end of 2010, I've also been mulling over the status of the event—you know, wondering if this year-end "playoffs" featuring the "best against the best" is anywhere near its goal of ending the tennis year in roughly the same way that similar playoffs produce the most critical results in our other major sports. And if not, why not? After all, every player who qualified (the top eight ATP pros) is present, and that includes the iconic players of our time, Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal.
 The crowds at the O2 suggest that the event is an enormous success. But an event like this needs to transcend "local interest" if it's going to succeed at the highest level. And it seems to me that neither the media in general nor the world sports viewing audience is according the event the same degree of respect as the London fan base. In my two previous posts on the subject, I looked at some of the elements that have made the WTF a tough sell over the years.
The public seems wedded to the "four pillars" tradition, and values the Grand Slam events above all others. But the WTF, traveling under irritatingly and self-defeatingly different names and moving all around the globe like a dog trying to find the sweet spot on its cushion, has made the task of winning the hearts and minds of the sporting media and public harder for itself. Maybe that can't be changed. While nobody pooh-poohs Wimbledon or the Australian Open, Davis Cup has its detractors, and the WTF hasn't won over everyone either.
Playoffs shmayoffs. . . only majors matter, some think.
The final element in this puzzle of ill-fitting pieces is the format—the round-robin approach that, by about the third day of the event, leaves us glued to an abacus trying to figure out if a Tomas Berdych or Novak Djokovic won an adequate number of games to get to the semifinal stage. This necessary "tiebreaker" approach to qualification really dilutes the most basic concept in tennis—you win, you advance. You lose, you plop down in the player lounge and make small talk with Gavin Rossdale.
The round-robin format theoretically pits the best against the best, and nobody can duck anyone else. Nobody can complain about a bad draw, although the groups aren't always equally balanced. It sounds like the best of all worlds, except for two things: top players are not supposed to be playing each other left and right, for when every match is equally meaningful, every match is equally meaningless. When has a battle between Roger Federer and Andy Murray ever seemed so much like just another tennis match than yesterday?
I've always felt that the players know this, and so the loss of intensity and in some cases the diminished sense of occasion, is understandable. On the other hand, you still see some marvelous tennis, and are spared the disappointment of the person who bought his ticket weeks ago, hoping to see Federer, only to discover he's out of the tournament or not playing on the relevant day. So while the round-robin way is a tournament promoter's dream and a fan-friendly format, it surrenders a little of the gravitas you get in single-elimination tournaments when two top players meet, with survival on the line.
The round-robin also lacks the unpredictability and day-to-day potential for surprise and even shock of the kind that is a characteristic of almost every tournament, large or small. And because you know the schedule of the round-robin event, you eliminate the basic question: Can Berdych get by Cilic to get a shot at Rafa? Anything can happen in the course of a two-week major, and something very surprising almost always does. That just doesn't happen in a round robin, especially because through at least two rounds, everyone is pretty much guaranteed a chance to still qualify for the knockout semis.
For a while, back in the day when the WTF went by the name Grand Prix Masters and lived in New York, the field was expanded and altered to be a 16-man single-elimination event. It was a response to a genuine scandal in the 1980 event, in which Ivan Lendl appeared to put in a half-hearted effort against Jimmy Connors in his final round-robin match. The crafty, ultra-logical Lendl wanted to play Gene Mayer instead of Bjorn Borg in the semifnals (although the ploy worked well enough, Connors called Lendl a "chicken" and Borg ended up crushing Lendl in the final anyway). He was the kind of guy who, given the choice between the "smart" thing and the "right" thing, opted for the former.
I remember that I was bummed out by the switch, because the round-robin matches in Madison Garden were exceptionally competitive—you could see that most of the time, the players brought the appropriate level of intensity to their meetings. But remember, they, like the fans, were tennis starved and starting, rather than ending, the year. It was much easier for them to get motivated.
Round-robin events are easy to promote but not that easy to digest. The complicated system that determines qualifcation for the semis in many cases goes against the grain, as does the idea that you can lose a match and still end up winning the tournament. Round robins lack the clarity and definitive aspect of single elimination events, and I wonder if it wouldn't be easier on today's players if we returned to single-elimination, again.
Maybe the best reason to consider that option is the fact that this is not the Masters of yore, not the Masters of the glory years. And it's not just because that magical combination of Lendl, Borg, McEnroe, Connors and Vilas (a whole that exceeded the sum of its parts) are no longer with us. It's because the nature of the WTF has changed, in my opinion for the worse—at least in terms of this discussion.
Today, you have physically, mentally and emotionally fatigued players grinding out one final event at the end of a long, long year. And because of the "best vs. the best" format and the quality of the field, they're implicitly expected to dig deep into their reserves of stamina and motivation. I don't think they can, and in some cases probably don't want to, do it. Enough is enough, they seem to be saying, we'll do this, but don't expect miracles. . .
Regrettably, this is only apt to get worse next year, when the one-week break between Bercy and the WTF is eliminated. The development is not likely to help the drive to establish the WTF as the Ultra Major one bit.
Well, that's it for this series. I've shot my wad on the WTF, now I just think I'll sit back and enjoy the tennis, and the turkey. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
by Hannah Wilks.TW Contributing Writer
The World Tour Finals brings its own unique challenges, not least the round-robin format in which each victory, while crucial, still requires ratification by other results. Pride comes before pitfalls and even a defeat still holds out the possibility of redemption.
More than any other tournament, the World Tour Finals rewards the ability to pick oneself up and carry on. Today I decide to watch how the pros handle it when things don't go their way.
The first thing I see when I come to the O2 is Lukas Dlouhy, sweating and pale, mumbling volubly at the camera after his flubbed volley into the net costs him and his partner Leander Paes the first set against Wimbledon champions Jurgen Melzer and Philipp Petzchner. Dlouhy is clearly a fan of the inaudible monologue; Paes, on the other hand, stays theatrically frozen after his errors, pantomiming his disbelief.
On the other side of the net, their opponents err on the side of seriousness. Jurgen Melzer yells, swipes angrily at the air, hefts his racquet as if to throw it down. Philipp Petzchner hangs his head, trailing meekly around after Melzer, waiting for the fist-bump that absolves his latest error. They’re so open and earnest in their desire to win that when Petzchner lands the winning volley and it’s Melzer’s turn to walk to him for a hug, it’s impossible not to feel pleased for them.
If there is one thing—apart from a first serve—that Andy Murray is lacking today, in his critical battle with Roger Federer, it’s visible passion. His performance is woeful from the beginning, and I’m waiting for the convulsive clutching at his face, the angry berating of himself and his camp, the furious snatched punch at his racquet strings—everything that fuels the meme of the player who’s too negative to win. It doesn’t come. He just sighs after each unforced error, shoulders rising and settling in a weary exhale, and then gets on with it, his racquets all in one piece even if his game is in tatters.
As things go from bad to worse, he’s perfectly calm and I want to scream. I want him to yell, I want the smashed racquet; I want blood, sweat and tears—or at least two out of the three. Anything to get the blood flowing, get the feet moving—even getting the ball over the net would be a start. His calm persists even after a 6-4, 6-2 defeat. In his press conference, he’s matter-of-fact and dignified; challenged on his degree of intensity, he turns the question back on the press: "If I went out there and I smashed the racquet or started shouting, I’d come in and everyone would say to me, you were in a bad mood today, mentally you weren’t strong enough. . .I just tried to stay calm, tried to find a way, and it didn’t happen today."
In other words, sometimes it simply isn’t your day. Can it really be as straightforward as that? Federer seems to think so. He goes out of his way to remind the press of the contrast between this match and the last they played against each other in Shanghai, admitting his surprise at the ease of his win. "Tennis is not rocket science," he reminds the room. Anyone can have a bad day, he says with the vague complacency of those good enough to make their own luck.
How quickly things change in tennis. Murray was all but in the knockout stages after Sunday’s masterful performance against Soderling. Now we’re throwing around words like thrashed, crushed, dominated, and muttering mathematical permutations darkly to each other.
Soderling was down and out, fatigued and overhyped after his win in Paris; now he’s in with an excellent chance of repeating last year’s semi-final feat. The Swede, incongruously cartoon-bright in his acid yellow shirt, faces David Ferrer, the perennially-patronized Spaniard in a match that’s far more of a contest than Murray v Federer. It seems we’re still asking each other who Robin Soderling is and what he can do. David Ferrer carries no such questions with him on to the court. The limits of his abilities are known, implicit in the vaguely surprised tone that introduces him as a former finalist at the year-end championships; and the lack of reaction when he’s hit off the court testifies to the same truism that his ultimate fate is less in his hands than that of his opponents.
 The thing that draws the incoherent shout from Ferrer is the unforced error. The pounding power of Soderling, against which the Spaniard’s never-say-die attitude is no defense, does not frustrate. It motivates. At the worst moments, when Soderling batters his way to the net, leaving Ferrer stranded behind the baseline, the Spaniard simply raises his hands: What can I do? And at the best, when he finds the passing shot and guts out a marathon hold, the clenched fist says: Don’t feel sorry for me.
One can never tell from From Soderling’s body language that he’s playing beautifully. The Swede is wound as tightly as a clockwork soldier, and uncoils to swipe savagely at the ball. Ferrer has no answer for his pace and power, but the better Soderling plays, the angrier he seems; he stalks stiff-legged between points and addresses vituperative comments to his box.
When Ferrer’s indomitable defense momentarily puts the second set in doubt, Soderling gestures savagely as if to exclaim, You see!? I told you I couldn’t do it. And when Ferrer frays under the pressure of holding serve, handing Soderling a seemingly well-deserved victory, the Swede faces the crowd with the slightly guilty air of a child who’s been given something he hasn’t entirely earned.
Charged—slightly bafflingly—by Mark Petchey with defying the stereotype of the placid Scandinavian with his ‘Latin character’, he splutters, Really?! with the guilelessness of the dull. In his press conference, all dimples and diffident charm, he gives the lie to his dour reputation. Disarmingly modest, he defuses leading questions, casting himself in the familiar role of underdog against Federer’s pedigree. He’s already thinking about his next match, but I’m still occupied with the one that just finished.
I risk missing the last train to hang on for Ferrer’s press conference. If I was seeking illumination into his psyche, a better understanding of the process of picking oneself up after being outplayed, I’m sorely disappointed. He arrives texting on his Blackberry, answers questions in his soft voice, fingers curling contemplatively around his mouth. He did his best. Robin was better, he did his best, and he’ll do his utmost on Thursday, too.
"I fight everything. I fight, and with Andy too." He states it with the finality of an ultimate truth.
by Pete Bodo
If you watched all or even some of the match between Roger Federer and Andy Murray at The Urch today (admit it, the O2 arena looks like a giant sea urchin), any dreams you may have had of Murray ripping through the field at the ATP World Tour Finals now lie shattered into tiny pieces on that blue court. So much for the Braveheart narrative.
The good news is that while the blowout loss to Federer now puts Murray under considerable pressure in his group, a resurrection is not entirely out of the question.
The other day, I wrote about my ambivalence about the WTF and wondered why it has not quite become what the original game plan called for—the ultimate year-end championships that even casual tennis fans follow, much like casual fans of other sports follow their own version of the year-end championships. To most people who might tune in during Wimbledon or the Super Saturday trainwreck at the U.S. Open, the WTF is just another tournament, or so it would seem to me, based on mere anecdotal evidence.
One immediate reason that the WTF has failed to gain the amount of traction it's sought is timing. In the eyes of all but 31/12 (that's like 24/7, but over the year) tennis fans, tennis is largely a summer sport. The Australian Open has managed to carve out something of a "fantasy" niche, giving shivering fans in much of the U.S. and Europe hope that summer indeed will be back, hard as it may be to believe in late January. But largely, and partly because of the calendar slots of the three other majors, the interest in tennis is photo-periodic. That is, it peaks during the hours when the sun shines longest and strongest.
Still, that's only a small part of the equation. Let's remember that back when today's WTF final was played in New York, in January, it did garner a degree of attention and resonance that has yet to be duplicated. Granted, through most of those years (1977-89), the Australian Open was the end-of-the-year major. The "Grand Prix Masters" (as the WTF was then known) occupied a niche that has since been taken over by the Australian Open. Sure, it seemed a little weird to have what amounted to the year-end playoffs of any given year played at the start of the next year, but it worked. And New York-area fans, recuperating from the holidays and missing tennis, supported the event. The intense media interest (a sign of the times) helped make it a success as well.
Before we go into what happened next, let's address another component in the thus far failed strategy to make the the WTF something I called would call the "Ultra Major," much like the Super Bowl is the ultimate football bowl game. That's these crazy name changes.
At various times the event—and we won't even debate the wisdom of awarding title-sponsorship to an event of this magnitude, although it is done here and there in other sports—has been called the Grand Prix Masters, the ATP World Tour Championships and the Tennis Masters Cup. Which is it, fellas? It's not like Wimbledon has been variously known as The British Open (which it most certainly is), the UK Championships, the All-England Club Grass Court Finals or even the Throwdown in SW 19. And there isn't a more identifiable "brand" in tennis than Wimbledon. That ought to tell you something.
Anyway, what happened next was that the German tennis boom created by Boris Becker and Steffi Graf flooded the tennis market with Deutschemarks, and the ATP (among others) couldn't resist. The original concept that launched the WTF in 1970 called for the tournament to travel from one major city to another, annually. Tokyo, Barcelona, Boston and Stockholm were among the host sites. That lasted until the move to New York seven years later, when the allure of Madison Square Garden and the marketability of stars like Jimmy Connors, Arthur Ashe, Bjorn Borg and John McEnroe proved sponsor friendly.
Given the way the event took root in New York, the move to Germany (Frankfurt, then Hanover) seems like a short-sighted money grab. But it's also true that the New York event, what with the Australian Open becoming a late-January event and declining sponsor and fan interest in Gotham, had outlived its usefulness. The mistake, if it can be called that, was that absent a native German competitor, the necessary degree of support for the event was unsustainable. Still, the event was held in in Frankfurt for six years, and Hanover for another four.
By then, we had a real theme: the year-end championships was going to follow the money. If that sounds distasteful, keep in mind that tennis is a nomadic sport, and the ATP was doing pretty much the same thing the Great Plains Indians did as they followed the buffalo. Still, it might have been wiser for the ATP to narrow the options it would entertain, and develop a plan that was either nomadic or sedentary, but not both. After the German experiment, the ATP went nomadic again. The first ATP WTF after Hanover was in Lisbon; the next one in Sydney. Shanghai (2002) and Houston (2003 and 2004) then got in the mix before Shanghai won out and hosted the event from 2005 until the move to the present site, the Urch (London), in 2009.
Can a nomadic people adapt to a sedentary life? In general, not very successfully. Yet the sedentary life has proven to be the most viable in tennis, as the four majors and any number of successful Masters 1000 events can attest. These name and venue changes have all damaged the ambitions of the ATP. Is there a less identifiable "brand" in any sport than the official year-end playoffs of tennis?
There's hope. Perhaps the Urch will become the "new" Madison Square Garden for tennis, which would be a great coup and a positive development for tennis. And that's partly why I found this news about the longer off-season in tennis discouraging. If you notice, one of the extra weeks that will now make it a seven-week ATP off-season for the ATP was won at the expense of the WTF, because all the ATP did was eliminate the week of rest between Bercy, the final Masters 1000, and the WTF.
That the top players would sign off on this tells me that they don't really care all that much about the WTF. It's like they said, "Yeah, yeah, take away that season-extending week of rest; we just want to get out of Dodge." Can you imagine the reaction if the ATP had tried to wedge a Masters 1000 in the week before a Grand Slam event? This is nothing short of robbing Peter to pay Paul, the WTF being the "Peter" in this scenario.
Well, it's their tour. But don't blame me if, as 2011 winds down, support for the WTF among the top players begins to wane and we have a re-hash of all those past stories about the brutal schedule, injuries, the need for a longer off-season, etc. And the bigger long-term issue is how this might affect the promotion and success of the WTF. The tournament has gotten off to a great start—wasn't it great to see that crowded arena, with those roving searchlights (I keep thinking somebody stole a pocketbook and they called in the helicopters), and all the other trappings of what passes today for a magnum caliber sporting event?
The progress made by the move to the O2 is now seriously threatened by this change in the calendar, but this is business as usual if you look at the history of the WTF. I see only one way to break this pattern. First, settle on a name and stick with it. Then, get the players together and ask them if they want to develop the WTF into the Ultra Slam, or are content with the status quo. Until then, the ATP will continue spinning its wheels, and staging a year-end playoffs that can't deliver the same goods we get in comparable events in other sports.
P.S. Well, this is becoming something of a series, so I'll finish up tomorrow or Thursday with some thoughts on the format of the WTF.
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