To Witness The Beauty of a Sunset: The Awe-Inspiring Presence of Roger Federer
A non-tennis playing fan on euphoria, beauty and heartbreak
A Warping of Gravity
Let me begin with this paragraph from literary titan and avid tennis fan David Foster Wallace’s article, ‘Roger Federer as Religious Experience’ published in August 2006 (which I encourage all to read in full):
A top athlete’s beauty is next to impossible to describe directly. Or to evoke. Federer’s forehand is a great liquid whip, his backhand a one-hander that he can drive flat, load with topspin, or slice — the slice with such snap that the ball turns shapes in the air and skids on the grass to maybe ankle height. His serve has world-class pace and a degree of placement and variety no one else comes close to; the service motion is lithe and un-eccentric, distinctive (on TV) only in a certain eel-like all-body snap at the moment of impact.
His anticipation and court sense are otherworldly, and his footwork is the best in the game — as a child, he was also a soccer prodigy. All this is true, and yet none of it really explains anything or evokes the experience of watching this man play. Of witnessing, firsthand, the beauty and genius of his game. You more have to come at the aesthetic stuff obliquely, to talk around it, or — as Aquinas did with his own ineffable subject — to try to define it in terms of what it is not.
Immediately what is so astounding that 13 years on from these words, the play of Federer — who graces the court at 37 years old — has barely dimmed. That he remains a constant threat at the majors (except for the French Open which he has chosen to pass these last two years to keep his body tuned for the grass court season but will return to this year to, in his own words, ‘have some fun’), and on the tour itself (snuggled at №3 in the world ranking as of this writing) is testament to a talent and ability so singularly crystalised that it is both wildly staggering to exist in the first place and yet seems as natural and ever-present as the sun rising and setting each day.
Like listening to The Beatles, I can’t remember the first time I watched Federer play, instead it seems that he has been in my waking life always. Time barely a parameter to him. He has periodically, methodically, effortlessly shifted the trajectory of tennis while simultaneously adapting his game within the sport as each new iteration emerges, attempting to counter the great man’s legacy.
It is fair to say that he no longer stands alone — in the present — at the pinnacle of the sport, he merely resides there with Novak Djokovic and Rafael Nadal — a triumvirate that have dominated the sport since 2008. Or that after numerous stuttering starts the next generation of players now has the ability and fortitude to take over the sport and actually, you know, win some damn majors (we’ve been here many times before; best not count the chickens just yet).
Or the four years in the wilderness without a major win and the procession of injuries that threatened to derail this later, grand old phase of his career certainly created an element that time will eventually claim him ramped up its immediacy in the mind of tennis fans. Federer is in the gentle downslope of his gargantuan career, both in length and achievements, to the point that he’s increasingly facing opponents who are still in midst of idolising him like everyone else on the planet.
How does anyone reconcile that sort of feeling? A strange yet endearing sensation of seeing the future influenced by the past you have conjured, shaping so many that follow in your footsteps. A path that no one may ever touch, even if mere records may fall. The effect on the game that Federer continues to have, amazingly, stupendously, impossibly after all these years — like a star exerting its gravity to all parts of the tennis universe. It’s a seamless defiance of all that has come before. Made even more miraculous by the very real thought that he was close to fading away only a few years ago before rocketing back to winning majors, evolving his game, returning to number one in the world. He has been a constant, like gravity. Necessitating all else to adapt to it and yet never master it.
Poetry In Motion
A summer evening. Sunday. Fourth round of the Australian Open reaches a crescendo tonight, for Roger Federer will be making his first appearance in the evening session of the major. Rod Laver Arena is all a flutter. This is a moment that so many of us have wanted to see, juxtaposed with the professional, incomplete nature that faces Federer and that of his opponent, the young, rising Greek Stefanos Tsitsipas. For one of them, this is but another box to tick off towards a deep run in the second week of the tournament. Federer has done it an incalculable number of times that it must be like breathing for him by now. Tsitsipas is barely out of his teens and playing only the third major of his career as a professional. It is the first time I will see Federer play in person and my thoughts are erratic. A cognitive dissonance before I’ve even seen him in action.
The contrast is titanic. The outcome seemingly preordained. I saw it before me (for I am prone to getting ahead of myself). We’ve seen the upstart rise and fall before Federer many times. A privilege to simply share the court with the great man. A necessary, impressive clinic for the young man to experience on his way to further greatness (if such things are within his grasp). Few times has Federer been laid low by a player that was still crawling when the millennium came to pass. Tonight surely will test him, for he has proven himself to be beatable — irresistible and malleable though his play has been — but the result will be the Swiss maestro booking passage once more to the second week of a major slam.
The roof opened to glorious sunshine. People muttered about the brightness and hats were hastily retrieved from bags. I had my glasses. I was fine. I knew where Federer would emerge from, that’s all that mattered. Tsitsipas appeared first, and shortly after, Roger emerged into the sunlight. He could have had his eyes closed and know exactly where to go, so many times has he done that walk. From my vantage point, in the bleachers with my phone battery beginning to drain at an increasingly rapid rate, he struck me as so perfectly human. A man so complete in himself and yet who never takes for granted or dismisses the occasion and opponent in front of him.
I find myself drawn to yet another quote from Foster-Wallace in his essay — ‘ His movements are lithe rather than athletic. Like Ali, Jordan, Maradona, and Gretzky, he seems both less and more substantial than the men he faces.’ Unless you’re Nadal or Djokovic, facing Federer becomes the defining moment of a player’s career, whenever it happens to come around. It’s their final, the event is heightened, all of their focus floods into this narrow channel. It can go one of two ways, they either wilt or rise to the occasion. The scalp of Federer akin to hauling in a fantastical creature from beyond the deep. It must be seen to be believed.
And so the opponent puffs up, regardless of the eventuality of the outcome, and yet still — through his generous sportsmanship and unhurried demeanour — Federer elicits a waterfall of adoration and respect from his fellow players. It is a fascinating dichotomy, one that filters around the edges of each match he plays, including this one I attended.
Seeing Federer in action was illuminating and tactile. Vision narrowed to only him for a brief moment before zooming back out to take in the match entire. He belies his age with his movements and preternatural court sense. It becomes less an analytical perception and more the witnessing of a symphony through motion. One that’s refined and evolved over almost two decades. There was elation and substance in seeing him play in real life. Where Nadal churns up the court like a rampaging bull, and Djokovic employs a method of thermonuclear charged elasticity to rocket around the court, Federer just simply glides. Like an albatross. So completely at ease and in control is he when on the court. Fate barely reaches out to nudge him. But when it does, the whole world seems to be thrown off kilter.
To Face An Idol
The first set began strangely. Tsitsipas had a couple of time violations. Was almost broken multiple times in the first game. Federer already seemed imposing. The crowd sensed something was amiss. Would it be a quick exit for the young Greek? Or would he persevere. I contend that if Federer had broken Tsitsipas in that first game, the outcome would have been completely different. You play this match 100 times and Federer probably comes away with a win 95–97 times. Alas.
It was attrition mixed with fantastical, powerful play. Each time Federer would threaten to leap away, Tsitsipas latched on, remained. The Swiss wasn’t off his game, Tsitsipas had risen to the occasion, took strides. Went stroke for stroke. Watching Federer dispatch Tsitsipas on his service game was a virtuoso piece. Such command brought guffaws. At this age, he shouldn’t be so dominant. His first serve, a part of his game that had been bafflingly underrated — was too much for Tsitsipas. All was as it should be. And yet, Federer had not broken him. After an epic tie break that had me searching for a defibrillator with each serve, Federer finally prevailed, taking the opening set.
The second set was the counter. Tsitsipas must have found something in that first. He was matching his idol. Despite not seeing an ounce of struggle from Federer, he was in this match. Federer still went through his service game with ease, while Tsitsipas could barely escape his. Each one feeling like a chip in the armor would spiral into full disintegration. The strike back grew gradually, expectation remained that Federer would find a way through. He was looking like the player he’s always been. I kept my eyes on him. The way he moved and flourished, the backhands and cross court shots. It was like watching some grand piece of artwork come to life.
Tsitsipas remained though. Federer didn’t look flustered, nor inconvenienced. He was in a fight. He knew it, and the laser focus that belies his genial nature was in full effect. When Tsitsipas somehow made a run in the tiebreak to take the second set it came out of nowhere. I expected Federer to gain ground, overtake and succeed. Finally breaking the upstart who had shown so much poise, talent and energy. But it was one set all. I was still sure Federer had this. Shakily sure.
The third set was the wind out of the sails. The break point chances were less often. Federer’s service game wasn’t as ironclad, Tsitsipas had taken one off his great idol. Federer remained human and still the shots he played were astounding, thrilling, exhilarating. Reaching in, putting on a show, the great entertainer. Like Mozart or Houdini. Surely he would emerge in the third. Right?
Tsitsipas broke him. What? All of a sudden he took the third. Murmurs around the arena. Was he in ascendence? Was Federer on the ropes? He didn’t look like he was struggling. Old age? Not even close. The script was lost, how could it call for this? The future and present/past were at it in a titanic clash that was levitating the crowd to the point where immortality and mortality intersect. The weird in-between of uncertainty that excites in a way that only the unpredictability of sports can achieve.
Defeat can amplify what one has accomplished. When THE all time great loses, it throws their achievements into sharp focus. An appreciation that pulses outward at what we have been so lucky to witness throughout their career. Seeing a legend become human, temporarily vanquished is in itself a beautiful thing. For we have all lost in our life times. More than we have succeeded for most of us. But life is about enduring, to be there for the victories we do achieve.
It was 6 all again in the fourth. Another tie break loomed. The quality of tennis did not falter. I felt blessed to experience such a thing even though the aching feeling that Federer may not get out of this one seeped into my bones. Self-deluding with the after image of his past performances and flights of wondrous escape shaded my vision. My mind was refusing to believe reality because reality to it was not what was occuring in front of me. In saying all that, I was loving every minute of it. I was loving Federer’s magnificent play that stupefied the crowd. I was loving the energy in the arena. I was loving Tsitsipas’ unbridled and raw character and tenacity. I was loving seeing a hero in action.
Tsitsipas reached 6–5 in the tiebreak. How did we come to this? Still I held onto the notion of hope that Federer would find a way to regain even keel. Yet it was not to be. The Greek rocketed a crosscourt drive that Federer could only manage to strike into the net. It was inconceivably, inconsolably over. The crowd was in shock. Tsitsipas was in shock. Mcenroe was in shock. I was in shock. I’m pretty sure the only one that may have still had a semblance of sense about what had happened was Federer. Or it may just be my rose coloured viewing of what the man can comprehend. Federer didn’t lose this match either — despite being unable to convert any of the 12 break points — Tsitsipas won it.
Federer packed his bags and waved to the sad, loving crowd before walking into the darkness of the player’s entrance. A legend waylaid. It was emotional, for he is on the cusp of the sunset of his career and he may not return to this arena that bears the name of one of his idols ever again as a player. I was elated and exhausted, grateful and numb. It shouldn’t have been this way but it was. A few days later the gravity of the loss still remains. It could be my first and only time to ever watch him in person. It was more pronounced on the Thursday semi-final when Nadal crushed Tsitsipas in straight sets. It may have been the heat, the inexperience, the occasion, the fact that he hadn’t faced Nadal’s truly unique, weapons grade sort of game before that got Tsitsipas, but it was an anticlimactic end to this extended saga. The potential that was a Federer/Nadal match-up shadowing my thoughts as I watched the match live at Rod Laver arena.
It revealed a gaping hole in the tournament with Federer gone. A magic that can’t be replicated by the other players. The same goes for Serena for that matter. When you say Roger, people know immediately who you’re referring to. Like Lebron, Jordan or Messi. There’s no one else it could possibly be. The name warps emotional and perceptive gravity. Federer may have ceded the night to the next generation, but there was a feeling of it being only temporary. Even if this is to be his final year on the tour. The capability of winning another major remains. Rarely do the greats get to ride off beyond the horizon on their own terms — and regardless of how it eventuates for Roger, he will handle it with grace, beauty and respect that will reflect back on him by the adoring crowd and the players. The expectation and validation of his greatness in all facets of the game effortlessly met and secured.
