After his victory over Federer in the men’s singles final, Andy Murray evaded John McEnroe’s question on whether he’d trade his gold medal for a grand slam triumph with as much deftness as he showed with the placement on his backhands on Sunday. He said something on these lines: “Now that I have this, I’d like to win the U.S. Open.” I am not suggesting here that Murray doesn’t value his gold medal. He was ecstatic with his performance in the final; the win clearly meant a lot to him—tears of despair from three weeks ago at Wimbledon were transformed into tears of joy. The emotions were real and Murray along with hordes of British fans will treasure this victory in the years to come.

An argument may even be made that though tennis made a return to the Olympics only in 1984 after a 60-year gap, with the top players now taking the event seriously it could become a genuine marquee event at the Games, but come Rio when the sport is back on the clay courts, I doubt it will generate as much interest as this past week at London did. Tennis needs not the occasion of an Olympics to generate interest, but a venue of importance. The Games on the other hand will retain significance regardless of which city is chosen as its host.

Yet, Murray’s victory is seminal not merely because a triumph in the sport’s most famous arena will add sheen to his achievements, but because it could set him on the path to carve out a legacy that he endeavours to create. Just as his victory in the Davis Cup Final in 2010 set Novak Djokovic onto one of tennis’ most remarkable winning streaks, Murray’s performance at the London Games could set the platform for greater success. For Murray it has never been a case of a lack of talent—before his Wimbledon final this year against Federer he held a winning head-to-head record against the Swiss. Yet he came a cropper every time he played Federer in a grand slam contest. At the Wimbledon final a few weeks back, he started the match with a bang, yet faded like a withering flower. Here, however, he was imperious, earning his first victory in a best of five sets match against Federer. The pressure of the occasion was unequivocal, but Murray stood steadfast; he swarmed Federer’s backhand wing with a focus that never wavered. He moved with exquisite precision and pummeled his groundstrokes with remarkable accuracy, angle and pace. When he’s at his best, Murray’s movement is peerless—none of the others in the top four possess the nous that he displays in covering the rectangle. But, apart from serving as a magnificent display of his talents, more importantly Murray, perhaps, proved to himself that he is capable of beating the best players on the big occasions (even though this was merely an illusory big occasion). After his heartbreaking defeat to Djokovic at the Australian Open semifinal earlier this year—a match in which he came close to toppling the Serb—I wondered, “If the rivalry at the top of men’s tennis could become even more implausibly grand.” I think now we may well be heralding a new era, one in which Murray will go into the latter stages of a grand slam as a genuine, unmistakable threat.

The first set went in Nadal’s favor, 6-4. The Spaniard could have been excused for thinking what all the hype about the unbeaten run was. He was outhitting Djokovic from the baseline, pushing him wider and wider on the backhand wing, and constantly opening up the angle for the down-the-line winner. Yes, it was a struggle, at times, but it was a struggle that he was used to, a struggle that had routinely helped him succeed in the past, a struggle that had seen him win 16 out of 23 matches against the Serb.

The second set saw Djokovic change both gears and tactics. He was unafraid of going for broke with his forehand, and he used his strong, double-handed backhand down the line—a stroke that he hits with remarkable pace and precision—to constantly push Nadal deeper and deeper into an abyss of uncertainty. Djokovic was able to use, perhaps, his most feared weapon, and direct it at Nadal’s achilees heel. He was blending caution and fearlessness with a hitherto unseen élan. He had his own serve broken once, but broke Nadal twice to take the second set 6-3. The third set saw the Serb take on an even more imperious air—he was recovering and placing balls with extraordinary accuracy from absurd angles. It was tennis at a different level, and it was a step too high for the world’s number one player.

The stage shifted to Miami, two weeks later. Again, Djokovic won in three. Madrid, on Rafa’s clay? Novak in two straight sets. Rome where Nadal had won the title six times? Djokovic in two easy ones. Could he do it in a grand slam final against Nadal, we wondered. We wouldn’t know at Roland Garros where Djokovic fell in the semifinal to an inspired Roger Federer, paving the way for Nadal to retain his championship. At Wimbledon then, in the hallowed grass, where Nadal was the defending champion? The answer: a resounding, authoritative yes.

Yet, this was no case of the vanquished having played poorly. Nadal was superb in the final, he’d have likely beaten any other opponent. He was striking the ball gloriously, finding angles that would have resulted in winners against anyone else. But Djokovic chased them all down; he was sliding on the grass like a skater on ice, twisting his body into weird, gymnastic shapes, and fighting and staying in every point before somehow finding either the room for a winner or forcing Nadal into an error. Djokovic’s excellence had now reached an otherworldly level. He had thrown down the gauntlet and how. This, you thought, was perfection, only there was even more to come from the Serb.

At the U.S. Open, Nadal would again face Djokovic in the final, this time a Djokovic who had defeated Federer in a truly epic five set semifinal, one in which he had saved two match points, the first with “The Shot.” The final was a punishing, beautiful affair—4 hours and 10 minutes of spellbinding, exquisite stroke-making. Nadal pummeled shot after shot with depth and topspin, Djokovic skidded across the blue, acrylic floor and returned with strokes of beguiling angle. It was nirvana for the neutral tennis fan. It was like you, as a viewer, were a part of the struggle. You couldn’t take your eyes of the ball; it was an exhausting, yet thoroughly mesmerizing spectacle. But for Nadal, who had not too long ago conquered the great Federer, this was decidedly cruel. He had, after all, been the best player in the world, perhaps, on all surfaces, between 2008 and 2010. He was still seemingly doing nothing wrong. He was playing as well as he could, hitting shots that would have been winners against any other opponent, yet Djokovic in lifting his tennis beyond earthly expectations was now untouchable.

How much longer could he sustain this, we wondered. Nadal did too, we’d imagine. Maybe the end of season break would shatter Djokovic’s resilience, and provide Nadal with time to make the tactical tweaks required to overcome his latest challenge. What could these tactical tweaks be? Was there anything that Nadal could seemingly improve?

The answer, oddly enough, would present itself in a grueling, psychologically crushing defeat that Nadal suffered at the Australian Open Final in January—his seventh in a row to Djokovic (the full match is available here, in case you’re interested). If we thought the final at Flushing Meadows in September was exhausting, this left us, the viewer, in a heap of pain. A tennis match that lasted for nearly 6 hours, a tennis match, which ebbed and flowed into a vibrant, entrancing theatrical performance. Djokovic lost the first set 5-7, only to take the second and the third with relative ease—relative only in the nature of the score-line. Nadal, we thought, was broken beyond redemption. Yet, he fought back, plugged away like the champion that he is, and took the fourth on a tiebreaker. The fifth saw Nadal get to within six points of victory, but Novak was more aggressive in the final phases, ever the anti-choker, as Siddhartha Vaidyanathan describes him in his latest piece. But even though Djokovic had triumphed, the match was indicative of a slight change in the tide.

Often, when we think of Nadal, we think of his biceps, his stamina, his power, his endurance, the sweat, the toil—all distinctively physical characteristics. But Nadal is more than his physical form. He is a master tactician—every shot that he plays is well thought out, every move that he makes is calculated. There is nothing chancy about his game. His strokes are placed with acuity, and he maneuvers the spin on his shots depending on the opponent and the surface. As, Tom Perrotta wrote in the WSJ: “Nadal’s consistency hides his often-brilliant tactics.”

Nadal was very quick to grasp that there were two essential elements of Djokovic’s game that were hurting him more than anything else—one being, the backhand down the line to his weaker wing, and the other, Djokovic’s return of serve. There was, though, at first viewing, nothing he could do to counter the Serb’s weapons.

Yet, perhaps on greater introspection, aided no doubt by his uncle and coach, Toni, Nadal realized that he needed to move away from his preferred serving areas. He has a tendency to serve to his right-handed opponent’s backhands—he almost always serves down the middle on the deuce court, for instance. At Roland Garros, this year, he apparently began each of his games in his first four matches with serves down the middle: extraordinarily predictable, but with the spin that he gets off the court, a tough serve to return effectively. But against Djokovic, this is a serve that rarely works. Novak has an amazing wing span that helps him not only reach the curved serve, but also return it with terrific depth and accuracy off his backhand, almost always right at Nadal, forcing him on to the defensive.

Craig O’Shannessy, who researches tennis strategy, pointed out in his review of the Australian Open final, that Nadal did, in fact, alter his serving strategy for the match. “His mix of serve location was better than usual,” O’Shannessy wrote. “On first serves, Nadal served out wide in both courts 39 times, at the body 41 times and down the middle to the ‘T’ 57 times.”

Nadal was broadly successful with his strategy–he came closer than he had in his previous six encounters to defeating Djokovic. Yet there were additional tweaks required, and these would be displayed, first in Monte Carlo and Rome, and then in the final at Roland Garros.

In Monte Carlo, as O’Shannessy said: “Nadal served much more to Djokovic’s forehand in this match and reaped the rewards of serving not where he prefers to serve but where Djokovic is not as deadly returning.” The key, though, was not just in the placement of the serve, but in that Nadal was able to use his forehand on the second shot a lot more. ““My serve worked very, very good,” he said. “Sure, I had a few free points with the serve. But most important thing, after the serve, I had the chance to go inside with my forehand a lot of times, so this makes a big difference, no?” he said after the match.

In the finals in Paris, Nadal showed a completely different dimension. Not only was he able to retain his new serving tactics against Djokovic, but he was also able to use his backhand far more effectively as a defensive weapon—he made only 23 unforced errors on the wing to Djokovic’s 37. O’Shannessy wrote: “[W]hen Nadal served, he was able to keep Djokovic away from his backhand far more effectively. Nadal served four times in the fourth set, and only hit 16 backhands in those four service games. That enabled him to use his sword a lot more when serving, where he hit 36 forehands for four winners and only one error.”

These may seem like minor tweaks, but when you’re used to serving predominantly to a right-hander’s backhand—particularly on the deuce court—making a change in the peak of your career is far from simple. But Nadal knew that to overcome his new challenge he had to work harder than, perhaps, he ever had, and force Djokovic to do things differently. And therein lies his greatness.

]]> http://www.criticaltwenties.in/sport/nadal-tweaks-tactics-to-overcome-the-djokovic-barrier/feed 5 http://www.criticaltwenties.in/sport/andy-murray-and-the-clutch-question http://www.criticaltwenties.in/sport/andy-murray-and-the-clutch-question#comments Thu, 02 Feb 2012 23:49:09 +0000 Suhrith http://www.criticaltwenties.in/?p=4509 Andy Murray isn’t an ethereally beautiful being. He doesn’t brim with flawlessness. His tennis doesn’t radiate with transcendence as it does for the triumvirate above him, each of whom seems to be abound with this crazy lust for perfection, and bizarrely enough appear to reach levels that are beyond realistic conceptions of what is attainable on a tennis court. Murray hasn’t, as we’ve been reminded each time he has taken to court, won a single Grand Slam title, in spite of reaching the semifinal or higher eight times. His contests with any of the top three in Grand Slams haven’t teemed with mythical undertones, as is the case when one of them faces someone from within their exalted club.

At least, these were the words I had planned on writing before Murray’s semifinal against Novak Djokovic last Friday. Not that any of this has changed since, but what Murray showed in the loss to Djokovic, in a contest that had everything one can hope to see in a tennis match – sweat, toil, pain, will, brilliance, drama, you name it – was that maybe we are set for an even more glorious order at the top of men’s tennis – one that will accord space for a narrative of far greater mythical proportions.

For a year now, Murray, obviously an immensely talented ball striker, endowed with an almost uncanny grasp of the geometry of a tennis court – I dare say, a facet of the game in which he is more gifted than any of the top three players – has stayed firmly rooted outside the oligarchy at the top; not so far outside it for him to take solace in the impossibility of the pursuit, but tantalizingly and cruelly close to it. Prior to this year’s Australian Open, Murray had reached, at least, the semifinal in six of the last eight grand slams, losing twice in the final, both times in Melbourne. It was clear that he belonged in the top four just as much as he didn’t in the top three. It must have been a brutal, lonely place to be.

Professional athletes devote almost all their formative years to a singular pursuit, as indeed Murray has to tennis for nearly all 24 years of his life. Murray and Djokovic played each other for the first time when they were both 13, at Les Petits, a match that Murray remembers winning 6-1, 6-0. A decade later, in the Australian Open final in 2011, a match that Murray went into, perhaps, on equal footing with Djokovic, the Serb trounced him in straight sets, 6-4, 6-2, 6-3. While Djokovic seemed to relish the occasion, Murray crumbled under the spotlight. This was clutch time, and Murray wasn’t up for it. It was his chance at greatness, and he had blown it. No doubt, Djokovic played astonishingly well, and would have, perhaps, defeated anybody on the day, but Murray’s implosion was inexplicable.

Since then – and prior to the ongoing Australian Open – Murray had lost to Nadal in the semifinals of the French Open, Wimbledon and the US Open. Apart from the first set of the Wimbledon semifinal, which he won by playing some inspired, attacking tennis that ran counter to his natural instincts, Murray has never quite looked like he has belonged in the company of the top three. He has been commandingly conquered on each occasion. Indeed much of this has to do with Djokovic and Nadal’s own brilliance, but the manner of the losses, when considering Murray’s talents mean that the intangibles have to be questioned – the supreme, untouchable mental fortitude that each of the top three brings to the tennis court that have seemed non-existent in the Scot.

It’s not that Murray can’t beat these players – he has shown several times in Master’s tournaments, and twice in Grand Slams (both times against Rafael Nadal) – that he is fully capable of defeating any of the top three, and that he can do so authoritatively. In the biggest stage, though, his lack of confidence has often exhibited itself as much as a state as it is a trait. This is not to say that he is incapable of overcoming any mental frailties, or that even a failure to do so would make him a lesser player, but until Friday’s semifinal, there was little to indicate that he would, in fact, play the opponent and not the occasion. But on Friday, Murray, for large periods, played as though the shackles had been broken, as though he finally believed in his abilities. At the end of the first set, which Djokovic won 6-3, it really did feel like déjà vu, and even more so when he went up 2-0 in the second set. In 2011, having lost the first set 4-6, Murray crumbled in the second, littering the set with unforced errors; there seemed to be an utter lack of purpose behind any of his stroke-play – forehands, limp and aimless, either found the net or went wide and long; his usually lethal backhand curiously went off-radar, and even his on-court movement took on a lethargic turn.

But this year in the phases that followed the early slip in the second set, he was imperious – there were long, punishing rallies that the Murray of last year may have found a way to lose, but here he stood steadfast, showcasing unbelievable defensive skills, and when the opportunity presented itself, an ability to finish the point with dazzling accuracy and purpose. He even threw in a majestic, Sampras-esque overhead for, good measure. There was a sudden burst of courage in his game plan – groundstrokes were struck with greater depth, and the drop shots, which appeared perfunctory last year, were executed with a precise purpose. Consider this point when Murray out-Djokoviced Djokovic, for instance, at 15-30, 3-4: in evidence was a splendid amalgam of razor sharp defensive skills – twenty strokes into the rally, Murray lunged on his backhand side to keep the ball in play with Gumby-like elasticity – and supreme on-court nous – by constantly varying the angles and the spin on his strokes – to force the Serb into submission. There was more of that in the third set too. In the tiebreak with Djokovic serving at 3-5, Murray produced a rally of astounding virtuosity, sending him from corner to corner before finishing with a roaring forehand into the open court. It was clear proof that Murray had the perceptible goods necessary to defeat Djokovic; his forehand, often considered his weakest stroke, was struck with fluidity, and he found improbable angles that put even Djokovic outside his comfort zone – the Serb, seemingly, can reach any ball, but when Murray landed his cross-court forehands within the service box, spinning away from the court, Djokovic struggled to reach them with enough time to make a meaningful return.

But after going two sets to one up, the familiar Murray-meltdown was back. This was his chance to impose himself on the occasion, but here he was collapsing, wayward with his groundstrokes, and even choosing to drive-volley when the overhead was the simpler option, and finding himself broken in the first game. Murray’s disintegration, unhappily for him, coincided with Djokovic finding his rhythm, and the next thing we knew, the defending champion was up 5-2 in the deciding set.

After somehow holding the next game, though, and with Djokovic serving for the match, Murray broke to love. It was beautiful, clinical tennis. Murray was showing that deep down inside him he had the ability to fight back against the world’s number one player in the fifth set of a Grand Slam semifinal – it was the intangible that for so long, we thought Murray lacked. Ultimately, Djokovic, astoundingly brilliant at 6-5 broke to win the contest, a gladiatorial battle that will go down as one of the finest matches of the year, but it wasn’t the final game where Murray had lost it. It was his inability to turn a supreme front-running position into a position of unassailable reach in the fourth set that cost him. It’s difficult to imagine that either Djokovic or Nadal would have played as poorly as Murray did in the set, but those aren’t the moments that Murray wants to remember from this match, for unlike his prior appearances in the final stages of a Grand Slam, here he showed the spunk for battle. It seemed he too – like Nadal, Federer and Djokovic – could summon a magical prowess when most needed. For all the frailties that he displayed, Murray had also made a mental step-up.

It was only a little over a year ago when it appeared there would be no challenging the Federer-Nadal duopoly at the top, but here we are, with one of sport’s greatest ever tri-valries. Murray on Friday, whether it had anything to do with his new coach, Ivan Lendl – who himself lost his first five grand slam finals – or not, showed a sudden thirst for the occasion. Unlike last year, he was savoring the stage. He seemed to intrinsically believe that he could beat Djokovic in a major semifinal. Hopefully, it is that conviction, which Murray will retain from this contest, and, not the implosion in the fourth set, and, who knows – if it isn’t too greedy of us to ask – perhaps the rivalry at the top of men’s tennis could become even more implausibly grand.

]]> http://www.criticaltwenties.in/sport/andy-murray-and-the-clutch-question/feed 3 http://www.criticaltwenties.in/sport/2011-in-review http://www.criticaltwenties.in/sport/2011-in-review#comments Fri, 30 Dec 2011 17:09:44 +0000 Suhrith http://www.criticaltwenties.in/?p=4209 It was only in September, when Critical Twenties turned a year old, that I wrote a piece on the year in sport, and in the months that have followed, while there have been achievements of substantial note – Roger Federer’s stupendous showing at the O2 Arena in London, for instance – not much has occurred for me to write a post on a similar theme. I’ve decided therefore to concentrate on raw moments that I remember from the year. These include moments of virtuosity and failure, and moments that conjured joy and sadness, and often do not fall into any specific category.[1]

Football

Best goals: At the end of the day, regardless of the extent of our connoisseurship, it’s the goals that we remember most, so I’ll start there.[2] Dejan Stankovic’s goal in Inter Milan’s Champions League quarterfinal first leg against Schalke was my favourite goal of the year. I have a thing for volleys and long-rangers, and Stankovic’s goal fits both of those categories. It was barely 20 seconds into the game when Esteban Cambiasso floated a ball behind the Schalke defense, which their goalkeeper Manuel Neuer came out bravely to sweep up, launching a header towards the halfway line. Stankovic, hanging about in the center circle, spontaneously volleyed the ball back, remarkably sending the ball over the out of position Neuer, and into the empty goal. It was an extraordinary goal, one that had the quality of bringing a neutral observer to his feet.

Staying with volleys, Robin van Persie’s recent pearler against Everton has to surely be up there with the best goals of the year. Just as Alex Song’s ball over the defense was dropping in front of him, van Persie conjured up a strike of astounding technical purity. He hit it so sweetly that I can still hear the unblemished sound of boot on ball.

It would be injudicious of me not to mention Wayne Rooney’s winner in the Manchester Derby in January here. Unlike Stankovic’s and van Persie’s efforts, I have watched this goal over and over again. The beauty of the strike apart, the goal had a sense of occasion to it, making it all the more special.

Berbarotica: Before it gets too late, I want to get my mention of Dimitar Berbatov away. In spite of being the top scorer in the 2010-11 season, Berbatov has found himself dropped from the Manchester United starting line-up – and often even from the squad – with Sir Alex Ferguson preferring to go with either Javier Hernandez or Danny Welbeck as Rooney’s strike partner. Against Fulham, earlier this month, though, Berbatov came on to score a sublime goal. It wasn’t against the toughest of opponents nor did it have a sense of occasion to it, considering it was the final goal in a 5-0 rout, but it was beautiful nonetheless. Berbatov let Antonio Valencia’s low cross slide past him, deceived a lunging Fulham defender, and then produced a cheeky backheel to find the back of the net. It was deft, languid, imperious and impudent all at once; it was typical Berbatov.

Silkiest skill: Had I seen this goal live, it may well have been my favourite of the year; it comes close nonetheless. Neymar has attracted several comparisons to Lionel Messi already, and this goal against Flamengo provides a microcosm of his unique talents. There were about 15 tricks that he performed in under 20 seconds – first there were a brace of ingenious turns on the left wing, then a one-two to get himself to the edge of the box, followed by an outrageous bit of skill that left the centre backs flummoxed and finally a finish to match the move.

Most elegant player: David Silva has been the most fun player to watch this year. He doesn’t slalom his way past opponents like Messi; he doesn’t have the pace and power that Cristiano Ronaldo possesses; nor does he dictate the tempo of a game in the manner of a Xavi or an Iniesta, but he is certainly the most elegant player going around. Silva doesn’t run past opponents, he glides away from them with a balletic grace. Everything he does on the pitch seems to have a rare beauty to it. And it certainly doesn’t hurt that he is left footed.

Best game: My favourite game of the year was Arsenal’s 5-3 defeat of Chelsea at Stamford Bridge in October. Minutes to go, Arsenal have worked their balls off to come back into the game and go 4-3 up – aided no doubt by some abject defending – and just when you think they are going to play sensibly, and defend the lead, they bomb forward, scoring a fifth. It was a game full of thrills and spills, fantastic moves and schoolboy defending, but it was such fun! [I can’t find a video of the game, so you’ll have to make do with reading Scott Murray’s MBM in the Guardian]

Oh Scholesy! I’ve missed Paul Scholes, and unimaginably so. I miss the long-range blasts; the beautiful, precise diagonal balls; the little turns to get away from prying tacklers in the middle of the pitch; the change of pace that allowed him the time and space to dictate play; the late bursts into the penalty box; the cunning short passes that helped Manchester United retain possession; heck I’ve even missed those dirty tackles. [You can read my tribute to Scholes, who retired in May, here]

*****

Cricket

Favourite Moment: India’s World Cup victory seems such a long time ago after the humiliation in the test series in England and the recent loss at the MCG. But M.S. Dhoni’s six to seal the win against Sri Lanka in the final at the Wankhede, will remain etched in memory forever. I do, however, want to forget Ravi Shastri’s robotic, headache-inducing commentary that accompanied the moment.

Best ball: James Anderson was terrific during India’s tour of England this past summer, and his delivery to snare V.V.S. Laxman in the second innings of the second test at Trent Bridge, Nottingham was, perhaps, the ball of the year. It seemed to move both ways, first swinging into Laxman, before moving, ever so slightly off the pitch, away from the outside edge to hit the top of off-stump. Geoff Boycott reckoned that it was a simple case of Laxman missing the ball: “He played down Bakerloo and it went down Piccadilly,” he said, but Anderson’s skill certainly can’t be discounted.

Best innings: Alastair Cook made oodles of runs this year and Rahul Dravid batted with obstinacy and courage in the series in England, but neither produced an innings of particularly captivating worth. Pakistan had a terrific year, with Misbah Ul-Haq, Younis Khan and Taufeeq Umar, all making lots of runs, but I haven’t watched enough of them to offer a valuable comment. So the honour will have to go to one of Mahela Jayawardene or Ian Bell, the former for his innings of sparkling elegance in the World Cup Final, and the latter for his splendid late-cut riddled century against India at Trent Bridge. I’ll let you take your pick. I enjoyed both these knocks immensely.

Sehwagology: Virender Sehwag transcended a few boundaries in his brutal 219 from 149 balls at Indore against the West Indies. I didn’t name it in the best innings category for a regulation ODI has, in my opinion at any rate, lost significance. Nonetheless, it was a spectacular effort that at many levels defied description and served as a reminder of not only Sehwag’s genius but also of his contribution to the game. He is, at once, a revolutionary and a visionary.

Best contest: Dale Steyn’s two spells to start the first two sessions on day 3 of the Cape Town test between South Africa and India was as nifty a spell of swing bowling that one could have hoped to see. That Sachin Tendulkar faced 48 of the 66 balls bowled in those spells made it that much more of a spectacle. It was marvelous; test cricket at its very best. Second ball of the first over, Steyn beat Tendulkar with a gorgeous away singer that moved at tremendous pace. Three balls later, another outswinger, only this time, Tendulkar got to the pitch of it and drove it gloriously through extra-cover for a boundary. After a luckless first spell, Steyn came back after lunch to snare Pujara LBW with a gem that straightened upon pitching on leg. In his next over, he had Dhoni caught at third slip with another trademark outswinger. It was a glorious, beautiful day of test cricket, an innings in which Steyn picked up five wickets and Tendulkar made 146.

******

Tennis

Best match: It was THAT match in which Novak Djokovic produced THAT shot. US Open semifinals, the Serb goes down two sets to love against Federer, then wins sets three and four only to trail 5-3, 40-15 in the decider. Everyone who’s watching it thinks, and knows even, that it’s over. Federer places his first serve wide of Djokovic’s forehand, a little undercooked, and boom, the return is past the Swiss even before he’s seen it. It was all Djokovic from there on. To me, the forehand on match point was a moment of pure inspiration. After the match, Federer called it a lucky stroke, he even seemed to question Djokovic’s moral right to go for that shot. Well, there is no arguing that Djokovic took an all or nothing approach, but what else could one expect?

Best point: Novak Djokovic has produced several remarkable points this year, many of them winners from inconceivable angles, when his whole body was seemingly stretched like rubber. But this honour belongs to Rafael Nadal. In the final of the Madrid Masters against Djokovic, after a rally of astounding interplay, Nadal somehow found himself at the net and produced a touch volley, which in turn brought Djokovic forward. The Serb, with his tremendous foot speed, got there with time to spare, and conjured a superb lob, that Nadal first tried to smash on his backhand side, on the turn, only to find it to be beyond his reach. But not one to give up, he chased after it, and manufactured a tweener – a between the legs effort. Only, this was no ordinary tweener. This wasn’t one of those, let-me-just-try-and-stay-in-the-point efforts. It was a tweener-lob – adroit, imaginative, and simply exquisite.

Quote of the year: “Umpires are like emotional girlfriends — once they make up their minds, there’s no point in arguing”: The incomparable Janko Tipsarevic

Comeback player: Almost bizarrely, in a year in which he didn’t win a Grand Slam for the first time since 2002, Roger Federer has to be considered as the comeback player of the year. Since losing to Djokovic in the US Open semifinals, he went 17-0, winning titles in Basel, Paris and London, regained some of the lost aura and once again looked an imperious, graceful force. Federer’s run of form at the end of the year has set up 2012 beautifully.

Player to watch in 2012: Andy Murray is still the best of the rest as far as the rankings are concerned, but the one who came closest to denting the oligarchy at the top in 2011 was Jo Wilfried Tsonga. The big Frenchman was often imposing and fantastic, particularly in his come-from-behind win in the Wimbledon quarterfinals against Federer. And crucially, unlike Murray, he seems to believe that he is capable of beating the top three at the highest of stages.

Most disappointing player: Richard Gasquet – as has been the case for each of the last five or six years. Anyone who can stroke a backhand as regally as he does has no right to be losing as many matches as he does.

Best parliamentarian: Not sure this category should be called “best” parliamentarian, for I have no clue what work Marat Safin – who was elected to the new Duma after elections in early December – actually does. But I’d imagine – or I’d like to believe, at any rate – that anything Safin does, he does it with panache. And for what it’s worth, Sampras had this to say about Safin’s victory: “Marat is very intelligent, articulate and well-spoken so I think it’s great that he’s getting involved in government in his homeland. In 20 years, Marat will be the President of Russia! Trust me, this guy is going to go a long way.”

[1] I’ve watched a whole lot of sport this year, like most other years, but I’m restricting this piece to football, cricket and tennis, the holy trinity as far as I’m concerned.

[2] It’s likely I have failed to mention a number of quality goals in this post. That would either be because I didn’t find them worthy enough or that I simply don’t remember them (I wanted to list out moments which I can conjure from memory as opposed to watching a YouTube compilation of best goals in 2011 and picking my favourite).

There have of course been exceptions – Steffi Graf, Curtly Ambrose, Wasim Akram and Justine Henin to name a few off the top of my head – but in general, particularly, during the 1990s and early 2000s when fandom was still the most vital aspect of my appreciation of sport, I usually made bizarre choices. Generally, though, when a great sportsman was in decline – whether it was a temporary blip or terminal – I found myself suddenly gravitating towards him. I wanted to see more. I found myself mysteriously rooting for him. I felt like an idiot when Sampras retired for not having supported him when he was at his zenith. How could I not support Michael Jordan when he was being His Airness? How could I have not seen greatness when it was presenting itself with such crystal clarity? When Tendulkar was going though a terrible phase in late 2003, I suddenly found myself backing him, wanting to see him rediscover his mojo, to see him return to his imperious self. All this idiotic fandom may have skewed much of my sports watching, but I believe it has nonetheless given me the perfect perspective to judge some of these sportsmen, a kind of perspective that only unpleasant ruminations can give you.

This sets me up very nicely then to tell you why I want to see resurgence from Federer, a Federer whom I have often disliked and a Federer that I have never supported, not in a single match that I can remember. Maybe I backed him in his fourth round victory against Sampras at Wimbledon in 2001, which brought to an end Pistol Pete’s superb run, but Sampras had had a pathetic year and it’s probable I wanted to see him win. When Novak Djokovic came back from two sets to love down and saved two match points before ending Federer’s run in this year’s U.S. Open in the most cruel of manners, I couldn’t have been more satisfied. Bottom line: I’ve almost never supported Federer, never seen the elegance, in every aspect of his game, that others purr about, although I may have lied about it in past posts to sound sensible. But watching him win the Paris Masters today, for the first time in his career, gave me a sense of satisfaction, a feeling that there may be gas left in him for a final surge.

The same aesthetics that draws people to Federer has, bizarrely, been at the forefront of my dislike for him. No doubt, he has almost always made things look simple. But simplicity doesn’t transcend elegance, and the two certainly don’t always coincide. Federer’s forehand, everyone will agree, is his chief strength – a stroke of amazing virtuosity. But is it really an elegant stroke? I would argue it’s not. Usually, it’s a whiplash, snappy movement and his bodyweight is transferred awkwardly. There is no technical purity to it. Of course, technique is a funny and often overrated concept; it’s the player’s comfort and the ensuing results that matter. And technique is also probably irrelevant to a discussion on aesthetics.[1] But whether it is because of the lack of absolute technical purity or the whiplash motion, I haven’t ever found Federer’s forehand to be beautiful, certainly not in the manner of Henin’s backhand or Edberg’s volleying. The fluidity that people attribute to Federer’s forehand is a myth. In reality it is a jerky stroke, albeit a brilliant and even astounding stroke, which perhaps accentuates his genius, but my irritation with people describing the shot as beautiful, possibly, invoked the anti-Federer in me; even more so than his arrogance and generally pitiful attitude.

Now to his backhand, an often flaky and floundering weapon that even the most ardent Federer fans will agree is his weakness. In his prime, Federer’s foot speed allowed him to step outside the ball and convert his backhands into forehands (the beauty here, it must be noted, was in his movement and not in his forehand). Over the years, his backhand, though, did improve immensely, so much so that it is perhaps at its acme today, even as his game is otherwise waning. And it is his approach to the backhand, again curiously, that I have found most endearing. Repeatedly you would see him shank his backhand, yet he would persist with it, not slicing it as he would have in his early years, and eventually he would produce a remarkable angle, a remarkable winner, entirely out of the blue. The beauty again, though, wasn’t so much in the stroke as it was in the result and in his sheer bloody-mindedness.

Federer’s serve has always been excellent and a hugely underrated aspect of his game. The motion is neat and crisp, and minimalistic, but elegant? On the volley particularly on the drive forehand volley, Federer it must be said, looks supremely splendid – there is a nonpareil regality to it. But endeavoring to deconstruct every aspect of his game to examine the aesthetic appeal of the respective parts, as I have done briefly here, is an ultimately tedious and futile experience that has somewhat soiled my tennis watching experience. Yes, the simplicity of Federer’s strokes, to me as the beholder, hasn’t translated to beauty, but in watching him play in Paris, I realized that I have been a stuck-up asshole.

For in my general irritation with every aspect of his game being described as beautiful, I allowed myself to look beyond what I have always found extraordinarily beautiful, a kind of beauty that I should have been delighting in – his on court movement. I have played tennis, mostly recreationally since I was six, giving it up intermittently every now and then since I was, maybe, fifteen. Each time I try to get back and play, the aspect I find hardest to recover is my movement – it is unquestionably the hardest trait to master. Shot making is essentially an extension of court coverage and therein lies Federer’s genius. If his greatness were to be deconstructed to a single element, it would have to be his movement on the court, which as it happens is also a thing of inimitable beauty.

Now that Federer’s aura has dissipated, I want to see him regain it. I want to watch his game only for his movement, not for the whippy forehand or the erratic backhand, as loveable as it may be, but just to see him cover the court like a prince. For, there never has been a greater representation of transcendence.

[1] Laxman’s leg glance, for instance, may not be technically pure, but it’s certainly beautiful.

The single greatest tennis match ever played.

Apparently, so many people were transfixed by the spectacle unfolding at Centre Court that day that they no longer noticed the passage of day and forgot to turn on the lights till after the match was over. Millions of households turned on the lights at around the same time, leading to the surge. Viewers were probably still shaking their heads at what they had witnessed.

At least, I know I was.

The late hour tugged at my eyelids, the rain breaks tested my patience, the tension slowly tore my nerves to pieces and after a while, I was no longer able to sit down in one place in the living room to watch the match. I moved from the comfort of the sofa after the first set, wandered around the room, back and forth into the study as the second set seemed to confirm a lopsided mismatch that would end soon, almost forgot about the match during the rain breaks, got closer and closer to the TV as Federer came back to take one set, then another, and ultimately found myself a few inches from the TV screen egging Roger Federer on in the last moments of the last games of the final set. The subsequent year’s Wimbledon final by comparison, followed in the bright evening sunshine of Oxford in summer, despite being just as close as a contest, seemed a positive let-down.

Suhrith’s last post got me thinking about my own interest in tennis. My introduction to the wide world of Grand Slam tennis was also through the eyes and experience of my grandfather, himself a tennis player of no small skill and a connoisseur of fine tennis on the telly. The era of Sampras dominance and the end of Steffi Graf’s career, however, saw me drifting away from tennis until, like others, I was drawn back by the magic and genius of Federer. What keeps me glued in to tennis now, like others, is the immortal rivalry between Federer and Rafael Nadal.

I shall make no secret of the fact that in this rivalry, I back Federer. It seems to be a very guy thing to cheer Federer over Nadal – a straw poll over twitter confirmed it – as Federer seems to be the favourite of male fans, and Nadal, female fans. Why and how is another subject for another day, but I want to dwell on the rivalry itself in this post.

On the face of it, the statistics would suggest that it is not so much a rivalry as the domination of Roger Federer by Rafael Nadal. But statistics never tell you the whole story, and anyone who’s followed this great rivalry would tell you as much. Why does this particular rivalry draw so many of us to the game so often and with such passion?

Tennis, like any other sport, can be enjoyed and appreciated by fans at many levels. On one level, one’s interest can be purely parochial; one can cheer one’s fellow countryman/woman taking on the best in the world and doing well (i.e., Indians cheering Sania Mirza). At another level, one can appreciate the great skill and talent that goes into performing feats that seem beyond the capacity of mere mortals, such as, say, Usain Bolt’s breathtaking 100m and 200m runs at the Beijing Olympics. Or one can appreciate aesthetic beauty in sport; a cover drive by VVS Laxman timed to perfection finding the gap between four fielders with what seems to be perfect ease and grace.

In a sense, however, these are only limited ways of understanding and appreciating sport.

Does one give up on a sport because no one sharing the same nationality/race/ethnicity play the game? Do we even want to reduce the appreciation of sports on such narrow bases? Nationalism in sport has reared its ugly head on many an occasion (the end of Monica Seles’ promising career, and Eden Gardens, 1996 to name but two) and the nationalistic sports fan is at best, tolerated.

Superhuman feats, whether in athletics, cricket or tennis, reach natural limits very quickly and beyond a point, become mere statistics. Professionalization of sport has also meant that the great feats of yesterday have become mundane and run-of-the-mill in our day and age as improved knowledge and training methods has raised the bar of the average. If every miler can expect to beat the four minute barrier and scoring at 8 runs an over becomes routine, what joy remains in attaining these feats? It is true that there are some barriers that probably will never be broken for all time to come (99.94) but such feats are fewer and further between these days. Interest in a sport cannot be sustained only on the hope of spotting the next Bradman, Beamon or Bolt.

Aesthetic quality in sport is also not an end in itself. Not married to the efficient attainment of the goals of that sport, it becomes a mere frippery and just showmanship. The point of a game is to win; to score more goals, points or runs, or as the Olympic motto urges, go faster, higher and stronger. The sportsman who survives in the highest league is one who adds efficiency to aesthetic ability, or more likely sacrifices the latter for the former. Rare is the genius such as Maradona, Federer, or Tendulkar who combines ruthless efficiency to artistic finesse to take viewers to the higher plane of ecstasy.

Whatever level one may enjoy sport, sport’s ability to truly elevate occurs when it presents to us a compelling story. If we honestly ask ourselves, what does it matter if someone is very good at hitting balls across a net, or has the capability of swimming a distance of 100m in so many seconds? These feats, examined in isolation, and devoid of context, mean nothing to anyone but the ones actually involved in the feat. What draws the rest of humanity (or at least that part of humanity capable of appreciating sport) into finding meaning in these acts is the context. Really, we are asking ourselves, what does this feat, this victory or this achievement mean? or how does it fit into a larger narrative to form a whole greater than the sum of is parts?

One can appreciate sport so much more when one understands the narrative underlying the action unfolding. To know that the two teams on the pitch have just fought a war that has created resentment among the defeated adds an edge to a simple game of football. To know that one team is being driven to terrifying excellence in response to the opposing captain’s reminder of their shackled, colonial past adds so much more colour and poignancy to the proceedings than a dry recollection of scorecards ever will.

As I’ve said before, sport is at best when it does this spontaneously; unscripted and untrammeled by convention. The stories of sport are really, the stories of our lives. Being unscripted drama, it allows us to experience all of life’s passions, sorrows and emotions at a safe distance, yet close enough for it to have an impact. The underdog victory, the search for excellence, the shot at redemption, are all stories we want in our lives, and sport gives us a chance to live these stories out by proxy through our sporting heroes. (The skeptics’ attention is invited to Beyond a Boundary and “Fire in Babylon“)

It is this aspect of enjoying a sport that allows a non-Spaniard, non-Swiss person to appreciate the compelling rivalry between Federer and Nadal. It is the story of an absolute, acknowledged genius striving to overcome the one challenger who stands between him and unquestioned immortality. It is also the story of the challenger himself striving towards immortality by confirming his dominance over the genius. In the process, it is also the rivalry itself which has entered the halls of immortality. In that sense, this rivalry is also a rivalry just between two humans, albeit two extra-ordinary humans. Here, the “story” is the sport itself, or rather the quest of two individuals playing at their peak in around the same time, each trying to prove that he is the greatest player of the sport, not just in his era, his generation, but for all time.

Each match played out between the rivals is filled with dramatic potential. Will Federer overcome the inevitable decline brought about by age to beat a stronger, younger, opponent? Will Nadal sustain his excellence for any length of time and get rid of any last doubts about his greatness? Will Federer be rid of his clay-court bogey? Will Nadal repeat his grand performance of 2008 by beating King Federer on his grasscourt kingdom (so to speak)?

It may seem a bit of a disservice to the other magnificent players in the tournament but the French Open final has confirmed for us the most anticipated tennis event of the year: the Federer-Nadal final at Centre Court, Wimbledon.

It is nigh on impossible, I believe to make such an assertion in the first place, and in any event Roger Federer’s record against his chief rival, Rafael Nadal ridicules the suggestion. Of course, Federer is statistically the most successful player in Grand Slam tennis history and he wins by playing in a beautiful, easy style. But Nadal has beaten Federer in 17 of their 25 meetings and in 6 of their 8 contests in Grand Slam finals, putting in rich perspective the fallacy in the argument that Federer is the greatest to have wielded a tennis racquet. No doubt, the Swiss belongs in a pantheon that comprises Bjorn Borg, Pete Sampras, Rod Laver and a few others, but to place him indisputably on top of that list is incorrect, to put it mildly.

2. Nadal’s greatest attribute is his ability to win ugly:

I doubt anyone in the history of the sport has been better than Nadal at winning ugly when required to. This is not to suggest that he cannot win beautifully. Indeed when he is at the top of his game, he is as imperious and as handsome a sight as any other. But even when his game isn’t quite up to scratch, Nadal finds a way through irrespective of the demands of his opponent. On Sunday, Federer was at his mesmerizing best in the first set, seemingly killing Nadal with his sinuous, entrancing grace. Down 2-5, the Spaniard had no right to win the set. He was being enthralled into submission. His groundstrokes were meek, his serves were devoid of punch and he looked a shadow of his usually commanding self. Yet, he came-back to win five games in a row to seal the set and effectively kill any hopes of an upset. Not, though, by finding rhythm in his strokes, but by chasing Federer’s shots down with vigour and vitality and stunning the Swiss into compliance through sheer force of will. Before the Djokovic-Federer semifinal, Nadal commented that the match pitted the “best player at the moment against the best player in history”. Where does it leave him then?

3. All-court players are on the rise:

Rarely in Grand Slams do the top four seeds of the men’s game qualify for the semi-finals. This is rarer still at the French Open, for historically many top players have been ill suited to the red clay in Paris. In recent times, though, players have become increasingly more comfortable on all surfaces. I would imagine that the causes for the phenomenon are essentially two-fold: (a) The surfaces at all four of the Grand Slams are coming closer to each other in terms of their overall play. The clay at Paris has become quicker, the grass at Wimbledon slower and the hard courts in Melbourne Park and Flushing Meadows have gravitated towards each other in terms of their constituents.  (b) Concomitantly, players no longer shape their styles to suit a certain surface. Romantics crave for the return of the serve-and-volley game, but when one can win Wimbledon by playing from the baseline in a style that will also predominantly suit the clay at Roland Garros, players would be foolish to model themselves on an Edberg or a Sampras. Equally, though, the clay-court specialist, the slugger from the baseline, is also no longer in abundant evidence. The top players are capable of winning any of the four Grand Slams by merely tweaking certain aspects of their game without altering its foundations.

4. Brit when he wins; Scot when he loses:

Had he been competing in any other era, Andy Murray would, perhaps, have been a Grand Slam champion by now. That he is fourth in the list of a truly outstanding quartet is no disgrace for his talents are nonetheless deserving of a Grand Slam title. Fred Perry was the last Briton to win a Slam (the 1936 US Open) and the pressures of this void had weighed heavily, first, on Tim Henman – a player infinitely less talented than Murray – and now weigh heavily on the Scotsman who has reached three Grand Slam finals without success. In evidence, though, at Roland Garros was an attribute, which should continue to brighten the hopes of the British. In his third round match against Michael Berrer, Murray turned his ankle, injuring it critically, and yet soldiered to victory in four sets. A lesser man would have withdrawn from the match and the tournament. Murray, however, battled hard, defeated Victor Troicki in five grueling sets in the fourth round before cruising past Juan Ignacio Chela to set up a duel with Rafael Nadal. Against the Spaniard, admittedly Murray came a cropper in three straight sets, but for much of the match, Murray was the better player. It would be pure conjecture to suggest that he may well have beaten Nadal, if not for his weak ankle, but in fighting the Spaniard and running him close – which he certainly did in spite of the suggestions of the scoreboard – Murray showcased that he has the requisite skills to, one day, win a Grand Slam.

5. The Women’s game is in a bit of a shambles:

We all love an underdog success, but in women’s tennis, the world number 1 is often the underdog. Caroline Wozniacki, the twenty-year-old Dane, has held the position for 32 weeks now, and yet hasn’t a single Grand Slam title to show. In fact, she has reached only a solitary final, the 2009 US Open. This of course raises questions on the ranking system, as it rightly should. But the malaise in the women’s tour runs deeper. Serena Williams, unquestionably the finest player produced since the days of Steffi Graf and Monica Seles, hasn’t played a tournament since Wimbledon last year owing to injury and even when fit restricts her appearances to Grand Slams and a few other high-profile tournaments. The other top players in recent times, Wozniacki, Ana Ivanovic and Jelena Jankovic fell early at Roland Garros as they have tended to do in recent times. So too did Kim Clijsters, Victoria Azarenka and Vera Zvonareva, the more consistent of the higher ranked players, leaving the no. 6 seed, Li Na and the No. 8 seed, Francesca Schiavone to contest the final. This preponderance of ‘upsets’ though must not be confused with depth of talent. In the absence of Serena Williams, and since the retirement of Justine Henin, the women’s game not only lacks a predominant power-base, but is also devoid of quality at the top. ‘Quality’ though must not be interpreted as mere physical and technical abilities. The likes of Wozniacki and Azarenka, perhaps, have the requisite technical attributes for Grand Slam success, but as history has showed us, sustained success at the level takes more than just that. The fact that the draw at Roland Garros was wider than ever before wasn’t indicative of depth but the lack of a single outstanding candidate.

(Inspired by The Guardian’s Five Things We Learned series)

Tennis at Roland Garros is the ultimate test of endurance. Best of five set matches filled with long, draining rallies that encompass the full repertoire of a tennis player’s armoury – baseline strokes heavy on top spin, rallies filled with cheeky drop shots and lobs hit with diverse spin means that very often the dominance over a single rally can swing like a pendulum. A player who looks crushed one moment can still recover to win a point, provided of course he possesses the wherewithal to do so. But the fact that the surface offers such an opportunity means that it very often makes for a riveting spectacle.

This year’s tournament, which commences tomorrow, has the potential to be particularly memorable. In what is sure to beggar the belief of the more casual tennis fans, Rafael Nadal will not begin as the overwhelming favourite. Not too long ago, a few days before the Australian Open began, I asked where the next Federers and Nadals were. Since then, Novak Djokovic has gone on a 37-0 winning run (39-0 if one includes his victories in December), emerging triumphant in seven tournaments, including at Melbourne, rendering my question gloriously futile. Its futility, though, is not because Djokovic is on the verge of entering the pantheon of great tennis players – which he may well do at some point in his career – but because his winning streak has convincingly shattered the existing duopoly at the top of the men’s game.

Djokovic’s run has seen him defeat Nadal in four finals, two of which were on clay, a surface on which the Spaniard is, but for Bjorn Borg, recognized as the greatest exponent. As winning streaks at the start of a year go, the Serb trails only John McEnroe, who won 42 consecutive matches in 1984, at a time when even by McEnroe’s own admission, tennis wasn’t as demanding as it is today. The numbers, though, as remarkable as they may be, tell only a part of the story.

It is Djokovic’s assurance in the big games, and his tremendous ball-striking abilities on the tennis court, which he has paraded never more dazzlingly than in recent months that have been most spectacular. He possesses an innate sense of the geometry of a tennis court, enabling him to convert defence into attack – perhaps his greatest virtue – in the matter of a single stroke, irrespective of his position on the court. But then, these are assets that he has always possessed even if they have been sharpened in recent times. What is it then that has been the chief factor behind his ascent? Some say it has to do with his new gluten-free diet, while others point towards Serbia’s victory in the Davis Cup last December from which he has gained enormous self-confidence. Perhaps, it has to do with an astonishing improvement to his game – his forehand is a far more assured stroke now and his serve, once an unreliable weapon at times of crises has never been more secure.

If I were asked though to isolate a turning point, a seminal moment that has contributed towards his rise, I would find it difficult to look beyond his victory over Federer in the 2010 US Open semifinals. Very often, a player even of the richest talents can lack the self-confidence required to make the most of his skills. Djokovic, since his Australian Open victory in 2008 has regularly reached the latter stages of Grand Slams only to succumb to big-match pressure. Against Federer, though, at Flushing Meadows, down two match points on his serve at 4-5 in the fifth set, he produced a brace of breathtaking winners that have set him on the path towards the number one ranking. Admittedly, he lost in the final to Nadal, but the match was played a day after his grueling five setter against Federer. A loss at the season ending Masters in London to Federer in the semifinals may indicate that his victory at New York wasn’t after all so seminal. But by that time his focus had been diverted to the Davis Cup final at Belgrade, which he helped Serbia clinch with a display of tennis that was as exhilarating as it was sublime.

Since then his deeds have been well documented. He says he doesn’t believe he is unbeatable – and rightly so – but he plays his tennis with a sagacious serenity in spite of sprinklings of madness between points. A scream in agony or a tennis racquet broken in rage have never brought the best out of anyone, in recent times, in the manner in which it seems to, from Djokovic.

From a French Open perspective, it is his form in Madrid and Rome that serve as the key talking points. In neither tournament was his progress to the final seamless. At Madrid he won tough three-setters against David Ferrer and Thomaz Belluci in the quarterfinal and semifinal respectively. At Rome he was on the verge of elimination in the semifinal against Andy Murray, but his newfound self-belief saw him through, ultimately via a tiebreaker in the deciding set. Crucially, though, against Nadal, both at Madrid and Rome, Djokovic clinched victory in two straight sets. He was able to up his game when it mattered most – a sign that he has indeed come of age. The victories were so utterly imperious. In both matches, he pulverized Nadal from the back of the court, constantly directing his backhands crosscourt to the Spaniard’s forehand – widely recognized as his strong suit. Nadal has won Roland Garros five times in the last six years and it may be imprudent to not consider him as the favourite. But his title has perhaps never been at greater risk than it is in the coming fortnight, at the end of which, we may well have a new man at the summit of men’s tennis.