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.

It was tennis at its most beautiful. It was also tennis that ultimately proved beyond Murray’s reach. As hard as he tried—and he did give it the old college try—he came short; but he didn’t as much as fail as Federer prevailed. “I think I played some of my best tennis the past couple of matches,” said Federer,” after the final. Now, if that’s the best tennis that Federer has ever played, then it’s likely the best that anyone has ever played—a sort of tennis nirvana.

For over two years we wondered if Federer can regain his old aura, his old magic—in truth, he had never lost it; he was merely sharpening his game, altering his tactics, and searching for a way to overcome the new challenges. At the French Open in 2010, playing as defending champion, Federer was overpowered by Robin Soderling in 4 sets; and weeks later, against another powerful striker of the ball, Tomas Berdych, another quarterfinal exit ensued, this time on the hallowed grass at Wimbledon. This, we felt, was the beginning of the end. Having made 23 consecutive grand slam semifinals, Federer had now lost in the quarterfinals two grand slams in a row. How could he?

When I watched him through this period, I often wondered what he was doing wrong; maybe Federer himself wondered as much. There was nothing palpably amiss with his game, if his movement had gotten a little less precise, or if he wasn’t as quick as he once was, it certainly wasn’t apparent to the naked eye. But Federer knew he had to reinvent his game—maybe tactically he wasn’t doing what was necessary to overcome the era’s trials. To understand the magnitude of his achievement this past Sunday, we must consider all that has transpired between his defeat to Berdych at Wimbledon till now. The evolution was subtle but definite.

The first thing Federer did to set himself back on the road towards the top was to hire Pete Sampras’ former coach, Paul Annacone. This, considering that he had played for years without a coach, was a clear indication that he recognized the need for reinvention. The speculation was that Annacone—a serve and volleyer during his playing career—would urge Federer to play an even more attacking game, a game that would see him charge forward, and maybe borrow a trick or two from the Sampras manual. But this was conjecture emanating from a romantic—and mistaken—notion. In this power-baseline era, coming up to the net, even behind a heavy serve, could be tantamount to committing suicide. Instead, Federer worked on other aspects of the game, particularly his single-handed backhand, perhaps, the weakest stroke in his gloriously rich repertoire. It’s quite possible that his movement had suffered in recent years, that he wasn’t able to glide across the court as efficiently as he once could, and as a result that he couldn’t run outside the ball to convert enough backhands into forehands, with his usual transcendent elegance.

Victories at the Stockholm Open and the Swiss Indoors followed soon after Annacone was hired, and Federer, it seemed, was returning to his best. At the U.S. Open in 2010, right up until his semifinal meeting against Djokovic, Federer had looked sublime—he had thrashed Soderling, for instance, in three easy, straight sets in the quarterfinals. The semi, though, was the making of the new-Djokovic. Federer played beautifully for much of the match, but with his serve letting him down in some crucial moments, and with Novak playing out of his skin, he ultimately came a cropper. Some analysts said his decline was fast turning from gradual to terminal. But just weeks later, Federer was majestic again—he dismissed Djokovic (who may have admittedly had the Davis Cup Final in his mind) 6-1, 6-4 in the semifinal before beating Nadal in 3 sets (6-1 in the decider).

The year turned, but Federer, it seemed, was still in decline. In Melbourne, he again ran into Djokovic, who had hit serious heights, and was in the middle of one of the hottest winning streaks the game has ever seen. He was returning serve, perhaps, better than anyone ever had; and his ability to turn defense into attack was boggling the mind. But in the French Open semifinal, a few months later, it was Federer’s turn to be inspired. Barring a poor third set, the Swiss was supremely clinical—his court coverage on the day against a rampant Djokovic was as close to perfection as you could hope to see. He was able to more than hold his own on the backhand-to-backhand crosscourt rallies, and maybe whatever he was working on was finally coming to fruition; the resurgence we thought had commenced. But regardless of his form, and any perceived resurrection, he wasn’t going to beat Nadal on the Parisian clay. At Wimbledon, Federer found himself a new problem. He had never lost after winning the first two sets of a grand slam match, but that’s exactly what he did against Jo Wilfred Tsonga in the quarterfinal. Maybe the decline was more a product of mental frailties—the Federer of the old would have dismissed Tsonga, we all opined. It almost seemed as though Federer was being too casual—we criticized the same demeanor that we would have hailed as a sign of his effortlessness had he been victorious.

So off he went to New York. Again, there was nothing conceivably wrong with his game: he sailed through the early matches, including a majestic rout of Juan Monaco in the fourth round in which he lost only 3 games. The loss to Tsonga at Wimbledon was avenged in the quarters, with remarkable ease. “We’ve heard about signs of Roger Federer’s descent from the mountaintop,” wrote Steve Tignor of Tennis.com. “Was this win, with all of its old-fashioned easygoing excellence, a sign of ascent?” It certainly seemed so for large parts of his semifinal against Djokovic—in the first two sets, Federer was at his fluid best; he was covering the court with a supreme sense of authority, and the ball was flying off his racket, particularly off the forehand wing. Djokovic, though fought back, winning sets 3 and 4, but found himself down two match points in the fifth set—what happened next has been all too well documented to have to recount here, but again Federer had come up short in spite of playing some exquisite tennis. Maybe his time really was up. Maybe he was no longer capable of summoning his best when it mattered most. Yes he was still winning other tournaments; he was again terrific in the World Tour Finals at London, but what of the grand slams? What of number 17? Will it ever come?

The evidence of early 2012 suggested it wouldn’t. Again, up until the semis in Australia, Federer had looked superb; he played with such silky elegance that I wondered if it mattered at all whether he won another grand slam. This time, he was on Nadal’s side of the draw, and the two produced another memorable match, but Federer had beaten his great rival only twice in nine meetings in grand slams, and he wasn’t going to improve upon it here. Again, I watched closely, to try and identify holes in his game—but there was nothing palpably wrong; he had merely lost to a rival against whom he had a far inferior head-to-head record to begin with. But it was another semifinal defeat, and another sounding of the death knell.

More of the same followed in Paris, but this time, Federer had struggled (relatively) through the early rounds. He had dropped a set each to Ungur, Mahut and Goffin, and came back from two sets to love down against Juan Martin Del Potro in the quarterfinals. So there he was, in another semifinal, against his most recent nemesis, Novak Djokovic. The Serb, though, almost humbled him on this occasion—an easy straight sets victory. This was Federer’s third consecutive loss in the semifinals of a grand slam—for almost no other player would that have been a sign of a crisis. For his part, Federer kept telling us that he was playing well, that he wasn’t far away—and he was right. He was making the latter half of the second week with supreme ease, and there was nothing noticeably wrong in his game; the rub of the green, though, wasn’t going his way. Yet, we felt, it had to be more than just that. He had gone nine grand slams without triumph; his longest streak since he won his first in 2003. He was playing some terrific tennis, but tennis that was ultimately not good enough for him to overcome his greatest challengers.

What was it then that won him the title at Wimbledon? We can point to a lot of factors not least the silken splendor of his forehand, his superb serving and even the brilliance of his volleying, especially in the final (it certainly seemed like he had gone back in time). But more than anything else, it was what was new about Federer that made the difference, viz. the improvements that he had made to his singlehanded backhand. Murray, more than anyone bar Nadal, has exploited Federer’s chief weakness (his backhand wing) to great effect in the past. Before the final, Murray had a winning record against Federer; his ability to pound strokes deep into that corner had often caused Federer much trouble. But on Sunday, Federer was able to outhit Murray from that wing. He not only played a lot of clever slices, but he also powered his backhands crosscourt with remarkable pace and accuracy. All the dazzling brilliance of his former self wouldn’t have been enough to beat Murray on the day. He needed his backhand to click, and it did—it was not merely sufficient, but vital. In combining something eminently new with a transient return to his greatest days, Federer achieved tennis perfection. Wasn’t it beautiful?

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.

Schneiderman is hitting with teammate Nathaniel Gery on the first of the six indoor, hard courts at the Dick Savitt Tennis Center – Columbia’s home courts located on the ridiculously picturesque upper western tip of Manhattan by Inwood Hill Park. They begin with a few light hits, standing at the edge of their service lines. And then slowly they up the ante, smacking groundstrokes from the baseline with astonishing power – the kind that you wouldn’t expect to see in college tennis. The margins that distinguish the best from the rest are very thin – it can go unnoticed by a casual observer. Schneiderman wants to compete with the best; he wants to shatter those margins that separate him from the professionals. When he graduates as an economics major next May, he harbors hopes of turning pro. The challenge, however, is not merely mighty, but at many levels unnerving too.

“The realities of the men’s professional-tennis tour bear about as much resemblance to the lush finals you see on TV as a slaughterhouse does to a well-presented cut of restaurant sirloin,” wrote David Foster Wallace in a seminal essay in Esquire.[1] The realities of college tennis are bleaker still. Even in the effort to make the grade, though, is ingrained an element of heroism, an element of perseverance.

Wearing a white t-shirt and white shorts, Schneiderman, who is right-handed, looks a tennis player. He is six feet two inches tall and one hundred and seventy pounds heavy. He has sharp features and a sinewy body. He sports a scruffy stubble; his jaw is sharp and his eyebrows meet gently above his long, pointed nose. His calf muscles are well defined – a product of hours and hours of tennis – and his forearms are muscular, if not immense. His game itself has a simple elegance to it. His light brown eyes are always focused intently on the ball – there is a detached concentration to his play – the kind that one usually sees from chess players. The ball toss on the serve is not the highest, but the motion is neat. He can hit his serve both down the line and slice it away from his opponent with equal ease and great disguise. His forehand is possibly his strong suit – he seems to think so, at any rate – but his double-handed backhand has a beauty to it – he hits through it crisply and regally with both pace and topspin.

“My backhand used to be a weakness,” Schneiderman says, while sitting on a bench in the grassy, sloped verandah outside the center that overlooks the Harlem River, after practice. “I’ve had to work very hard at it. Now I can use it offensively.” Schneiderman can be remarkably lucid when talking about his game. He says he has to think constantly about the dynamics of power and accuracy: “With some opponents, I can sense that they aren’t reading my serve. Then, I can afford to take some pace off and concentrate on placement.”

“Having a big serve helps at this level. If I want to go pro, I need to win easy points – need to win in three or four shots.” He practices long and hard on his first serves and his “first forehand,” as he puts it. “My first forehand is my most important shot. I try to dictate play with it.” Every day, Schneiderman spends about three hours on the courts with Columbia’s coaches, Bid Goswami and Howard Endelman. Endelman, who was appointed the Associate Head Coach in 2010, once competed in the ATP Tour. He said, of Schneiderman, “He’s certainly got a game that is suited for pro tennis and I think he can make it. He has a great serve and a terrific forehand and these are assets that will serve him very well. But the start that he makes is crucial.”

Schneiderman’s focus, for now, at least, in on the Ivy League championships in the spring. In his first two years at Columbia, Schneiderman played a pivotal role in leading Columbia to victory. In 2009, he was named the Ivy League Men’s Tennis Rookie of the Year, while in his sophomore year he enjoyed a 17-3 record, including a win in the crucial decider against Princeton, which clinched the championship. “It was my greatest moment,” Schneiderman, suddenly bursting with enthusiasm, says, “it was one set each and the entire thing was on the line. I was able to control the decider.” A troublesome back, however, laid him low for large parts of last year. “I wasn’t able to even get up or take my socks out after that match against Princeton. It plagued practice for many months. I saw numerous doctors and they suggested surgery, but Tommy Sheehan, the Director of Strength and Conditioning at Columbia, introduced me to some specialists who were able to solve the problem. They were able to understand the biomechanics of it better. It was killing me.”

The body feels good again now, Schneiderman says, and he is raring to help Columbia regain the Ivy League Championships. “Obviously I want to go pro after this, but for now I am just concentrating on the team. As long as I keep working on my game, it takes care of what I need to do afterwards.” He is, however, aware of the difficulties in pursuing tennis as a career. “It’s expensive. And it can leave you a bit empty. I had offers from big tennis schools, but I chose Columbia because it gives me a more rounded education.”

Schneiderman interned in the mergers and acquisitions wing of Ernst and Young in the summer. He found it enjoyable [“it didn’t have the pressure of an investment banking job,”] but it’s not something that he sees himself doing for a career. He plans to use the money he saved from the internship and whatever he can get from his parents to fund his initial foray into professional tennis. “I’ll have to start by playing the qualifiers of the ITF’s [International Tennis Federation] Futures Events. I want to play in Latin America or Europe where the level of competition will be right and where I can get to experience a new culture.”

Schneiderman is half Armenian. His father, also named Haig, was born to Armenian parents in New York. Sargis Sargsian, an Armenian who was once ranked in the top forty of the world, is a huge inspiration to Schneiderman. “I definitely feel that connection. I practiced with Sargsian twice in Vegas and he is a big influence,” Schneiderman says in his genially sincere tone.

Born in the ‘lower west side’ of New York, Schneiderman still lives there with his parents. He began playing tennis at Forest Hills in Queens where the U.S. Open once used to be played. His coach there, Chris Pucci remains a big influence. “He’s my mentor. I still practice under him in the summer in New Jersey where he now coaches.” He is also quick to credit his parents for their support. “My father introduced me to the sport and my mom has had to make so many sacrifices. She drove me around to all the tournaments, from my high school, Horace Mann, to New Jersey for practice and so on. I wouldn’t have been able to do this without her.”

Schneiderman is levelheaded enough to realize that tennis may not work out for him professionally. “It can get to a point where it’s just not worth it. I’m not looking for sponsors right now. It will depend on how well I do in my first few tournaments. It’s not a fun lifestyle. It can be quite a grind.”

Regardless of how he does in the professional circuit, though, Schneiderman wants to be involved with tennis. “Deep down, I want to do something with tennis. Maybe I’ll start a program for kids who don’t have access to the sport. I am not sure exactly what I’ll do, but I want to spread the sport and give kids who can’t afford the sport a chance to play it.”

Schneiderman sees tennis as a metaphor for life. “One of the great things about tennis is the number of people I’ve met. I’ve learnt so many life lessons from it. If nothing else, my experience will help me through the rest of my life.”

[1] This profile is partly inspired by the late David Foster Wallace’s magnificent essay in Esquire titled “The String Theory.” There, Wallace focuses on Michael T. Joyce’s forays in the qualifying rounds of the Canadian Open. And in Wallace style, I chose to put this into a footnote: http://www.esquire.com/features/sports/the-string-theory-0796

When writing a year-end piece last December, I found it difficult to look beyond Barcelona’s 5-0 thumping of Real Madrid at the Camp Nou as the definitively brilliant moment of 2010. Now in September, Critical Twenties has completed a year – one that has been especially rewarding for me as a sports fan – and looking back, I would be hard-pressed to pick but Barcelona as representing the perfect synthesis of sporting excellence in the year gone by.

But in compiling this anniversary piece – if I can call it that – I would like to refrain from restricting myself to one sport. For the past twelve months have been littered with acts of excellence across them all – there have been others who have taken giant steps towards greatness, requiring us to suspend our disbelief. So I am going to list those individuals or teams that have showcased rare brilliance and have dominated their respective sport over the past year.

Tennis

2011 has been an annusmirablis for Novak Djokovic. He has won 64 of the 66 matches that he has played this year, triumphing at the Australian Open, Wimbledon and at the US Open, most recently, to seal his place at the zenith of men’s tennis. To see two of the greatest ever players in the sport’s history, Nadal and Roger Federer, floundering, by their own lofty standards, has been mildly disconcerting for some, but it demonstrates the sheer brilliance of Djokovic’s displays this year. Tennis fans, for some reason, are struggling to come to terms with Djokovic’s stupendous form – he is nowhere near as liked as Federer or Nadal. But the enormity of his achievements deserves the highest acclaim.

He has lifted his game to dizzying heights of brilliance; his ability to turn defence into attack with a single swoosh of his racquet has been particularly awe-inspiring. Since he won his first major, at the Australian Open in 2008, Djokovic has struggled to make a sustained impact at the very top of the sport. It couldn’t have been easy to play in an era featuring two of the all-time greats. But credit to him, for not being content with being near the top. The improvements that he has made to his game and to his overall fitness has not only upset the apple cart, but it has led to a stunning shattering of the duopoly at the top of the men’s game. It has been both surprising and fun to watch.

Cricket

I would have dearly liked to say that the year has belonged to India. After all, it won the World Cup after a gap of 28 years. Its run in March and April brought joy to millions in the country, culminating in that audacious six hit by M.S. Dhoni, which shall remain perpetually etched in memory. But since then, the team has stumbled, and how!

England, meanwhile, in spite of playing poorly in the World Cup has established itself as the top test team. It has paraded its rich talents with surprising flamboyance in the on-going drubbing of India, adding to its spectacular Ashes scalp earlier this year. The team is already being considered as the greatest English team of the last two decades – admittedly that may not be saying much – and one that can potentially stay at the top of the game for many years to come. Indeed it has the resources to do so; its batting is balanced with an equal measure of obstinacy and panache and the depth in its bowling is breath-taking. But, although it may be on the path towards greatness, it still needs to tread past several obstacles, not least the tests in the subcontinent. That said, under the outstanding stewardship of the Strauss-Flower axis, England is better equipped than ever before to counter the challenges that the subcontinent will throw up.

Golf

Tiger Woods’s slump has seen Rory McIlroy capture the imagination of the golfing world. But his genius contains flaws that require to be addressed. At Augusta, he played three rounds of the most sublime golf only to depressingly let it all slip in a hideous final round. Amends were made in the U.S. Open at the Congressional where he set a 72-hole aggregate score of 268 (16 under par,) the best in the tournament’s history. He played four rounds of nearly flawless golf that was a sight to behold. But at the Open Championships held in Royal St. George’s, McIlroy fell by the wayside, struggling to cope with the inordinately harsh weather. At the PGA Championships, plagued by a wrist injury that he suffered on the third hole of the first round, he finished with a final round 74. All in all, it has been a mixed year – he was exquisite throughout the US Open and for much of the time at August and less than ordinary in the other two majors. But the sport needed a new cult hero and McIlroy fits the bill.

Formula One Racing

Red Bull and Sebastian Vettel continued this season from where they left off last year. The German’s speed and will to win has been astounding and his ability to pull off a flying lap when most needed, especially in qualifying, never ceases to amaze. He has won eight of the thirteen races held so far this season, starting on pole in ten of those. But Vettel is not merely a champion of mechanical attributes. He is a precocious talent who combines thrilling racing – an ability to drive a car to its maximum, often unforeseen potential – with a temperament to win championships. In all, not only is he a remarkable racing driver, but also one who’s driving makes for an electrifying sight.

NBA

I am not sure what the odds on Dallas Mavericks winning the title were prior to the commencement of the season. But it surely couldn’t have been too high. Yet, inspired by Dirk Nowitzki, it overcame the odds to score a spectacular triumph. The Miami Heat of LeBron James, Dwayne Wade and Chris Bosh were put to rest in the final through an extraordinarily brilliant display of basketball. Nowitzki was particularly superb, fighting a wrist injury and bouts of heavy fever to inspire not only himself, but also those around him to perform with zest and poise. Numbers can often be misleading in judging greatness, but a bare minimum is nonetheless a necessity. This first ring vindicates Nowitzki’s place in the pantheon.

Football

For pure, unblemished excellence, though, look no beyond Barcelona. If one thought its 5-0 demolition of Real Madrid last year at the Camp Nou was unbelievable, its performance in the Champions League final against Manchester United at Wembley took sporting excellence to a hitherto unseen, intoxicating level.

Manchester United had just come off a Premier League season in which it sealed a historic 19^th league title (overtaking arch rivals Liverpool,) but in the Champions League final it was left hapless as Barcelona weaved pass after pass, mesmerising it into submission. It wasn’t so much about the final score, as the manner of the victory. Barcelona never wavered from its style. The ball was moved from corner to corner, with slick elegance and guile. Xavi Hernandez was at the bedrock of every move, passing both short and long, but never it seemed without an objective. His little poked ball to Pedro that led to the opening goal was a mark of genius – he seemed to wait for an eternity on the ball, before slotting it wide to Pedro just as the field began to open up.

Lionel Messi was being Lionel Messi, i.e. a Superman. He was whizzing past defenders with insouciance, and scored a fine goal – an arrowed left footed strike to the bottom right corner – to mark a period in the game of supreme dominance. David Villa, signed last summer from Valencia, was also magnificent, crowning Barcelona’s display with an astounding curled effort. Andres Iniesta, who had had an injury plagued season, nonetheless performed with rare aplomb, constantly flitting in and out of midfield and showcasing his mastery over the passing game.

These are, though, but names in a team that plays like a team. It is trite to say that Barcelona wins by virtue of the effort of the whole unit – but if any team epitomises such a quality it is Barcelona. Seven of their starters in the final were from the famed La Masia academy. Instilled in them were the tenets of Johan Cruyff’s philosophy. Coached by Josep Guardiola, himself a product of the Academy – one of its first graduates – Barcelona may not be more than a club as it claims to be, but it certainly is all that a club should be.

Critical Twenties is only a year old and this is perhaps my fourth tribute to Barcelona – albeit a miniature one – but, heck, even a thousand tributes wouldn’t do full justice to the enormity of this team’s achievements.

At the Louis Armstrong Stadium, on Monday, the opening day of the U.S. Open, Dimitrov took on the number 7 seed, Gael Monfils. He lost in three, straight sets. The Frenchman, Monfils was too strong for the twenty-year-old Bulgarian. Yet, I left the arena not dazzled by Monfils’s typically ragged showmanship, but by the beauty of Dimitrov’s tennis.

I had up until the point, watched parts of, an old favorite, Tommy Haas’s match against Jonathan Dasnieres De Veigy of France in the new, impressive, Court No. 17, and I had seen Alejandro Falla overcome in five, thrilling sets, Victor Troicki at the Grandstand. The man I wanted to see, though, was Dimitrov. I had heard and read much about him and I had seen enough of him on the television to be convinced of his talent. But his game needs to be seen in its flesh – his lithe, graceful movement across the court, forever attacking and purposeful is a sight to behold.

In a day and age when counterpunching has become the norm, Dimitrov’s slick, aggressive tennis served as a welcome respite. His forehands are hit with an easy, relaxed motion, and a little snap at the end provides it with topspin, often very heavy. He is excellent at the net – his volleys are thoughtful and precise. But it is his backhand that is most remarkable. A more elegant stroke, bar Richard Gasquet’s backhand, you will not see in men’s tennis today. He hits it with a single hand, often on the rise, leaning forward in a handsome posture and he finishes with a flourish.

The single handed backhand has both its strengths and weaknesses. It obviously gives the player greater reach, but returning high, deep balls with heavy topspin can often be difficult. It is a weakness that Rafael Nadal has exploited on countless occasions against Roger Federer. But Dimitrov, against Monfils, seemed capable of dealing with such balls with relative ease. He was able to stand up on his toes and direct his backhand with both adequate topspin and power.

His backhand slice is also equally exquisite. But that he seldom uses it is certainly a sign of his confidence in striking the ball on that wing. It was clear that he liked to strike first – to take his game to the opponent. He is no counterpuncher. He thrills with his stroke play, unafraid of aiming for the most acute angles.  In the end, his attacking game might have brought about his downfall, on this occasion – there were far too many unforced errors. But this was only his first U.S. Open.

The US Open moved from its Forest Hills venue to the Billie Jean King National Tennis Center in 1978 at Flushing Meadows and has since then been played on hard courts. The venue has seen the tournament grow into a commercial behemoth. The place palpably lacks a sense of history; it has a plastic feel to it – you don’t get the impression that a John McEnroe or a Chris Evert once strode there with imperious grace.

There are, however, snippets of the past to consume if you are willing to walk into areas that are otherwise barren, such as the ‘Court of Champions,’ which celebrates the past winners with dedicated plaques, located near the South Gate. Even that, though, is essentially unimpressive. And barring that, all you will see is food stalls selling pretzels and pizzas, the official merchandise store selling t-shirts and caps, all at exorbitant prices.

In brief, you don’t get the feeling that you’re in a place truly historic. Yes, the arena is relatively new, but the tournament isn’t, and you would have thought greater emphasis would have been placed on its cultural significance. Sadly, however, the place brims with commercial garishness and does little justice to the repute of the event that it stages.

***

That’s enough of the rant, though. As gaudy as the arena was, the tennis was beautiful. I had the chance to recall, the late, David Foster Wallace’s brilliant essay on the physics and metaphysics of tennis, titled “The String Theory.” In the paper – which I rate as one of the best pieces of writing that I’ve ever read on the sport – Wallace writes about the experience of watching Michael T. Joyce, then a top hundred player, at the qualifying rounds of the Canadian Open in Montreal. He deconstructs the game, with gorgeous delight, to explain the thin margins that separate a very good player from a truly great one.

Consider this paragraph for instance:

“Even more illuminating than watching pro tennis live is watching it with Sam Aparicio. Watching tennis with him is like watching a movie with somebody who knows a lot about the technical aspects of film: He helps you see things you can’t see alone. It turns out, for example, that there are whole geometric sublevels of strategy in a power-baseline game, all dictated by various PBers’ [read: power-baseliners] strength and weaknesses. A PBer depends on being able to hit winners from the baseline. But, as Sam teaches me to see, Michael Chang can hit winners only at an acute angle from either corner. An “inside-out” player like Jim Courier, though, can hit winners only at obtuse angles from the center out. Hence, wily and well-coached players tend to play Chang “down the middle” and Courier “out wide.” One of the things that make Agassi so good is that he’s capable of hitting winners from anywhere on the court — he has no geometric restriction. Joyce, too, according to Sam, can hit a winner at any angle. He just doesn’t do it quite as well as Agassi, or as often.”

Wallace also posits that television doesn’t let you “appreciate what real top-level players can do.” I couldn’t agree more. I have seen a few of them play at the Chennai Open and the power and the accuracy of their strokes boggles the mind. This, though, was a different opportunity for me. I was going to see some very good players from really close quarters. In some cases I was going to be at a distance no longer than six feet from the tramlines.

First up, I visited court 9. Estonia’s Jurgen Zopp was playing Sergei Bubka, the son of the legendary, world-record holding, pole-vaulter, Sergey. Bubka, 24, has been on the tour for many years now, struggling to break into the top echelons. He is ranked just outside the top 200 and has never made it to a Grand Slam main draw. As one would only expect, he is athletically built and on the evidence of this match, he has a strong serve and is particularly good on his backhand wing, which he hits with a double-handed hold. He is even capable of jumping onto it, a la Marat Safin, and hitting it with serious venom.

Bubka steamrolled Zopp in the first set, winning it 6-3, in just 25 minutes. It was only the first round of qualifying, but he seemed a class apart. His first serves were quick and placed at the edge of the service box and his second were swerving and clever.

In the second set, Zopp found greater rhythm. Bubka was still the superior player, holding his service games with ease and stretching Zopp on his. But Zopp, somehow managed to hold on to his serves, and took the set to a tiebreak. In it, the Ukrainian’s class again shone through. There were difficult moments to counter, but he served with rare confidence and took the tiebreak 7-5.

Watching from the side, I was astonished at the sheer pace of Bubka’s groundstrokes. If this was how hard the World’s 210^th ranked player could hit the ball, I wondered how good the truly great players were. The margins, though, must be really thin. It cannot be merely be a case of power. While Bubka, can hit backhands on the run with amazing power and accuracy 7 times out of 10, maybe Djokovic and Nadal can make it 9 out of 10 times. Regardless, I was watching someone who is exceedingly good in his craft even if he was just short of being a great player.

***

After Bubka was through, I shifted my attention to court no. 4 where France’s Arnaud Clement, once ranked as high as no. 10, was to play Canada’s Frank Dancevic. Clement is now ranked 154 in the world, while Dancevic is 183^rd.  Clement reached the finals of the Australian Open in 2001, losing in straight sets to Andre Agassi. Incidentally en route to that final he defeated a young Roger Federer. He has also reached the quarterfinals of Wimbledon and the US Open in the past.

He is short for a tennis player – only 1.72 meters tall – but his calves are muscular. He is essentially a counterpuncher – his style involves scurrying across the baseline and making the opponent play one ball more than he would like to.

Frank Dancevic, is Canada’s third best player. He was ranked 65^th in the world in 2007. But, since then troubled by back problems, his ranking has plummeted. Nonetheless, he looks a proper tennis player, athletically built, standing at 1.85 meters. He plays too, as I found out soon, beautifully.

The bleachers on Court 4 were filling up. Even though Clement was, arguably, the biggest draw of the qualifiers, the crowd was surprisingly large. Dancevic, however, was the one who shone brightest. He served hard and accurately and made Clement work very hard in his service games, pushing him around the court and dominating imperiously.

Dancevic’s backhand, I must say, is a thing of beauty. I have a particular predilection for single-handed backhands, and Dancevic’s, regardless of his ranking, was one that stood out for its sheer magnificence. Often the ball seemed to stand still, as he readied himself to stroke his backhand.

Time is often the decisive factor that separates the good from the great. Dancevic certainly had the goods on his backhand wing. He could slice it delicately, either dropping it just over the net or deep into one of the corners, with sharp spin; he could hit it flat with pace and accuracy, increasing the tempo of the point; or he could hit it with top spin, sliding the racquet head up and over the ball when striking it.

Dancevic dominated, nearly, from start to finish, winning the match 6-3, 6-3, breaking Clement’s serve four times and allowing himself to be broken only once. I had expected to watch Clement showcase his artistry, but I was nevertheless satisfied at watching, from such close quarters, a player strike his backhand with rare elegance. I suspect had Dancevic not been plagued with injuries, we may have been hearing of him more now.

***

I also watched Lithuania’s twenty-one-year-old Richard Berankis disposing off Spain’s Guillermo Alcide 6-2, 6-2 in just three-quarters of an hour. Berankis is certainly one for the future – he varies his rallies by sometimes going for power and at other times opting to change the rhythm with little slices and dabs.

France’s Caroline Garcia, who was ever so close to upsetting Maria Sharapova in the French Open, though, came up a cropper against Russia’s Regina Kulikova. Garcia won the first set, looked in fine touch, serving well and finding corners of the court with remarkable ease. But Kulikova upped her game in the second and third sets, even as Garcia’s own game began to wane. Still only eighteen, however, Garcia showed enough skill to suggest that she is likely to make a definite impact on the women’s game in the future.

***

The day, though, wasn’t only about the qualifying rounds. I saw Andrea Petkovic practice with her coaches at Louis Armstrong and she struck the ball with so much power and with so much style that I could sit there watching for hours. Robin Soderling and Mikhail Youzhny played a practice match, a little later, on the same court. Soderling, suffering in recent times with a wrist injury, certainly looked a bit off, not hitting the ball with as much as power as one is accustomed to seeing from him. Youzhny, however, made for a sublime sight, with his single-backhanded backhand glittering in the radiant sunshine. Somdev Devvarman and Janko Tipsarevic had a hit at the Grandstand stadium with the Serb pummeling the Indian from the back of the court. Somdev had his moments, but for the most part, Tipsarevic was utterly dominant.

At the end of it all, I was left a little stunned. I knew these players hit the ball with great power and found angles of geometric brilliance. But witnessing it from as close as I did, gave me a whole different perspective. Tennis, I have always thought, is the world’s most beautiful sport and any lingering doubts, have now been put firmly to rest.