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?

‘Sport is human life in microcosm’
—Howard Cosell

Sport and History have a lot in common. What can Lukas Rosol’s upset over Rafael Nadal at Wimbledon reveal about the way history works?

The writing of history and sportswriting might not appear to share too much at first thought. Historians sit in quiet archives, calmly analysing documents revealing past events and dynamics, thoughtfully arranging them into causative and explanatory patterns, trying to answer how things came to be the way they were. History itself moves quickly, but history-writing is a slow process: not only does it take a long time but historians also prefer to wait until events are quite a bit past to analyse them (a guiding element of this project). Sportswriters on the other hand live and work first-hand, either on-site or watching events as they unfold, instantly having to react to the quick-moving, dramatic, competitive world of sports. Explanations and judgements are more proximate, causation more easily revealed by the fact that sport will, unlike history, always produce clear winners and losers. Sport is considered a pretty crude metaphor for historical events, its black-and-white, A vs B, winner and loser simplicity hardly an accurate reflection of history, the infinite shades of grey.

But historians are missing out on sport (and not just because it is thrillingly, exhilaratingly, gloriously, endlessly fascinating, entertaining and exciting: most academics would prefer a nice book). Sport may produce simple contrasts, inherent confrontations, and simple outcomes, but sportswriting and history-writing do mostly the same thing: they try to explain causes (both proximate and long term), examine patterns, build narratives, build up or tear down or analyse iconic heroes and villains, focus on the micro story or pull back to the wider picture, and above all, explain why a certain thing happened instead of all the other possibilities, to tell a story which answers that most human of questions, “why?”.

At Wimbledon last week, Lukas Rosol beat Rafael Nadal in five sets on Centre Court. Rosol is ranked 100, whereas Nadal is ranked 2. Rosol has never won a tournament on the ATP Tour; Nadal has won 50. In nine years as a professional Rosol has never been ranked in the world’s top 60; Nadal has spent nearly seven years ranked either 1 or 2. Before Wimbledon began Rosol had won three matches at Grand Slam tournaments in his whole career; Nadal has won 11 Grand Slam titles. Rosol had never before qualified for the 128-man main draw at Wimbledon before this week; Nadal is a two-time Wimbledon champion, the winner of perhaps the greatest match in The Championships’ history (the 2008 Final).

The two men are from different classes of talent and achievement, different worlds of experience, wealth, and fame. Rosol is not a classy veteran hoping for a last hurrah, not a dangerous dark horse who sometimes springs an upset, not a rising talent who impresses the pundits, not an exciting wunderkind, not even a developing young player (he’s nearly a year older than Nadal). To tennis journalists, the fashioners of the sport’s narratives, he is an invisible extra, without even an entry in the ATP Tour’s media guide of player information, not even worthy of the backhanded compliment ‘journeyman’.  In the cold-hearted terms of professional sports, he is nothing, nobody.

And he was playing Rafael Nadal, sporting legend, at Wimbledon, on Centre Court. When Nadal won the first set, some time-pressed tennis journalist probably switched attention to another court, or headed to the interview room to hunt out a story. The intelligent analysis was that Nobody was not going to trouble Nadal. Rosol seemed blissfully unaware of the script, and hit some great shots, surprisingly going up two sets to one. But Nadal roared back to take the fourth set 6-2. Twilight was giving way to dusk and the players took a break to allow the roof and lights to be turned on for the final set.  All the intelligent analysis predicted Nadal would now win the match, as the intelligent analysis had of course predicted at the start: all the important factors – class, talent, momentum, ability to deal with pressure – favoured Nadal. An entertaining late evening cameo from Nobody, but it was all over. As the players waited for the lights to come on, the sports fan watching on TV might have switched to the Euro 2012 semifinal. The up tight man in Row G might have looked at his watch and said to his wife that maybe now was a good time to beat the rush to the Tube.

Somehow, though, the intelligent analysis was wrong. Rosol didn’t wilt under the Centre Court lights; instead he became utterly possessed. He played the fifth set as if in a trance, thundering 20 winners (5 full games of them) past Nadal. Every time it seemed that he might get nervous, Rosol swiped another winner. By the time Rosol had thundered through the final game with three aces, the word ‘historic’ was filling the mouths and keyboards of tennis journalists. Was this the biggest upset in Wimbledon history? How could something so unusual happen? The shocked analysts agreed that this had no explanation, it defied analysis. Rosol won because…he won. This was a lightning strike, a freak, a black swan.

Black swans are random occurrences, unexplainable and unpredictable.[1] Nassim Taleb has argued that The Black Swan is history’s fatal flaw. Only by looking at history in hindsight, with a Platonic desire for narratives and explanations do historians make events look like they follow patterns with underlying causes. A ‘hotel journalism’ of the  academic archives, a deluded research programme following hindsight bias, retrospective distortion, and group-thinking ‘clusters’ of thinking and source-selection cause historians to ‘reverse engineer’ history into causative narratives when in reality ‘history does not crawl, it jumps’.

This is clear because history hides The Black Swan: the most dramatic, radical, important historical events are those which are totally unpredictable, those which defy historians’ attempts to create explanations. Black Swans are not ‘the exception proving the rule’, or distracting blips in historical progress, or dramatic froth over deeper historical waves, they are central to history, the events shouting out that the Emperor has no clothes. Historians can’t accept that the world is more complicated and random than is explainable: “Nobody knows what’s going on”. Others who believe in history’s explanatory power still see the Black Swan as a flaw in the way historians work: Niall Ferguson has commented that historians too often search for underlying linear explanations of events instead of accepting that their proximate triggers can ‘explain the sudden shift from a good equilibrium to a bad mess’.

There is undoubtedly some truth in this. Far too often hindsight bias does indeed make history look more explainable and predictable than it really is. Historians can reverse engineer an explanation for the French Revolution, or the Holocaust, casting them in a long sweep of narrative and cause, but they were still historically unthinkable events, and Taleb (and Karl Popper) would argue that historicising them denies that unthinkability. Good history, though, is not inherently incapable of dealing with Black Swans: exogenous and endogenous, thinkable and unthinkable, predictable and random, can all be integrated into a match report or a historical argument. But Black Swans will always be a historical problem.

Sport has no problem with Black Swans. Nadal was admirably philosophical in his post-match comments. When asked how he could explain such an incredibly unlikely result. Nadal shrugged: ‘That’s sport. You win, you lose.’ Rosol agreed: ‘It’s sport. Nobody’s unbeaten. Everybody can lose and everybody can win’. Unpredictability helps add to sport’s excitement, its drama. In many ways The Black Swan is the most thrilling of all sporting outcomes, either as an unbelievable upset, or as an outcome which somehow totally defies all narrative. Bill Simmons recently wrote about Larry Bird’s final shot in Game 4 of the 1987 NBA Finals:

‘I would have bet anything that the shot was ripping through the net. I would have bet my baseball card collection. I would have bet my Intellivision. I would have bet my virginity. I would have bet my life. Even the Lakers probably thought it was going in. Watch the tape and you will notice Lakers backup Wes Matthews crouched on the floor and screaming behind Bird in sheer, unadulterated terror like he’s about to watch someone get murdered in a horror movie. You will hear the fans emit some sort of strange, one-of-a-kind shrieking noise, a gasping sound loosely translated as, “Holy shit, we are about to witness the greatest basketball shot ever!” Hell, you can freeze the tape on the frame before the ball strikes the rim. It looks like it’s going in. It should have gone in.

It didn’t go in.

…[After the buzzer] my father looked at me.

“That was supposed to go in,” he groaned. “How did that not go in?”

More than twenty-two years have passed since that night … and I still don’t have an answer for him. For everything else, I have answers.’

For the sports writer such moments are part of the glory of sport, the reason every sportsfan in the world will effectively wear a blindfold and ear plugs to avoid the result of a game if he’s going to watch it later: no one knows what’s going to happen. For a historian looking back on a past event where a historical argument says something should have happened, whatever model or argument upon which that assumption rests is obviously flawed. But that difference between future and past uncertainty is the flaw of The Black Swan: perhaps the randomness of the event means we cannot explain why the ball didn’t go in, but we still want answers. In the historian’s gut, The Black Swan’s most extreme criticism of history – ‘nobody knows what’s going on’ – is as heretical as telling a scientist that an unexplained physical phenomenon is a mystery, or the work of angels: a cop-out which responds to the difficulties of history, the challenges of intellect, by throwing one’s hands up and saying “it is written”, “who knows?”.

People yearn to understand why things happen. “Why?” is the most human of all questions, the question, in many ways, which makes us human: historians are adults following the lead of the child who continues to ask “Why?” to every parental answer, unconvinced by a jaded “because”. While The Black Swan Problem is undoubtedly a challenge for history, the fact that we cannot explain the historically unthinkable in an endogenous model, or explain why Bird missed the shot, or how Rosol beat Nadal, is not evidence of history being a random series of ‘one damn thing after another’. It’s evidence that history, like sports, is cast with people, humans – complex, unpredictable, contradictory. A human history is one which does not see The Black Swan as either the abberation outside the narrative or the randomness which shows that narratives are damaging. A human history delights in the challenge of explaining. When asked to explain his performance, Rosol commented that for all the records and results, “it’s always open. It’s sport. Nobody’s unbeaten. Everybody can lose and everybody can win…We’re just people. We’re just humans.” In sport, in history, just people, just humans.

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[1] Nassim Taleb, The Black Swan: The Impact of the Highly Improbable (New York: 2007).

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[This post originally appeared in "A History of the Present"]

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[The cover picture is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license and is attributed to  Rl91]

In the final set, von Cramm speeds to a 3-1 lead, his tactics look sound, but Budge recovers superbly and ultimately succeeds 8-6. Quite conceivably, the German’s strategy of preserving energy for the deciding set was misjudged, but it was one that had worked wonderfully in the past not least for him, but for Budge too, and it was one that he had no choice but to deploy. We don’t hear of such approaches in modern-day tennis, but to believe that they are redundant would be erroneous.

It is, perhaps, safe to assume that such a method was not in Novak Djokovic’s mind at the start of the match. He would have merrily taken a straight sets victory. In the second set, he had come as close to perfection as is imaginable against Rafael Nadal. He was able to scurry across the back of the court chasing improbable balls that would have been winners against any other player, and was able to return them not so much with mere interest and purpose, but with glorious certitude.

Yet, he was broken early in the third set. His concentration levels had dropped, as is only normal after two sets of scintillating tennis, and Nadal was now beginning to exert his authority. Djokovic chose not to consume excessive energy in aiming to get back into the set. Instead he focused his efforts on beginning the fourth set in optimum physical condition. Having allowed Nadal a way back into the match early in the third set, he had two options, either to keep his efforts up and aim at breaking Nadal back – which looked unfeasible at the time considering how well Nadal was serving – or to drop his levels a bit, and ensure that he retained enough energy to launch a more sustained attack in the fourth set. He, wisely, chose the latter and broke early in the fourth to go up two games to love.

Nadal’s physical condition had, by then, understandably slumped – he had worked consistently hard throughout the first three sets – whereas Djokovic was able to find renewed vitality. Had Djokovic chased Nadal in the third set and had he failed, which was very conceivable considering the Spaniard’s improved game, both players would have begun the fourth set in almost identical physical condition. As it stood, Djokovic was the more relaxed; he was able to restore the rhythm to his game and although Nadal broke back in the set, fortuitously, the Serb’s newfound confidence meant that in his superior physical state, the victory was almost inevitable. He broke Nadal’s serve again at 4-3, served and volleyed at a tricky time at thirty-all in the next game and won his first Wimbledon, a big fat cherry that now sits atop his status as the world’s new number one player.

Yesterday, Andy Murray dazzled for a set and three games, serving with pace and precision and whipping his forehands with audacious venom and spin. One would have been forgiven for thinking that he may finally step out of the shadow of Fred Perry whose name has hung over every British player that has taken the court since his retirement. But at 2-1 in the second set of his semi-final, with Rafael Nadal serving at 15-30, Murray missed a sitter of a forehand, sending it long when it would have been easier to find a winner. With that the damage had been done. From that point, Nadal won seven games in a row, a stretch that saw him win the second set and take an early break in the third; a stretch from which Murray never recovered.

Let’s set aside Murray’s British roots for a moment – even if it perhaps has something to do with his frailties. His pure abilities as a tennis player can at times be a joy to behold, as it indeed was in the opening phases of his tie against Nadal. When playing with confidence, Murray’s coverage of the court is incomparable; he has a happy knack of finding funky angles that even the very best find difficult to counter. He can hit his double-handed backhand with depth and pace, and is equally capable of removing the left hand to play delicious slices that are often devious in their execution. His forehand is a more rugged weapon, harsher and tougher to counter when in full tilt, but vulnerable when his confidence dips. Yesterday, its vagaries were in abundant evidence.  When in command, it was his chief weapon, but when his conviction waned at 2-1 in the second set, it was the forehand that let him down. In the very next game, Murray placed an easy overhead long, on break point, to hand the initiative to Nadal; a grip which the Spaniard never let slip.

Murray continued to go for broke in the games that followed – a strategy, which worked wonderfully in the first set. This, though, isn’t his natural game. He likes to dab and slice, slow the pace of the point and use his nous rather than power to outmanoeuvre opponents. For as long as it fell his way, it seemed the right way to play, but having taken the lead, the tactic ultimately proved injudicious. He needed to settle down into a rhythm, one in which he could dictate the tempo of the match, not by muscling the ball, but by forcing Nadal to create his own pace. By the time he was able to get back on board, though, the Spaniard had wrested control. Nadal had begun to unleash his groundstrokes – particularly his forehand – with outrageous portions of topspin, getting the ball to kick off the grass with biting venom.  He showed the mind of a champion, one whose focus never seems to waver. Murray, on the other hand, having displayed incredible skill in the opening phases, sank deeper into a quagmire of his own doing. His tactics needed to be more exact. And even more importantly, he needed to realise that one poor forehand is hardly the end of it.

Nadal broke twice in the third set and once in the fourth, winning them 6-2, 6-4 and sealing a place in the final against Novak Djokovic. Gracious as ever he said after the match: “Andy Murray today didn’t win a Grand Slam, but he’s a much better player than a lot of players who have won Grand Slams in the past.” Murray has two options – either to feel sorry for himself that he is playing in one of the most competitive eras of men’s tennis or to work harder, not merely on his tennis skills, but on his mind, which had it remained strong, he may well have been the first Briton since Bunny Austin in 1938 to reach a Wimbledon final.

This year, Murray, had cruised into the second week, not so much serenely, but without unduly worrying hiccups. Gasquet, the inscrutable genius blessed with the most divine backhand had had a hitherto more comfortable run, losing not a single set in the first three rounds and playing with an amalgam of panache and composure that is not always typical of him. Murray, though, not only needed to win, but also had to do so with a comfort that would ensure that he has enough left in the tank for potentially bigger challenges to come. This as both history and current form suggested would be no easy task.

But starting a whole hour or so earlier, on one of the show-courts was eighteen-year-old qualifier Bernard Tomic’s tie against Belgium’s Xavier Malisse – a talented stroke maker and former semi-finalist at Wimbledon. I’d seen Tomic dismantle Feliciano Lopez at the Australian Open this year with a blend of power and intelligence that belied a player of his age; before falling to Nadal in the third round in, what must be said, respectable fashion. Tomic – much to the dismay of the Australian tennis authorities – plays very little on the professional tour, with his father insisting that he be slowly nursed into the big stage. His service action is rudimentary at best, but through what is seemingly a strange happenstance, he finds both remarkable pace and angle on it. Especially on the deuce court to right handers, where he gets the ball to curve away from the receiver’s forehand, opening up the court beautifully for him to finish.

Although oozing with easy power, Tomic has the patience to work his way into points. He often uses little slices and dabs, runs his opponent ragged before pulling the trigger on what is usually a very flat and ferocious groundstroke. In the third round against Robin Soderling – one of the heaviest hitters on the tour – Tomic outmuscled him in the first set, before bizarrely changing his game plan in the second and third set only to be proved right. He frequently took the pace off his strokes, instead choosing to find particular spots on the court that would most trouble Soderling and waited either for an unforced error or the opportunity to unleash his own brand of the power game, one of which invariably occurred.

Against Malisse, Tomic was similarly impressive. An unconventional player blessed with the rare gift of timing, Tomic regularly made Malisse scamper across the court before finishing points with insouciant ease. For all his talents, however, what was most impressive about him was his poise on the big points. He never looked hurried, always giving the air of a man taking a gentle stroll on a promenade.

Having broken Malisse to pieces in a straight sets triumph, one would have thought the celebrations would be over-the-top, in line with modern-day practice, but Tomic seemed to consider the victory almost routine. Only Boris Becker, John McEnroe and Bjorn Borg have made the quarterfinals at Wimbledon at a younger age in the Open Era. Not bad company to keep.

***

Over then to the centre-court, where Murray and Gasquet played a high-quality first set, one which Gasquet dominated for most bits only to succumb in the tiebreak. In the early phases, Gasquet produced angle after angle of geometric brilliance, seemingly slicing Murray into dices, but the Scot kept at it, ensuring that he did enough to hold his serve. In the tiebreak, Murray upped his game, finding greater ferocity on his groundstrokes and in one rally at 4-3, he outplayed Gasquet on the backhand wing – no easy feat – alternating between delicate slices and his powerful two-hander and finding greater angle and greater depth with each stroke before muscling a winner into the open court. It was tactically superb and aesthetically even better. In the second and third set, Gasquet’s game unravelled, and Murray exhibited a greater sense of authority, breaking thrice in all, to take the match, 7-6, 6-3, 6-2.

Gasquet’s backhand is a thing of rare beauty. But his game, as is sometimes made to believe, isn’t only about the backhand. Admittedly he is comparatively frail on the forehand and has a serve that often lets him down, but he has an all-court game including fine volleying skills, which should ideally be helping him to win majors. But he lacks a champion’s edge, or more pertinently a champion’s mind, which as Louisa Thomas explains in this fine piece for Grantland is like having no mind at all.

***

On Court 1, immediately after Marion Bartoli had upset the odds with a victory over Serena Williams, Novak Djokovic took on France’s Michael Llodra, who continues to play a delightfully old-fashioned serve-and-volley game. But a style, which may have worked well against most opponents on grass, failed against Djokovic who is undoubtedly the finest return-of-server in the men’s game. Throughout the match, Djokovic looked like a player who could win the Championships this year – his movement was more assured with each passing point and his groundstrokes remained decidedly dazzling.

The contrasting styles of the two opponents, though, occasionally made for compelling viewing. Llodra picked many balls virtually off his shoelaces and placed them over the net like he was pitching a golf ball off a sand-bunker straight into the hole. Djokovic chased down balls with vigour and vitality before showcasing masterful racquet skills – proving yet again that there is no one better than him at turning defence into attack. Ultimately, the Serb proved too strong, emerging victorious in three straight sets, 6-3, 6-3, 6-3. Tomic, awaits in the quarterfinals.

***

Finally, over on centre court, World No. 1 Rafael Nadal was pitted against Juan Martin del Potro in, arguably, the fixture of the day. For much of the first set, the players muscled ball after ball from the baseline, Nadal’s hit with greater top spin, del Potro’s with greater savagery. All of this made for a wonderful exhibition, but when at 6-5 on set point, Nadal felt a twinge on one of his ankles, one expected del Potro to exert more authority. In the tiebreak that followed after a medical timeout, though, Nadal as is so often the case, found a way to win even in the most trying of circumstances.

The second set saw the gangly Argentine exert his will more; he found more punch off an already heavy forehand and I thought we had a classic on our hands. But Nadal is the old master at converting a potential classic into a damp squib, slowing down points by mixing his groundstrokes with potent amounts of spin and dip. He took the third set on a tiebreak before breaking at 3-2 in the fourth courtesy of a brace of astounding forehand returns. The solitary break was sufficient for the Spaniard as he served out at 5-4 for love. Nadal is due for an MRI on the injured ankle to see if he can continue, but regardless, as fine a player as Mardy Fish is on grass, I doubt he’ll give Nadal a sleepless night today.

Day one, though, was sedate enough, almost as if to ensure that our adrenaline is preserved for greater drama that will doubtless ensue later. Rafael Nadal, the defending men’s champion as tradition warrants, opened proceedings on centre court – although other matches had begun a whole hour earlier in the smaller arenas – against Michael Russell of the United States. Russell goes by the nickname Iron Mike due to his penchant for lifting heavy weights, but against Nadal the weight of his groundstrokes paled in comparison and he was imperiously knocked off in three straight sets. Nadal is now a two times champion at Wimbledon, but the improvements that he has made to his movement on the grass continues to amaze. He isn’t inherently suited for grass like Federer who glides across it with an air of majesty, but having adapted to the surface’s vagaries his pace across the court and his natural shot making ability sufficiently negate any intrinsic weaknesses.

Venus Williams, over on court two – not the old cursed court two which has now become court three – saw off Akgul Amanmuradova with ease. It wasn’t so much her tennis that caught the attention, though, but her attire, which the Telegraph’s Mark Hodgkinson said was the “closest that anyone has ever come to wearing a cut-off toga to this garden party.” You can judge for yourself.

Also on day one, Andy Murray – ‘carrying the weight of a nation on his shoulders’ – overcame a first set loss to oust Daniel Gimeno-Traver of Spain under the 100 million pound roof on Centre Court. Murray’s performance didn’t cause the jaw to drop, but upon settling down his pleasing array of little lobs and drops were in abundant evidence.

***

Day two certainly saw an upscale in the story quotient. First on centre-court was Serena Williams, who hadn’t played a Grand Slam since winning Wimbledon last year. Bouts of depression followed and Serena says she went through a near-death experience four months back – suffering from pulmonary embolism in February with clots on both her lungs. Against France’s Aravane Rezai she was far from her best, but recovered, as she often tends to do after a first set loss, and powered her groundstrokes in characteristically domineering fashion. Her harrowing break began with an injury to the foot – the cause of which she herself is unaware of – and continued onto the surgery that was required to remove the clots on her lungs. Anyway, she’s back now and still looks the best player in the world. And with Venus in the other side of the draw, who’d say no to an all Williams clash in the final.

Roger Federer, Novak Djokovic and Maria Sharapova, in that order, followed Serena onto centre court and each enjoyed easy straight sets victories. It was the match fourth up on the new court three, though, that everyone was waiting for. John Isner and Nicholas Mahut having played a remarkable eleven-hour match last year that stretched over three days before Isner prevailed 70-68 in the fifth set had through a weird play of fate been drawn against each other. Isner came through yet again, though in far more normal circumstances, 7-6, 6-2, 7-6 – not the most engaging of contests, but its history certainly added to the fascination.

***

First up on centre court on day three was, perhaps, the story of the tournament thus far. Forty-year-old – yes you read that right – Kimiko Date Krumm was up against Venus Williams in the second round. Date Krumm retired in 1996 – a year in which she reached the semi-finals of Wimbledon and a year in which she was still Kimiko Date. Since then, she has married German racer Michael Krumm before making a remarkable return to the game twelve years after her retirement.

In her earlier stint, I must admit, I was scarcely her fan , for the same reasons expounded in this lovely piece by Louisa Thomas in Grantland. Kimiko in 1996 played Steffi Graf in the semi-final and she had the audacity to take a set off Graf! Not something that went down well, I am sure, with most fans. Nonetheless, her display against Venus Williams – although she ultimately came a cropper in the deciding set – was amongst the most charming I’ve seen in quite some time. Not merely because of her ability to compete at her age, which is no doubt inspirational, but her style of tennis which was a throwback to a bygone era. She thrillingly served and volleyed, chipped, lobbed and dropped and left Venus befuddled in a first set, which she took through a tiebreaker. Ultimately her age and fitness meant that Venus’s game based on brute force – albeit a nous-filled one – would prevail. But it showed that there is still a place for the ‘old-fashioned’ style on grass and that it is a viable tactic even against the hardest of hitters.

Also on day three, Andy Roddick, Nadal, Murray and Tomas Berdych, all potential quarterfinalists sailed into the third round with little fuss. So too did Czech Petra Kvitova, who with her beautiful ball-striking abilities could be a dangerous opponent to encounter in the second week.

***

Lleyton Hewitt is well past his best. He isn’t anywhere near the force that he was when he won Wimbledon in 2002. But he remains a great competitor – forever plucky and tenacious. Against fifth seed Robin Soderling, yesterday, on day four, he pulled off the first two sets through typical counter-punching brilliance amid several screams of ‘come-on,’ which strangely have lost their annoying twang – maybe it’s because of my own tolerance of the aged contestant. In sets three, four and five, though, all of which were closely fought, Soderling prevailed, eventually finding depth, angle and timing on his extraordinarily fierce groundstrokes. This may be the last time we see Hewitt play on the hallowed grass of SW 19 and it was a performance that even if ultimately unsuccessful, glowingly displayed many of his admirable traits.

Hewitt-Soderling was followed by another match where character and guts were in plentiful display. Li Na, coming off her recent triumph at Roland Garros faced Germany’s wildcard entrant Sabine Lisicki. A quarterfinalist in 2009, Lisicki was seemingly destined to rise into the top echelons of the women’s game, but an ankle injury reduced her to walking on crutches for seven weeks and sent her ranking plummeting below 200. A victory at Birmingham leading up to Wimbledon saw her secure a wildcard, a decision, which now looks richly deserved. Li picked up the first set 6-3 and looked good for a simple victory, but a combination of huge serving – one of her aces was recorded at 122 miles per hour – and magnificent striking off the forehand wing saw Lisicki come back to take sets two and three 6-4, 8-6. This would usually be a cue for me to berate the quality of some of the top ranked women players, but this was an occasion on which the tennis, particularly in the latter phases, was of superb quality.

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 was at Wimbledon, after all, that I fell in love with Stefan Edberg. My family wasn’t tennis-crazy, but my Grandfather in those days watched the sport, and particularly Wimbledon with rapt devotion. It was a time when the Becker-Edberg rivalry was at its zenith. I was too young to have an idea about the mechanics of the sport, but a choice had to be made between the pair. I would be giving myself undeserved credit if I were to say that it was the regal elegance of the Swede’s play that made me chose him over the German, but I doubt I was prone to such aesthetic-minded decisions at that age. For some reason or the other, though, Edberg, playing in his classic Adidas kit, captured my imagination like none before or since. To this day, when I watch re-runs of Edberg playing, I am glad, and even proud, that I made the right choice – for no player more artistically pleasing has ever graced the sport. Somehow, my earliest memories of Edberg have nothing to do with his actual on-court skills, but the jump over the net that he made to greet his opponent who would surely have been slain with sinuous, easy grace.

To me Edberg’s tennis epitomised beauty. His classical service action – which is now used as the Australian Open’s logo – I tried replicating on the courts on many occasions, only for the attempts to end in glorious failure. His single-handed backhand was again a thing of beauty – often hit with the perfect amalgam of power, timing and placement. It was at the net, though, that he was at his finest. A more competent, finessed volley-er you will not see. He struck volleys on both wings with crisp ease that they were bizarrely both imperious and languid. To me the numbers matter little. Perhaps, his six Grand Slam titles do little justice to his talents, but it was his style of play that I was in thrall with. In fact, very soon after I became an Edberg fan, he was on the decline – he won the last of his Grand Slams in 1992 at Flushing Meadows, a tournament which I remember even if not vividly with much fondness.

The era of the Americans – Pete Sampras, Jim Courier and Andre Agassi – had arrived. Outlandishly, though, it wasn’t anyone from this triumvirate that I supported, but it was the other American Michael Chang who caught my fancy. I am not as proud of this choice for Chang was but a baseline slugger. He retrieved balls from every corner of the court and counter-punched with magnificent vigour. His game was scarcely suited to the serene grass of Wimbledon and as I was not old enough to watch him win at Roland Garros in 1989 – ironically he defeated Edberg in the final – my time as his fan never saw him win anything substantial.

Sampras had, by now, begun to dominate tennis, and particularly Wimbledon, with tedious, yet impeccable excellence. Those around me were left in awe by the American’s play, but I remained dogged in my opposition – excellence isn’t necessarily a trait that one identifies with when growing up. I needed a player to counter his machine-like efficiency and again my choice was curious. The enigmatic Goran Ivanišević was a popular player, but one who was ultimately flawed. He could serve with monstrous power and remarkable accuracy, but his game was otherwise limited. The Croat lost in the final at Wimbledon in 1992 to Agassi – in a five set humdinger – and in 1994 and 1998 to Sampras who polished him off during the big-points like he was swatting a fly.

Tragedy and Ivanišević rarely seemed too far apart, but his tennis had a magnetic pull to it. One wanted to be attached to his solitude, to feel the catastrophe of his losses. There was something innately human about him, as much as there was something robotic about Sampras. And when in 2001, the Croat, as a wildcard entrant, hiccupped his way into the final against Patrick Rafter, the stage was set for the ultimate tennis story. After five sets of gruelling, heart-wrenching tennis, Ivanišević clinched his first and only Wimbledon, 9-7 in the decider. It was a titanic struggle, but the victory was amongst the sweetest I have experienced as a fan of the sport.

This, the last paragraph from Guardian’s game-by-game report of the 2001 final captures beautifully the concluding moments and the sweet joy of Ivanišević’s victory:

“Drama, drama. This game encapsulates Goran. A bad decision sees him go 0-15. Then a double-fault to take it to 15-30. Then a second service ace at 116mph. 30-30: he calls for the same ball. He aces it to give him championship point. The crowd have gone ballistic. Goran is weeping. Boom. Is it an ace? No, it’s out. And then he double-faults. On match point! Deuce. A big serve gives him the advantage. Guess what? Yup – another double-fault! Rafter pushes one down the line. But it’s out and Goran goes to his knees and lifts his eyes to heaven. He kisses the ball. But what nerve and presence of mind from Rafter to lob from there. And so perfectly. Deuce. But another chance for Goran. He asks for the same ball again. Rafter puts it into the net. GORAN’S WON.”

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.