Yes, there is actually one thing wrong with Roger Federer.
He’s a lousy historian.
He claimed that 1936 – the year when a Brit last won a major – was 150,000 years ago.
Wrong, not even close Rog. Try 74 years. And, since then, in case you haven’t noticed, there have been many a stunning development in British history. A King abandoned his crown to marry an American gal. A nasty war was won, a vast empire lost. Brits were the first to climb the world’s highest mountain and break the four minute mile and a sleek Princess captured the hearts of royalists and rebels alike.
Now the hopes and dreams of the beloved British nation were in focus. All the homeland was asking was that there young lad – big Andy Murray of little Dunblane – bring down The Mighty Fed to win a major.
But, then again, climbing ole Everest might be easier.
After all, the Swiss man from the land of Heidi has arguably climbed to more summits then any other sportsmen in history. His standards are, shall we say, Himalayan.
His skill sets have actually been compared to DaVinci. His strokes have been likened to Picasso. His grace brings Baryshykov to mind. The man they say “can not avoid beauty,” is now the champion who can not avoid titles.
James Blake observed, “We’re all chasing Roger. It’s no secret. He’s playing head and shoulders above the rest of us. It’s gonna be tough for anyone to dethrone him. Roger is just a step above.” And that was four years ago.
A confounded English writer, Eleanor Preston, went further, wondering, “is it possible that Federer is the most perfect tennis player – the most perfect man – in the history of everything, ever?”
And all the British sports nation was asking was that Murray bring down the tennis God down from heavens.
Still, there was reason of hope. The Scot was one tough, just slightly inexplicable lad who survived an unspeakably wretched mass murder, was shipped off to a Spanish tennis factory, survived family dysfunction, smothering fans and the most in-your-face tennis press in the universe. All the while, he had bulked up and flexed his now considerable muscle. Reaching as high as No. 2 in the world, he seemingly was hitting his stride as the proud product of Britain’s (“if we could win World War II, we should be able to create a sporting champ”) tennis bureaucracy.
At the outset of the Aussie Open, many (including IT) picked him to win the whole thing. And why not?
Rested and prepared, he came early to Australia and swept by many, including Yankee giant John Isner, to sprint breathlessly into the second week in Melbourne without dropping a set. In the quarters he dismissed the defending champion, bull Rafa Nadal, in four sets and then, handily stopped the streaking Croat Marin Cilic (who only had beaten the likes of Juan Martin Del Potro and Andy Roddick to reach the semis.)
Murray was now getting in the habit of unleashing wonder shots of awe. Fans were astonished by his two sprinting “backhands for the ages” against Isner, plus an around the net post forehand (almost from New Zealand) and a behind the back forehand marvel that turned the Cilic war.
Beyond this, spinmeister Murray’s game was coming together. Reminiscent of Czech Miloslav Mecir (but with power), Murray delivered quite a package: signature backhand, brought-up-on-clay versatility, mercurial speed, savvy court smarts, an adept sense of the moment, ever-improving serve, good conditioning, option-friendly forehand and the best rope-a-dope tactics since Ali in the Congo. The best active player not to win a Slam, the Scotsmen seemingly had ample big match experience and yeah, we almost forgot, a winning (6-4) record against Roger the Magnificent.
So entering the final, Fed had reason to doubt. OMG, he hadn’t won a title since August. In his last Slam final, he had been out-powered at crunch time by Del Potro, who yes just happened to be another rising 21-year-old.
More recently, in Melbourne he actually had to work to get by the Russian journeyman Igor Andreev in the first round and struggled big-time to turn around his pesky neo-nemesis, Nikolay Davydenko, in what was called the craziest match of all time.
No wonder, before the final, Roger (seeming like a born-again Jimmy Connors) offered up the heftiest collection of trash talk of his career.
Noting Britain’s agonizing drought, he claimed all the pressure was on Murray. He actually played his mono card (noting that one of his losses to Andy came when he was recovering) and blithely explained that his past losses to Murray were sort of flukes. He piled on, recalling that Andy had lost his only slam final and added (in a triumph of immodesty) that in the AO final “he’s playing, you know, me, who’s won many Grand Slams… So I know what it takes and how to do it, which is definitely an advantage.”
And Roger indeed took advantage. Murray’s indifferent serve was less-than-punishing. Playing from far beyond the baseline and offering only rare flashes of conviction, he seemed adrift: tentative, too tight. One wondered, where’s the fire, the stacotto footwork, the belief?
In contrast, the Swiss champ quickly brushed aside his nerves and stepped in to crush a fearsome forehand to score an early break to nose ahead 2-0. The not-completely-brave Brit did break back, but Federer’s genius soon was in full flower in the eighth game. Not only did he serve punish, he created wristy, not risky, angled backhands to open the court and slapped forehands to again break Murray en route to collecting the first set 6-3.
The master class – contained, workingman-like, rather elegant, but just short of grand – was in session. Student Murray’s backhand proved only to have modest sting. Defensive and on the run, the Scot sprayed too many balls and created few wonder shots. Unlike Nadal, at his best, he couldn’t break down Fed’s occasionally vulnerable backhand and unlike del Potro he didn’t have a canon forehand to pummel the 28-year-old. Not only did Murray lose the second set 6-4, ESPN recalled a line from his rap song on the Bryan Bros.’ current CD: “My hand cramps up and my mind gets hazy.”
Still, to his great credit, Murray did awake to clear his head. Judy Murray’s youngest son is after all a tough lad, who was not about to meekly accept a Federerian beat down.
So the Scot stiffened and unleashed a statement forehand to break Roger to go up 4-2. Scottish flags flurred and there were cheers in Dunblane.
Still, Fed would break back to force a third set tie-break. Determined not to be a patsy, Murray quickly scored a mini-break in what proved to be a tense, enthralling (semi-classic) tiebreak. His backhand now offered it’s lethal bite, but then faltered. Like countryman Tim Henman before him, he hesitated at the moments of truth and failed to convert his first set point. Worse yet, on his second set point st 6-6, he called on his inner-Andy Roddick.
Like the American at Wimbledon, Murray had a rather delicious, makeable backhand volley to Federer’s open court which would have completely re-shaped the battle. But, like the Yank, he failed to deliver.
The high stakes tiebreak drama continued on the very next point as Fed’s forehand passing shot for the match missed by inches. Pheww!
Five times Murray would fail to convert set points. Ouch! But, then down 9-10, he sprinted swiftly — five desperate strides — to reach one of Fed’s mean ‘n nasty drop shots, poking a backhand flick which landed on the line to keep the battle alive.
But among his half a zillion skills, Fed knows how to close and when a standard rally Murray backhand meekly clipped the net, Roger scored his oh-so-sweet sixteenth Slam in 2:41: 6-3, 6-4, 7-6 (13-11). What a wonder, clean and glorious.
Yes, Murray now was the first player since the nearly forgotten Frenchman Cedric Pioline, to lose his first two Slams in straight sets. But at least the usually tactiturn Scotsman reeled off one of the great lines in Slam history. During the awards ceremony (which has become a weepy tradition), Murray barely held back a torrent of tears as he apologized to Britain’s long-suffering fans for failing to summit at the Aussie Open, adding that, “I can cry like Roger. It’s a shame that I can’t play like him.”
But then again Andy, nobody can, not even Da Vinci, Picasso or Baryshnikov.
