By Bill Simons
Whether you call it the flavor of the week or the theme du jour. the collective wisdom was clear: The tide in our game was, at long last, turning.
The times, they were a changin’. The vice grip of the Big Four—Nadal, Djokovic, Federer and Murray—was now loosening. It was the dawning of a new age. Goodness, Federer wasn’t even the No. 1 player in Switzerland anymore. The young Turks were rattling their sabres. So, in one press conference after another, the questions came:
“Is there a new, subtle change, an intangible feeling in the locker room?”
After all, Stan Wawrinka had scored a shock victory over Nadal at the Aussie Open.
“Do you now have a feeling,” came another query, “that those guys at the top are no longer invincible? That the [other] guys feel they finally have a shot?”
Didn’t young Milos Raonic just dismiss Andy Murray and didn’t Alexandr Dolgopolov just spank Nadal? A new day must be coming?
Such is the relentless power of the Big Four narrative. After all never before had a cadre of athletes so dominated a sport. The Big Four had won 32 of the last 34 of Slams. One of them had been No. 1 for over ten years, and the quartet had collected an astounding 27 of the last 28 Masters 1000 tourneys.
If that isn’t in-your-face dominance, what is? Still, we live in a disposable culture. Newspapers no longer matter. Don’t tell me your iPhone is a year old. From that point of view, the days of tennis’ Fab Four are on the wane.
But if ever there has been a proud player, an enduring champion who knows the dynamics of the game, it’s Roger Federer. He knows the media has long been critical of him. The London Times said that even in decline, he is the best ever. And that was six years ago. Federer knows the oh-so-slim margins in tennis, where belief, calm, confidence, and experience mean everything. Such is the difference between the Big Four and all the aspiring wannabes, the Tsongas, the Berdychs and maybe the Dimitrovs of this world.
Not surprisingly, a few days ago, Federer offered a “not so fast” cautionary note. It is great that these other guys are gaining in confidence, he said. But Novak and I are still in the draw. Let’s see what happens when the tournament is all over.
So, on a flawless afternoon—warm temperatures, no clouds, brown sun umbrellas, neon bright shirts—thousands of humble tennis fans and the game’s most generous billionaire (wearing a striking Panama hat) watched Federer’s power forehands, his underrated serve, his flex volleys, his balletic movement, and that poetic backhand—flat, slice, or topspin, down the line or crosscourt—go up against the man who has revolutionized the game with his astounding movement, agility, and sublime, quick-strike defense.
Novak Djokovic is a trim lean machine. Everything with the Serbian blaster seems so calibrated—a powerful sublime mechanic with a white hat. Okay, his sense of humor can be subtle, but his return of serve is in your face.
On this sublime California day, a certain Sunday sense of perfection—power and grace in the desert—sets in. Pinch yourself: It is good to be alive as the Euromasters each score singular breaks of serve, dividing the first two sets.
Then the Serbian—who recently lost to Federer in Dubai, but has been a warrior on a mission at Indian Wells—steps up and unleashes a fabulous forehand return off of a 123 mph Federer first serve, handcuffing the Swiss master of movement to secure a critical third-set break. Djokovic is in the lead and the match and the title are within his grasp.
The knowing Indian Wells crowd explodes in support of Roger as he opens a 15-30 lead. A critical break is possible. But Djokovic roars back to secure a 5-3 advantage, just a game away from the championship.
It’s crunch time, the question simple. Can Djokovic close? An approach shot drifts long: 0-15. An awkward forehand goes wide, well into the alley: 0-30 once again. A brave Federer crosscourt forehand kisses the line: 0-40.
Silence descends.
Have 16,841 Californians ever been so still? Two solitary figures cast silhouettes in the long late-afternoon shadows. Djokovic hits a forehand winner: 15-40. Then a simple Nole forehand drifts quietly wide into the waiting alley. An agonizing mistake for the Serb, but bliss for the Alpine wizard. The artist we adore has broken back. The woman in the stylish bonnet in the front row is beside herself—pure glee. The often somber statisticians, up high in the arena, dance happy jigs
Not only is Roger beloved, he is good. He holds his serve at love to grab a 6-5 lead. And the crowd explodes: Raw-jerr! Raw-jerr! “Mexico supports Roger” banners wave proud. Swiss flags show pride.
Now, Djokovic must hold serve or go home. He bravely counters the Federerian surge and lifts his game—as he’d done against Marin Cilic and John Isner—to win serve with ease.
Perhaps it only makes sense that in this year, when just about everyone’s fave tournament gave us stunning facility upgrades, the title should be decided by the ultimate in dramatic tension: a final-set tiebreak.
But then the inexplicable occurs.
The master—confident stride, calm demeanor, deep brown eyes—blinks. Yet another topspin backhand flies long: a mini-break right away for Nole. Then a Federer lob falls dreadfully short. Roger grimaces, such an error.
Another blanket of silence.
Next, Roger’s volley flies wide: Nole’s up 3-0. But Federer scores a 119 first serve winner. “C’mon!” squeals a desperate Roger fan from Newport Beach. But Roger nets an-oh-so-makable forehand. A “Nole! Nole!” chant rolls down from the western bleachers. Then Fed suffers yet another forehand error.
The master is being overwhelmed. Maybe it’s the six-year age difference, or a tricky wind that has picked up, or simply a matter of belief. Nole is up 5-1. Such effort and focus—fierce, unwavering.
But whoops, a Djokovic forehand flies long, 5-2. Then a simple Fed forehand finds the net. Disaster: 6-2, and Championship Point one. Federer uncorks one of his 108 mph aces to the corner: 6-3.
Championship Point two. More monastic silence, twelve Djokovician bounces, and a devastating anti-climax. The Mighty Fed dumps a simple backhand into the middle of the net.
Djokovic prevails, proud and happy. He raises his hands to the heavens, applauds the throng, and offers many a fist pump to no one in particular. Digging deep with unyielding commitment, he has secured his third BNP Paribas Open title, 3-6, 6-3, 7-6 (3).
And Roger—humbled, just for the moment—sits alone. Slightly stunned, sad in defeat, he flicks his hair, sorts through his towels, and orders his rackets.
Yet he knows a new order in tennis is not quite yet upon us. “One tournament doesn’t do it all for me yet,” he says later. “A few months ago people were saying I couldn’t play tennis anymore.”
Well, you know what? Roger Federer can still play tennis. Just ask Novak Djokovic.
