Are Fans Facing Extreme Climate Changes in the ATP?
By Bill Simons
We’re all hoping that climate change doesn’t smack us in the rear; that we can forever enjoy the cool breezes and the benign gradations of this giving Earth. But things aren’t that encouraging. Rising oceans, falling ice caps, freezing winters, scorching summers, diminishing fossil fuels and too many greenhouse gases, flash floods, inexplicable droughts, and yeah, the US Open was washed out for five straight years.
Some voices say not to worry. After all, it’s such a pretty day outside, and nothing so terribly wretched is going to happen in the next 70 years—so chill.
And it’s kind of like that in tennis.
It would be nice if the Golden Age of tennis, with the sublime Federer, Nadal, Djokovic, and Murray, would shine bright forever, like an unending afternoon. But all things must pass. Change—sometimes sweet, sometimes sour, ever present—is our only constant.
The beloved Fab Four remain the most feared names in the game, and they could easily prevail for years, or at least until the ’16 Rio Olympics. But, horror of horrors, their fortress-like dominance is, at last, revealing some curious (or are they ominous?) fissures. When Stan Wawrinka won the Aussie Open, it was only the second time in 18 Grand Slams that an uppity intruder from outside the Big Four had the audacity to prevail.
As our climate is divided into seasons, so, too, the tennis year has its different stretches, and for nine years, King Rafa Nadal has been the sovereign of clay. Never before has a single player dominated a season, a surface, and assorted tournaments so thoroughly.
You know the ritual. Every spring, when the ATP turns to the soft stuff, Nadal climbs into the driver’s seat. Like the swallows returning to Capistrano, the Majorcan returns to his wheelhouse. The man seems virtually unbeatable. The stats are overwhelming: 43 titles, including eight French Opens in nine years, and eight straight wins in Monte Carlo and Barcelona. You get the point: Just bow before the King, the best of all time. Here, the exception always proves the rule. When a zoning Robin Soderling scored a shock upset over Rafa at Roland Garros in 2009, the tennis world all but toppled off its orbit. The only French Open title that the otherwise superb Roger Federer has ever mustered came in the vacuum created by Rafa’s loss.
Sure, this year, Rafa was beaten in the Aussie Open final. He struggled in Indian Wells, and his meek showing in the Miami final was most un-Rafa-like. But in his world, these are almost preliminaries. Everyone knows that when the Tour de ATP cycles into Monte Carlo, the man takes off his gloves. Let’s get ready to rumble. It’s Rafa time. And, while he excels on all surfaces, no one so benefits from the tennis truism, “There is an invisible law, like a law of gravity, a law of clay—on clay, even the most complete player has less chance than a first-class clay-court specialist.”
So, what a shock it was when the plucky veteran, David Ferrer, who has long struggled in Rafa’s demoralizing shadow, at last overcame Nadal’s imposing topspin, relentless wheels, and fierce fighting spirit to turn around a 5-21 record against Rafa and dismiss him in the Monte Carlo quarterfinals. Similarly, in Barcelona, another superb Spanish careerist, Nicolas Almagro, reversed a 0-10 record against Nadal in the quarters.
While David Ferrer succinctly said, “Sometimes he can play not so good always,” that wasn’t good enough for tennis statisticians—their pencils sharp— who soon jostled for the limelight with the game’s best tea leaf readers. Before Monte Carlo, noted the nerds, Nadal had won 66 of his last 67 matches on red clay vs. Spaniards. Then he lost two of three matches to his countrymen. In Barcelona, he dropped a set for the first time in six years. His loss against Ferrer was his first there since he was fifteen years old and ranked No. 96. Eleven different men have won clay court titles this season.
All the while, analysts noted that, due to hand and back problems, Rafa has not been able to get into a winning rhythm this year. “Watch Nadal in 2014,” suggested Jon Wertheim, “And you do not see a champion. You see a player unsure of himself … This is in keeping with Nadal’s career rhythms. He looks ready to conquer the world and eclipse Federer; then he falters. He looks passive and on the downside of his career; suddenly, he turns in a year like 2013. If you think his spin-laden shots dip and rise in strange directions, consider his career trajectory. “
So, at crunch time, instead of blasting searing winners, Rafa’s forehands find the net. Instead of a champion at his peak, we sense a veteran with a burden, a gray sense of fatigue: all those expectations from his coach, his fans, his nation, and most of all, from himself. His dark, beautifully expressive eyes, once so fierce, now reveal a gnawing doubt, a hint of dismay. John McEnroe notes, “There is a very short list of people who can beat Rafa on clay … He may never lose a French Open, but once he does, it may be tough for him to win another, even though he’s Rafael Nadal. That edge you get, it’s crazy out there on clay.”
Rafa is not a thirtysomething player facing tennis mortality. Nor is he combating a major injury. But in a way it’s worse. He’s fighting to save his tennis persona. After all, what is Rafael Nadal, if not the alpha male of clay court tennis, our dirtmeister and chief? Of course, the true test for Nadal is the French Open, where the matches are best of five sets; where—incredibly—he has won eight of the last nine years; and where he understandably is boosted by an intangible, but oh-so-significant comfort level.
Comfort, or should we say discomfort, has been a core theme in the loosening of the stranglehold the Big Four have had on the game. Andy Murray, who reached the French Open semis in ’11, had back surgery in September, and has posted only modest results since his return. He did score some key Davis Cup wins, but his belief has wavered. He hasn’t won a title since last year’s Wimbledon, and his ranking has dipped to a most improper No. 8. Plus, that intense and wily coach of his, Ivan Lendl, left him to the rigors of the tour.
The rigors of the circuit also got to Novak Djokovic, who, after suffering a crushing loss in the 2013 US Open final, came back to take the ATP Championships, Indian Wells, and Miami. On a 15-match winning streak, Djokovic hoped to defend the title in his adopted home town of Monte Carlo, but disaster struck when he joined a hefty list of wrist-injury victims this year that includes Juan Martin del Potro, Caroline Wozniacki, Laura Robson, and Sloane Stephens.
While Djokovic has reached the Roland Garros quarterfinals in seven of the last eight years, his recent Parisian journeys have been ill-fated. In the ’11 semis, Federer snapped his 43-match win streak. In the ’12 final, Novak outplayed Rafa, but rain fell on Nadal’s behalf, and Nole eventually double-faulted the title away. Last year, shortly before the semis, Novak’s beloved coach Jelena Gencic died. Now, questions swirl. Will being an expectant father and husband help or hurt Novak? Has main coach Boris Becker aided or hindered him? Will Novak’s suspect wrist (which won’t require surgery, but which forced him out of Madrid) hamper or even prevent him from pursuing his semi-obsessive quest to win the one Slam that has eluded his adept Serbian grasp?
Very little has eluded Roger Federer’s grasp, but last year, time seemed to catch up with tennis’ poet laureate. He won only one tournament. His ranking fell to No. 7. Critics howled, “How can we call him the greatest player of all time when he has a 10-23 record against his top rival, Nadal; a 10-11 record against Andy Murray; and only a slight 18-16 winning record over Djokovic?” In fact, TMF (The Mighty Federer) was no longer even the No. 1 player in Switzerland.
Worst of all, something seemed wrong with our demi-god. His sublime signature—his dreamy balletic ease—seemed askew. There was a labored quality to his game. His speed was muted. Balls sprayed. Goodness, he even stumbled. Plus, he faltered when it came time to close out matches. His confidence dipped. What was the problem? Well, it turns out that Federer was struggling with a problematic back, and tinkering with a larger racquet.
During the off-season, all that changed. Fed’s back healed, he became comfortable with a new frame, and he parted company with his old coach, Paul Annacone. In Australia, we saw Roger running with ease, unleashing winners, playing free—such a delight. The art of Federer returned, a pretty picture. Sure, he didn’t win the tournament, and he’s only collected one modest title (Dubai) this year. But only a Rafa groupie would dismiss his chances at Roland Garros, let alone Wimbledon.
Ironically, the 32-year old Swiss—the player among the Big Four who you would expect to crack first—has been buoyed by a remarkable renewal and a display of almost timeless longevity. And kindly don’t forget that this Golden Age—when a quartet of players has dominated like no other—began to take shape way back in ’03, when Roger won his first Grand Slam at Wimbledon, and in ’04, when he first became No. 1. Now, three of the Big Four—Federer, Nadal, and Djokovic—have owned the No. 1 spot for over a decade. But seasons change. All things must pass. This April, when Stan Wawrinka captured Monte Carlo, it was only the second time in the last 30 Masters that a player outside the Fab Four prevailed. The broad-chested 28-year vet is now a popular pick for Roland Garros.
Oh yeah, there’s one other factor in the dominance of the Big Four: the collective, almost inexplicable, shortfall of tennis’s younger players, from what some have called the lost generation. Juan Martin del Potro has been crushed by injuries. France’s Jo-Willie Tsonga, the 2008 Aussie Open finalist, seemed a surefire future champion. Wrong. Likewise, Tomas Berdych (except when playing Davis Cup) faltered time and again. Canadian import Milos Raonic is an appealing work-in-progress, and Maria Sharapova’s main squeeze, Grigor Dimitrov, has been dubbed “Baby Federer.” Yes, they’re growing up, but they they still seem a few steps away from it all. In fact, none are imbued with that fierce championship mettle, which grabs titles while insisting, “I’m here. This is mine. I am the best. Step aside.”
Our Golden Age is unlikely to end abruptly. Ice caps don’t melt overnight. Oceans don’t rise in a day. But—deny it all you want—it’s obvious that something’s happening out there on the tennis landscape. The competition is now hotter. The tide is turning. The climate is indeed changing.
