By Michael Mewshaw
As a category tennis journeymen are irrelevant at best, or treated with outright contempt at worst. More’s the pity given that the word journeyman suggests a sort of Zen quality. After all, don’t we all claim to believe it’s the journey, not the destination, that matters? Shouldn’t we accord lower-ranked players the understanding and respect they deserve? These questions crossed my mind during the first week of Roland Garros, when many a competitor seemed to be caught up in a Sisyphean struggle. As described by French writer Albert Camus, Sisyphus’ doomed endeavor involved an attempt to push an immense boulder up a mountain, only to have the huge rock roll back to the bottom just as the top was almost achieved. Yet Camus insisted that Sisyphus, in defeat, must be viewed as lucky, even happy, to embrace his existential fate.
In this context, Radek Stepanek, the aging Czech, at 37 the oldest player in the men’s draw, confronted a mountain named Andy Murray in what figured to be a first-round mis-match. Instead, Stepanek raced off to a two sets-to-love lead. The summit seemed to be in sight. The stone against his shoulder must have felt as light as pumice. But then inevitably, inexorably, the boulder became bigger, heavier, and a slow backward drift began. Murray won the third set before rain curtailed play for the night. The next day, as Radek battled to regain lost ground, agony was evident on his deeply lined face.
Now ranked 197 in the world, Stepanek had had to win three qualifying rounds to gain entry to the French Open. Although almost a decade older and 195 places lower on the ATP computer, he challenged Murray on almost even terms. At times there didn’t appear to be a dime’s worth of difference between them. (In actual fact, there’s nearly $35 million in prize money between them, with Murray’s moneybag further fattened by endorsements, exhibition fees and guarantees.) Drawing on his expertise in doubles, the Czech had a game to frustrate and perhaps defeat the thin-skinned Scot, who sometimes doesn’t cope well with guileful opponents who can serve and volley, vary the pace and angles, and throw in an occasional tantalizing drop shot to aggravate the volatile guy on the other side of the net. To continue the Sisyphean analogy, Stepanek sometimes seemed to be hoping to turn the boulder he was pushing into an erupting volcano. Maybe then he could steal this match.
Leading 5-4, Stepanek had Murray backed up to the edge of an abyss. He teased the Scot, hitting a drop shot, followed by a lob, then a second drop shot. Still Andy held his nerve and held serve to 5-5, and the whole weight of the world seemed to settle on the Czech’s shoulders. He knew what was coming. Everyone watching was aware of what had to happen, what the classical script called for. In short order, Murray broke Stepanek’s serve, and the stone thundered back downhill, smashing the Czech in the process. When Murray held on for a 7-5 win, Stepanek trotted to the net to shake his head and congratulate him. Smiling, he looked happier than the man who had beat him. He hugged Murray and embraced his own fate, just as throughout Court Centrale the crowd experienced its own happiness, which had about it an element of Greek catharsis. This was the joy of the journeyman as well as the joy of spectators witnessing a ritual drama as old as Oedipus.
Michael Mewshaw is the author of AD IN AD OUT, a collection of essays about tennis now available as an e-book on amazon.com.
