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September 10, 2006
At the End, Clarity on the Court
By Michael Kimmelman, New York Times Blog
And as the night came, near the inevitable end of the match and
of the Open, cameras flickered across Ashe Stadium like fireflies in
the late summer air.
Yesterday, during his semifinal victory over Mikhail Youzhny, Andy
Roddick strutted, pumping himself up. From the crowd in Ashe, American
fans shouted “This is your house” and they flashed signs saying “You
D’Man.” A sextet of supporters, sitting behind Jimmy Connors in
Roddick’s box, sat in two rows of three, wearing T-shirts emblazoned
with letters that, when they all stood up and arranged themselves,
spelled “Go Andy.” Then when they sat back down, the two rows spelled
“Goy And.”
It was perhaps a sign of what was coming. Roddick’s manner plays to
an Anglo-Saxon crowd, which likes his American swagger, his jerky,
brusque shots and shock-and-awe style. American nationalism can seem
like jingoism and bullying in much of the rest of the world. Youzhny
was fun to watch, a stylish but streaky player with an elegant backhand
and no great serve, the opposite of Roddick, who was at his best in
that match.
He was at his best today, too, hitting nearly 70 percent of his
first serves in — doing whatever was possible to unsettle Roger
Federer, which of course was never going to be enough. This time the
crowd cheered Federer as well, out of obvious respect and admiration.
How can you not admire him if you love tennis and grasp the eloquence
of his beautiful game?
Today, Roddick didn’t swagger. He wouldn’t against Federer. He knows better.
Roddick got up early from his chair on each changeover and paced the
baseline, waiting, anxious, trying to stay focused. He jumped around
during points so that, from high up in the stands, he looked like oil
on a hot skillet. He grunted and wheezed after each shot, making it
sound as if he could just barely reach each ball. He kept changing
shirts, sweating in the cool air.
And then there was Federer, almost perfectly silent, gliding as if
on ice, never rushed, expressionless in his chair on changeovers until
the umpire called “time,” whereupon he ritually got up, slowly,
methodically, in his anal-compulsive way, and carried his towel to the
ball boy, politely handing it over (Roddick often tossed it at the
ballboys, impatiently or distractedly). Federer didn’t seem to change
his shirt once. He didn’t break a sweat.
In that stupendous game during the third set, behind 2-3, Roddick
fended off five break points, hitting five service winners. But Federer
was just waiting. Serving at 5-6, Roddick missed a forehand to start;
Federer then passed him with a cross-court backhand, then Roddick
missed a second forehand and at 0-40, even an ace couldn’t save him.
Federer floated the next return, off a crushing serve, onto the
baseline, then tripped Roddick up on his way to net. Game, set, and,
for all intents and purposes, match.
By the end, Roddick had 33 winners, 23 unforced errors and only
seven aces. Federer neutralized the serve, as he has always done. Speed
is never a real weapon against him. Federer had 69 winners, only 19
unforced errors and 17 aces. He made just 4 unforced errors during the
last two sets, and 37 winners.
People gasped, shook their heads. Eyes bulged. In the flesh,
Federer’s game looks entirely different than everyone else’s. Roddick
hits balls hard, then harder. His shots are flat, predictable.
Federer’s shots move at baffling angles. They drop and dip and curl.
His footwork is so sublime that he seems always to be moving too
slowly, almost sleepily, before whipping a ball that arcs improbably
high before suddenly plummeting, everything at such a speed that the
crowd is only left to laugh.
Tennis is akin to boxing, among sports. It’s one on one. When pain
is inflicted, it registers clearly. By the last set, everyone including
Roddick knew. His shoulders slumped and head drooped.
Part of the purity of tennis is its clarity. When you talk with the
guys on tour, they are remarkably, refreshingly honest about their own
abilities and each others’. Their attitude is so unlike the way most of
us are in life, where, as in art, tastes and opinions vary. In tennis,
quality is unambiguous. There is something beautiful about this fact.
The night seemed to bring a curtain onto summer. It has been a
privilege to watch Roger Federer through the tournament, to see someone
do something so ridiculously well, so artfully. It’s such a rare thing.
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