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July 10, 2006
Revenge is sweet for cool Federer
By Sue Mott, Telegraph
You wouldn't think him capable of vengeance, Roger Federer. He has
the calm, almost nonchalant, demeanour of James Bond, especially in
that cream, bespoke jacket he wore on to court. But beneath those
layers of woven fibre lurked a heart beating for one sole purpose: to avenge the hurt caused by his ferocious playmate, rival and year-long nemesis, Rafa Nadal, of Spain, who tore from him the chance to hold all four grand slam titles simultaneously by defeating him in Paris last month.
This
was payback time. From red to green. From clay to grass. Wimbledon is
home to Federer, and a Swiss man's home is his castle. Nadal was
looking out for boiling oil over the ramparts. It came. But he ploughed
on through the barrage, the young Spaniard, and when it was all over,
when Federer had his fourth title in succession, matching the feat of
Pete Sampras and moving to within one of Bjorn Borg's quintet, they
walked off the court together, champion and challenger, signing
autographs side by side. No one dies of shame
who loses to Federer at Wimbledon. Such is his majesty, it is almost an
honour. "I like fight. I enjoy difficult challenge," the 20-year-old
French Open champion had announced before the final. That was good,
then. Federer, who had not dropped a set in the tournament and had won
47 consecutive matches on grass, was as difficult a challenge as there
could be. The Centre Court was primed for combat
of a rare and superior order. One man virtually down from Olympus,
never mind an Alpine resort, against another man sprung from a
Mediterranean island, fearless in battle and the winner of all four of
their matches to date this year. Nice. A bogey man built like an
electrified bull. Federer wouldn't have it all his own way. Except
in the first set he did. Federer came out firing. The ultimate park
warden, he was saying through his strokes: "Keep off my grass." Nadal,
who had experienced having his serve broken only twice in the
tournament, suddenly suffered three breaks in just one set. Once
Federer held his serve to love and chalk flew up with his conclusive
ace. "Eat my dust," the departing ball said. Nadal,
however, doesn't do surrender. What was he thinking after the first
set? "I was thinking, 'Win one game,' " he said afterwards.
Uncomplicated lad. He is trained to attack and he did, sometimes daring
to out-rally and out-muscle the master, always with a clench of the
fist and an audible Latin roar. The crowd loved
him, cheering unrestrainedly when he broke Federer's serve in the first
game of the second set, to keep open the prospect of a five-set
thriller. The only Spaniard to win this title,
Manuel Santana, was in the Royal Box, casting his mind back 40 years to
his victory in 1966 (o, fatal date). But even Santana thought Roger
would win. Yet, with two straight tie-breaks,
the match swung from one-sidedness to closeness. The contrast in styles
was riveting. Federer played as though dancing a waltz, foot-perfect,
well-timed, flowing to all four corners of the room and glorious on the
eye. Nadal was in full tango mode, with explosions of power,
extravagant passion and dark eyes that betrayed the level of his angst
when outside forces threatened to thwart him. "I love you, Nadal,"
cried a male voice at the back of the cathedral, all overcome. The
boy was giving his all for the cause and no Wimbledon crowd, even one
containing Jonny Wilkinson and vast amounts of royalty, can ask for
more. He led by that break in the second set and served at 5-4 to level
the match. Four errors then proceeded from his racket, under pressure,
and there, probably, went the match. Lesser
creatures against Federer would then pull out the deckchair and gently
snooze to inevitable defeat while unanswerable shots pound the turf
around them. Nadal was braver than that. He won the third-set
tie-break, setting up the opportunity with a volley that was swiped
with such assurance it must have rattled the teacups in Australia. Now
Federer was in new territory. Someone had claimed a set from him. Not
just any someone, but the bullock-built nuisance who had been plaguing
him all year. It required the spirit of a champion to rise to the
occasion, to swat back the unquenchable upstart, and you wondered if
their previous matches would come back to haunt him. Perhaps that
trademark headband would need to double as a bandage around his
troubled mind. No fear. The champion made bunk of
immediate history. Didn't he worry about losing that set? "Not really.
As long as I didn't lose three," he said, the embodiment of after-match
cool. He raced to a 5-1 lead in the fourth set, wavered for a couple of
games and then swept away with game, set, match, championship and
worldwide admiration. Nadal looked crestfallen as they met at the net,
but their arms around one another spoke of intense mutual respect. So
did that wonderful moment later when they slapped hands, crossing paths
as they showed their respective trophies to an audience wild with
appreciation. There was another lovely moment.
Sue Barker told Federer how much we loved the new rivalry, but she
completely understood if he did not feel the same way. He grinned. "Now
I like it again." Of course, his jacket is out of date now. It
commemorates only three Wimbledon titles with that badge emblazoned on
the pocket. Anyone for embroidery?
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