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September 8, 2007
Quantum Tennis
By Verlyn Klinkenborg, New York Times
Down on the court it is Roger Federer versus Andy Roddick,
10:20 p.m. on Wednesday, men’s quarterfinals at the U. S. Open, early
in a match that is never as close as the score. The players are still
just becoming themselves. Roddick’s spasmodic serve is clocking 140
m.p.h. — the final, great twitch in a motion that is all twitch.
Federer has not yet been Federer, but he is about to be. In the next
few shots the game switches from tennis to quantum tennis. Roddick hits
shots to where Federer isn’t, only to discover that by the time he has
hit the ball, “isn’t” is in the past. Federer hits shots to where
Roddick can’t be, which is an entirely different thing. And sometimes
he hits them to where Roddick won’t be, which is a psychological
assertion and more damaging to the opponent. I try to
imagine watching this match without seeing the ball going back and
forth — seeing only the two men’s contrapuntal motion. One thing is
instantly clear. Federer masters his opponent’s inertia. It’s as if
Roddick is a weight on the end of a string and Federer is swinging him
back and forth until he lets the string go and sends Roddick, who is
playing at the top of his game, flat-footed into the far corners. I
have watched lots of televised Federer — every tennis fan has — but
only now, live, do I understand. I’m surrounded by tennis reporters,
and they are giggling. Federer hits an improbably perfect cross-court
backhand, and laughter breaks out. Our expectations are outrageous, and
seeing them met is somehow uproarious. In the past couple of
days, I’ve watched Djokovic, Monaco, Jankovic, Davydenko, Haas, both
Williamses, and my favorite, Henin. The tennis has been wonderful, the
athleticism extraordinary. And yet much of it has looked like a form of
barely controlled rage. You can see it on the court now. Roddick
explodes upon the ball. Debris flies in every direction. Federer’s
motions look slight in comparison, and yet the ball seems to emanate
from a single point with all of his focused energy behind it. It looks
like sleight of hand. And one other thing I notice, which is
the void that Federer’s best shots leave behind them. Here it comes, a
forehand I won’t even try to describe, except to say that it trails
behind it the wish — an aching desire, really — to see it again. I
don’t mean in instant replay or slow motion on the stadium screens or
later, at home. I mean going back in time to see the shot as if you’d
never seen it before. It’s the most unsophisticated desire you can
imagine — to make the short voyage from hope to joy all over
again.
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