There was something unsettling about the interaction between Roger Federer and Novak Djokovic in 2015, but it's hard to put my finger on it. Every double act has a straight man and a comic: the straight man says, "Go and fetch me the morning paper," and the comic promptly slips on a banana peel on the way, and gets the big laugh. It works because it's like Japanese pantomime - we all know what's going to happen before the curtain goes up, but (1) we stay for the show from start to finish and (2) take a kind of sadistic pleasure in the exasperation of one and the desperate futility of the other. We know the names of the ball players are Who, What and I Don't Know, but that leaves us no less capable of resisting the sweet misery of Bud Abbott trying to explain that to the dimwitted and the intellectually fleeced Lou Costello. Along the way, we suspend our disbelief of the absurdity of it, with the inutility of skepticism essential to enjoyment of the ruse.
But the curious case of Nole and Rog in 2015 makes me wonder exactly which one of these two titans in the tennis kingdom of heaven is playing the stooge?
Watching the way, the closest thing Djokovic had to a rivalry this season, played itself out, I am struck by the near certainty with which both players play their part in the intrigue sans script, but no less assuredly than one might expect with one. Their first encounter in Dubai led some to believe that Federer was on the ascendency, that he had reversed whatever deleterious effect Djokovic's win at Wimbledon may have had on the ethereal realm of his confidence. But that dissipated so quickly, with his nearly complete and feckless capitulation at Indian Wells, that one couldn't help but wonder if the Djoker had, in fact, left something in the tank in the middle eastern desert, knowing full well that the Californian desert is the only one that really matters in the spring.
They didn't meet again until Wimbledon, and in a rematch of last year's epic final, this year's turned out to be infinitely less dramatic but no less compelling. Victory seemed certain almost from the first long rally that turned from Federer's favor to the Djoker's. And that sinking feeling that Fed-fans get when the Serb has decided he'd rather lose to anyone but their immortal beloved, would have moved from a subtle flutter in the stomach to a lead lump in the throat, as General Federer made his last stand in the 4th set at SW19. Somewhere the ghost of Sitting Bull was having the last laugh all over again. Though in some ways Roger was playing better than the year before, there was never really a moment in that match where the perception of a momentum change was anything more than wishful thinking.
Then came the revelation of the SABR (Sneak Attack by Roger) in Cincinnati - another of Roger's watering holes that's good for a laugh, particularly at the expense of the vast majority of his contemporaries. There he humiliated one player after another with not only this cheeky new "weapon", but also a brazen display of genetic superiority to those young affections that gape to be his heir. Feliciano Lopez profanely played the part of the stupefied stooge, who yet again thought he had a shot at his Bugs Bunny, only to discover that the proverbial rabbit out of the top hat was a combination of the new racquet, the new coach, the new backhand...and the old superiority that once again insisted on imposing itself. Even the Djoker, who would certainly have been fatigued from all those weeks of rest post Wimbledon - what with changing diapers and posting pics on twitter/facebook/instagram, and any other (wrong) place he might be looking for love - was compelled to succumb to his Hairness.
Though they've seen him do it before, and in all likelihood he'll do it again, the popularity of the most popular girl guy at the ball tournament (and as always, in the world of tennis) engulfed that poor Serbian boy who's allergic to something that everyone's heard of, but nobody really knows what it is, and just once, just once, wants to be revered as something other than the straight man. But I wonder if he isn't the stooge? After all the machinations and success, the clothes, the sense of humor, the talk shows, the dancing and the jokes...after all the jokes, for god's sake? It just takes one Lucy shaped shaped Swiss guy with a little talent and some high class friends, to pull that football away from his oncoming kick, sending him flailing in the air like a rag doll, and make it all for naught. In the end, in this tennis town (by which I mean planet Earth) there really isn't enough room for anyone not named Roger Federer.
And yet, like a good stooge, he continues to try...
Nadal sucked the air out of the (newly half-roofed) room at Flushing Meadows, by losing to some crazy Italian bloke, who himself was usurped by his own tender Juliette's unexpected victory and confusing retirement. Though her countrywoman slew the giant with a thousand cuts, she needed a 1,001 to complete the insanely unlikely story, and unfortunately it was one blow more than she had at her disposal. And while the rest of the tennis universe (and the celebrity one) pined openly for the coronation of a grand queen for the first time in 27 years, poor Nole toiled in near anonymity, bludgeoning and sliding his way through a field of paltry challengers, including the defending champion, who had nothing but the best of intentions and the worst of capacities. Try as they may, the immovable object had already met the irresistible force, and combined to form the 2015 Novak Djokovic - the most dominant tennis player in the open era.
Nevertheless, the final was highly anticipated - the one that we came so tantalizingly close to before King (for a day) Kei and (Cheech) Marin Cilic really overstayed their welcomes in last years final installment of the Grand Slam quadrilogy. Finally, we would have our real drama, with a palpable belief on the part of everyone except the one that needed it the most, that the grey men of the tennisocracy so desperately wanted and needed. Elmer Federer just may finally catch that rascally rabbit. And in that duel between the only two men that anyone truly believed had a shot at the title in the first place, we would finally have our unexpected result.
But the pantomime returned, the stooge slipped on the banana peel and the audience went home knowing nothing more than what they did at the start of the fortnight. The Reign of Terror that is the dominance of Novak Djokovic continues until he no longer possesses the means or the desire to occupy the throne. Though they bayed for his blood like sanguine plebeians at the Colosseum, the result only made more stark the contrast between good and evil, by the script of this running gag, that the game has been teasing us with for the last two years. No matter how desperately we want it to be so, nobody is beating Novak Djokovic in 2015 except maybe...well, Novak Djokovic.
Then, like Alexander, he travelled to edge of the known tennis world to that relic of yore in Shanghai, and (once again) conquered his tartan nemesis, leaving no doubt that the future is dark if your hopes for a respite from his tyranny would come in the form of a soft Glaswegian brogue. And after an inexplicable capitulation to the wrong Spaniard, Federer regained his composure in his backyard, and proceeded to painstakingly lumber through 3 sets to get the wrong result over the right Spaniard who despite his anno terribilis in 2015, still seemed genuinely convinced that he should have won the match, and was rightfully disappointed that he didn't. This time, Wily Coyote finally caught the rabbit, and he went (back) to London brimming with all the confidence that his newly expanded bubble reputation could afford.
There he cashed that Czech who has no business beating him, but seems to do just that with irritating frequency, before proceeding to sadistically set us up one last time. He beat Djokovic so handily in their round robin match, that the man felt compelled to state the obvious (much to Roger's chagrin) - despite assurances to the contrary, the match had been handed to Federer on a silver platter. It even smacked of sour grapes to some, but as the wheels started to come loose against a plucky Nishikori, then in a sloppy but tactical win over his countryman, the ugly truth began to take shape. Still, having experienced the dramatic manner in which Wawrinka bludgeoned his way to within 3 or 4 match points of a well deserved victory last year (ironically spurred on by the unseemly goading of Lady McFederer) this year's victory over his countryman gave us pause. Could this year's final be the crescendo that everyone expected last year?
It was anything but.
So there we were, at the World Tour Finals of 2015, expecting once again to be dazzled by the chance of a new generation of this rivalry, one that appeared less as pantomime than genuine drama. The intrigue ratcheted up by a startling result in the round robin, a catty long distance exchange over perceptions of this result, and on the back of a 3rd victory over the young king (as many as the rest of the world combined), the trap door once again opened at the final step, and enveloped not only Roger Federer, but the hopes of his fans, and any remaining doubt that in this now sad tale: his only victories are those that count less than the defeats. Once again, the straight man was set up for a comedic finish that left us crying with laughter, with the coup de grace coming in two uneventful sets...in London.
I am reminded of the final scene of "Pulp Fiction" when Jules Winnfield calmly explains to the gentle thief at his disposal, that through the comedy of errors that brought them to the denouement, he realized that his initial interpretation of his own preamble to murder (which is not actually in the bible, by the way) was faulty. In fact the biblical joke was on him: he was neither the righteous man navigating the iniquities of the selfish, nor the shepherd of the weak through the valley of darkness...he was in fact the tyranny of evil men.
I mention this because the entire year, thinking of what passes for a rivalry between Federer and Djokovic, I know it's a damn pantomime, but I've been trying to figure out which one is the stooge? Is it Federer, who like Indiana Jones, gets his hand on the golden idol, only to have it taken from him by his own personal Belloq? Or is it poor Nole, who every time he thinks he's going to break through and reach the pantheon of fandom, not only of the tennis world, but of tennis heaven, where he is revered with equally rapturous fervor as his own personal Zeus - only to be kicked down the side of Mount Olympus once again?
No, like Jules Winnfield, the joke is on us - the vein slapping addicts of sporting drama, desperate to see something other than what we know, in our heart of hearts, is always going to be the same result. We look around the poker table, trying, in vain, to figure out who the sucker is.
The truth is that as long as Nole wishes it so, it is us.
He's been written off frequently since then, but every time he does something extraordinary he reminds us of just how special he is. Roger Federer is the greatest player of all time - the machinations required to question that, and withhold the only accolade left for him are so convoluted and illogical, there is really no sense in arguing it any further. Djokovic and Nadal could surpass him, and for all we know, there is some kid who just picked up a racquet yesterday who could put them all to shame. But as I write this, this conclusion is as obvious as it is irrelevant, because it could change at any time.
But it's been three years since he won a major, and his favorite tournament outside of Wimbledon and Halle, has once again bestowed upon his historically broad shoulders the status that he hasn't had since he last lifted the trophy at SW19: the favorite to win the US Open. The toughest tournament in tennis just got tougher for Djokovic, with the mystery malady to his arm and core that required treatment and could flare up at any time. Nishikori looked like a world beater at the Citi Open, when he went the distance in 3 of four matches, and defeated three of the biggest serves in the history of tennis with the quickest hands in the game - but he too has succumbed to the injury bug, and is a doubt for the Flushing. Nadal has never been seeded this low at the US Open...never. His form is as uncertain as the reasons behind his startling demise this year, and his chances at the US Open, while they can't be discounted, cannot rise to the level of favorite based on his form since he last lifted a major trophy. If he cannot win at Flushing in 2015, it will break a streak of 10 straight years lifting a major, and the first since 2009 that one of those didn't include Roland Garros.
There are floaters who could be problematic for Federer: despite defeating Andy Murray rather dismissively in the semi-final on his way to the title in Ohio, Federer has never been a sure thing against his Scottish rival. While he's gotten the better of him the last 3 times they've played, he won't have it all his own way if Murray's game can rise to the occasion the way it has when we least expected it. Interestingly, one of the defeats that Murray has suffered at the hands of his Swiss nemesis, was a humiliating capitulation at the World Tour Finals last year in London. There, Federer all but admitted he had taken pity on him and given him a game, which actually strikes me as worse than completing the emasculation, and Murray himself was left to apologize for his performance, such was the weight of the defeat. But interestingly this defeat, indoors at the O2, may give Murray his biggest worry if he is to face Federer this year under the new roof at Arthur Ashe.
To begin with, Federer may still be the best indoor player in the world. His last major was won with 4 of his 7 matches completed under the roof. Against Benneteau, Federer was down 2 sets to love before the roof was pulled over the court, and suddenly he found his way past the Frenchman who somehow, by some osmosis, took on the physical deficiencies that led to Federer imminent demise in the first place. Against Xavier Malisse, a player whom Nick Bolletieri once proclaimed to be one of the three most naturally talented players he'd ever encountered, Federer overturned a 2 sets to 1 lead to win in 5. Against Djokovic, the speed of play and resulting discombobulation put the result outside his reach almost from the outset. That match was played in its entirety under the roof, and the sure bounce and thin air through which Federer's serve found its mark repeatedly, facilitated the kind of cut and run, death by a thousands small cuts approach that Sugar Ray Roger generally requires to defeat his more powerful opponents.
In the final, under the beautiful sun of a beautiful 2:00pm start, Murray looked like he was going to blow Federer off the court, let alone win his maiden Wimbledon title. There, Federer frustratingly inched his way back into the second set, so when the roof emerged for the third set, the echo from the strike of his ball announced a change not only in conditions, but in momentum that he rode to his 17th major title. And it is these conditions, in which we might easily find ourselves at Arthur Ashe (where Federer is almost certain to play all of his matches), that give the old man who's given himself a few years yet, the best opportunity to reach 18 and put a little more distance between himself and those who would gape to be his heir in the GOAT debate.
The word from Patrick McEnroe, which Federer picked up on gleefully as he basked in the glory of his victory lap in Cincinnati, is that just the structure of the roof, even without the roof itself, has the added effect of making conditions more sedentary, more consistent, removing the toilet bowl effect of the vortex that frequently plagues the most important matches. The 2012 final was a battle of the elements, where Djokovic appeared to be by far the stronger player, but was confounded by the uncertain flight of the ball, mitigating the attacking elements of his game. Murray, on the other hand, whose natural instinct is to defend, and has to be forced to be more aggressive, gladly played the percentages for 2 sets until conditions settled sufficiently for the Djoker to threaten yet another 2 sets to love come back. In the end, Murray's staying power won the day and his first major, and laid the ground work for what had been his real target all along - Wimbledon 2013.
I am of the opinion that roofs at majors are not a good thing - one of the things that make the majors what they are is the consistency of conditions - including the elements. Rain and wind have no idea what year it is, and if it was good enough for Jimmy Connors, and Rod Laver and Pancho Gonzales and Bill Tilden, it should be good enough for the modern supplicants to their thrones in tennis heaven. But the US Open could ill afford to fall behind all three majors in this regard, not to mention the atrocious run of luck that saw so many men's finals pushed to Monday over the last 10 years, so the structure of the roof will make its appearance for the first time in 2015, with the roof itself to follow possibly next year.
So whether it's opened or closed, I think this more than any other condition gives Federer that one fleeting shot at glory that has escaped him for 3 years, and in all likelihood would be the last time he lifts the Swiss Flag on major soil in his storied career.
I'm not going to lie - I love almost everything about Sam Stosur, and I have for years. One look at the second most famous pair of guns in women's tennis, and knowing what she came through 8 years ago to recover from Lyme disease and to come back, like the bionic woman, better-stronger-faster, only the most cynical of cynics would suggest that she is anything but 100% committed to being the best player than she can be. That may not seem like much if you assume that such commitment is universal, but from the mouths of (big tennis) babes in this piece, in fact, it is as refreshing as it is rare. On the basis of this commitment alone, the level of admiration for her, from all corners of the sports world, ought to be very high indeed.
And then when you get a look at her game, it's hard not to appreciate that as much (if not more) than her commitment. She hits one of the heaviest serves on tour, with a combination of pace and spin that is generally unseen in women's tennis. It helps that her shoulders are broader than mine, so that she can bring the racquet head up and over her crown the way she must, to make the ball leap off the court the ways he does. But the thing that really gets it done on that shot is her legs - nobody leaps up and into their serve like she does, and that's the main reason for its effect.
Similarly, on her forehand, she has a modern version of the stroke that minimizes the all racquet head movement prior to the point of contact. Whilst keeping the racquet head entirely on the forehand side of her body, she launches the full force of her legs and core into the stroke, with a follow through so full and violent, she finishes with a curl across her chest, or over her head, almost out of necessity. Both of those strokes impart more top spin on the ball than any other player on tour. And while her technical asymmetry, (a forehand far superior to her backhand) more characteristic of the ATP than the WTA I might add, presents defensive challenges for her, from an attacking perspective, no player is more capable of controlling the center of the court. And because her stroke production is efficient, she can do it equally well on all surfaces.
I asked Sam, in her pre-tournament press-conference, whether she and her coach talked about or worked on any conscious adjustments to her game as she made an unusual transition, this year from grass to clay to the hard courts in the span of six weeks. Her response was at once surprising and revealing: she said that while the clay is best suited to her game, and adjustments have to be made regardless of whatever surface you're coming from or going to, the vast majority of adjustments are the result of a natural (but accelerated) evolution of her game, and that is, in my opinion a testament to her technical efficiency. The fewer the moving parts, the fewer the adjustments that need to be made, and that bodes well.
Speaking of technical asymmetry, it didn't prevent her from pulling off one of the greatest upsets and most comprehensive major final victories, over Serena Williams, in 2011 at the US Open. There, she used the slice backhand more effectively than I've ever seen her do before or since, and the result was equally unique. Unfortunately that match is known more for this little tantrum from Serena, than for her brilliant technical and tactical mastery of the game, which I admired from start to finish, but the thing to remember in that match, is that Stosur had just lost to Serena in Los Angeles earlier that year, and earlier in Serena's comeback. So if there were a time for her to sneak one in on her more illustrious rival, it would have been on the West Coast - but fortunately for Sam, she used the information from the first encounter, to great effect in the second.
I've always admired players who ignore the illusory impact of the overwhelming head-to-head record (one of tennis' greatest myths) and persevere with both their mind and their technical arsenal. As the Romans used to put it, one should return from battle either with their shield or on it, and Stosur risked looking like the occasion had gotten the best of her (as it did in 2010 at Roland Garros against Francesca Schiavone), had her tactical approach caused her to fall on her face. But to her credit, she left it all on the court, mentally and physically, and deservedly won.
Since then, Sam's results have been more reminiscent of the limited success she enjoyed prior to what has turned out to be the zenith of her career. To the best of my ability, I haven't been able to figure out why. And that's why her victory over Irlina Falconi today at the Citi Open, the 501st in the career best female Australian player since Evonne Goolagong, was so encouraging for me to observe. Coming off of a comeback victory in the Bad Gastein final two weeks ago, Sam's game appears to have turned a corner, and the timing couldn't be better. The pace on her first serve was everything you'd expect it to be, and would have been uniquely impressive had it not been for the placement thereof. Time and again she hit spots on the court with pace 20 to 30 mph faster than her opponent. And no matter how many times Falconi belted one flat cross court forehand after another, the tight production of her own forehand not only kept Stosur in the point, but allowed her to get a foothold in the return of serve that gave her an insurmountable edge in the match.
But what I really like about the way Sam's game looks right now is her movement - nobody in the women's game floats around the court like Sam does. You'd think quickness was a strength, but that's not the same as having world class movement. At the end of the day, the paramount objective of any player's footwork, but especially Sam's is to get in position to hit her shots. And the most important shot of all is the forehand. Sam's ability to shuffle around the outside of the ball, in order to go big on the inside out forehand, and set up the put away to the other corner, is her footwork. And these days, it's as good as it's ever been, and then some. I, for one, would be delighted to see her carry that through to the 2015 US Open.
She'll need to if she is become (once again) the only player on tour to have beaten Serena Williams at her home major (with no asterisk attached) since Justine Henin did it in 2007.
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