HEY JO: WHERE YOU GONNA RUN TO NOW?

Wasn't there a time when Jo-Wilfried Tsonga had Novak Djokovic's number?  Does anybody remember that?  I sure as hell do.  In fact, because he appeared to freeze in the headlights in Australia in 2008, the subsequent ease with which he dispensed with his two years' junior rival in 5 of the next 6 encounters over the next two years, left me with the sneaking suspicion that the result in Melbourne had in fact been a fluke.  That may sound absurd given the extent of Djokovic's lead in development, performance, fitness and results since 2011, and particularly during his ascent to the pinnacle of the game in 2015, but not so between 2008 and 2010.  Brad Gilbert proclaimed, prior to their encounter at the Australian Open in 2010, that Tsonga had Djokovic's number - and Djokovic did little to dispel that.

Most assumed that his victory in Bangkok was a form of muted revenge:  that Djokovic capitulated in straight sets, suggested that neither his heart nor the rest of his body were really committed to a victory that by all rights should have been his.  His victory in Paris could be set aside because of the overwhelming support from the audience that surely propelled the prodigal son's return to sit upon his throne at Bercy.  But it was the feckless capitulation of his Serbian rival in Shanghai that really brought to mind the possibility that Tsonga could be a player to challenge for major titles - at least if he had to play Djokovic for them.  Djokovic had already qualified for the semi-finals by virtue of his victories over del Potro and Davydenko, while Tsonga, having lost to those same two opponents, had no chance to progress.  Effectively this match was his final, his only chance to save face, in the very Chinese sense, and in Djokovic he faced his most daunting opponent.  

Yet, despite the cards he was dealt, Tsonga turned in a performance superior to those who sought the title that was lost to him.  Djokovic having started quickly, Tsonga dug deep and won 7-5 in the second, only to then obliterate his rival with the same score in the 3rd, that he had lost with in the first.  And it wasn't just the victory, but the beauty with which it was achieved - that languid gate, the deceptively easy racquet head acceleration, a glorious overhead that never seems to have to be hit twice, and a howitzer of a serve...man what a serve he has.  Up to then, Andy Roddick was the only man that didn't darken the room when he stood up from his chair, capable of producing that kind of accurate and consistent power in the serve.

To this day, there aren't too many players on tour who can produce 135 motherf---ers more than once a game, so you kind of wonder how he hasn't done more with it when it counts.  But as the great Pancho Gonzales always said, "You're only as good as your second serve," and therein lies the rub.  Tsonga doesn't so much hit the second serve with his racquet as he does with his ass...if you'll indulge me.  

Because his toss on the second serve is frequently too far to the left and behind his head, he lands heavily on his left leg and as a result, to maintain his balance and keep his momentum going forward, he adjusts by shifting his body weight (and by body weight, I mean his butt) so far to his right, that when serving to the ad court he often finishes the stroke landing both feet, in recovery in the deuce court.  It's ungainly, hit with excessive spin, and frequently lands short, in the net, or so softly, I could come over it with my backhand.

So, despite having a much better all around game than most of the players with comparable serves, like his similarly second serve challenged Spanish rival, Nico Almagro, Tsonga doesn't so much rely on his first serve, as abuse it.  Hit with the kind of ferocity that would make a novice flinch, there's little left in the tank when he has to go to the second serve...psychologically that is.  Yes, yes, I know...I don't believe in belief in tennis...but this is different.  When you miss your first serve too often, you can't afford to miss your second at all, and when you can't miss your second at all, like the smart kids on prom night, you tend to pull out a little early.  In fact, the two of them, with their suffering second serves together, is quite a sight...you'll never see two players with bigger deltas in quality between the first and second serves than these two, and the results are as exhilarating as they are unpredictable.

And something else happened to Tsonga over the next 13 matches with the Djoker - aside from losing 12 of them.  Like Andy Roddick famously panned in 2005, he seemed to lose that "je ne sais quoi" from his game, his allure...his twinkle, if you will...

Tsonga lost his mojo.

He's gotten some good results here and there, but only ever made it as far as the semi-finals 5 times in the last 32 majors since his maiden final.  He's won 2 masters shields in his career:  the aforementioned emotional victory in Paris in 2008 and a curiously gritty victory over Federer in Toronto two years ago (one of five over the Swiss GOAT).  Now all of this would be considered a good career for a slightly above average player, but Tsonga...Tsonga deigned to be so much more.  With a personality as big as his serve, he had all the tools for not just super stardom in the tennis, but probably the world of sports in general.  And being the doppelganger of a young Cassius Clay wouldn't have hurt at all, would it?

Well, it didn't help him.  His career bobbed and weaved, but never really landed a good punch.  Yes, he's one of only 3 players to have beaten all of the so-called "big 4" at least once at a major (Murray & Nadal AO2008, Djokovic AO2010, Federer Wimby 2011), he's never beaten more than one of them at once (with the exception of his maiden final in 2008, long before there was a big four, where he beat Andy Murray in the first round, and famously obliterated Nadal in the semi-final, and lost to the Djoker in the final).  And in this era of this rather tight-fisted quartet, if you want to win a major, chances are you're going to have to go through at least two, maybe three of them...unless of course, you're one of them!

Meanwhile the armies of his supporters around the world, who don't seem to mind the profligacy of this enormously talented and enormously popular player, persists.  This includes the famously fickle French who have forgiven him his Parisian trespasses (at Roland Garros, anyway), unlike his equally talented, and higher highest ranked compatriot Henri Leconte.  Him, the french mercilessly derided "a genius from the elbow down", according the late Great Bud Collins, and they never seemed to forgive him for simply losing at Roland Garros to the "wrong" guy.

My view on Jo-Wilfried Tsonga is that he is the biggest disappointment of my adult tennis watching life.  I love his game, I love his athleticism (he's one of the few players in tennis I'm quite certain would be world class in at least one other sport), and I really wish he had won a major at some point in his career.  Everything in his game is well above average, but everything seems to be missing just that little something.  The forehand, powerful as it can be, is produced rather convolutedly, and in my opinion breaks down when it absolutely can't.  His first serve, flamethrower that it is, usually only leaves enough left in the tank for the second serve to light a cigarette...or a joint.  And his backhand, varied and beautiful as it can be, has to be hit so far behind the baseline, because of his forehand, it is too easily isolated and picked on, like the one kid on the sandlot baseball team that you just know has to play right field.  Why?  Because.

And ultimately, Tsonga's biggest problem is that he's just too damn...well, how can I say this...French!  Not that there's anything inherently wrong with being French - my new favorite player is french, my old favorite player (the aforementioned Henri Leconte) is French, my favorite female player was French Belgian, my favorite backhand in tennis is Swiss French and my inspiration in tennis is French.

Hell, I even speak French.

But there's something our Gallic cousins across the pond have that produces as many good players as it destroys:

A love of beauty.

Take the Australians - please! ; they love sports, and as such they love Australians who are good at sports.  I mean these guys are going to run out of stadiums to name after their great tennis players if the real Bernard Tomic, or Nick "the Prick" ever get their collective heads out of their collective arses.  But I guarantee nobody on the other side of the planet will give a rat's if the next best's game is only as aesthetically appealing as an anus protruding from a forehead.  That's because all is forgiven...and I mean all is forgiven...in Australia, when you win, including very, very poor taste.

But above all, the French love beauty, and it is because they love beauty that they love tennis.  They don't like players who take themselves too seriously, but despite this they absolutely loved watching John McEnroe precisely because his game was so beautiful to behold.  I mean who else would make or watch a documentary about his most beautiful loss to Ivan "the Terrible" Lendl, in the 4th round in 1988 at Roland Garros?  They don't want to see some lumbering behemoth bludgeon his way from one indistinct victory after another (or 63 of them, for that matter).

They want to see something so beautiful that they're inspired.  They want the jeu de paumes to be a game of hands again.  They love Roger Federer because he's not Nadal - he is, in fact, the antithesis of Nadal.  His game isn't beautifully effective: it's effective because it's beautiful.  And isn't that, after all, the point?  Nobody goes to a bullfight to see who will win - they go to see the bloody, gory spectacle of courage and skill.  In this way, the French too, want to be entertained, and exhilarated, and the truth is that they don't care who does it, as long as they do it beautifully...preferably with a beautiful smile along the way.  But to the french, the words of Keats' "Ode On a Grecian Urn" are as true in tennis, as they are in life:

'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'

Well, I have the feeling that Tsonga's concept of the game is just a little too beautiful.  He floats and stings, but neither can overwhelm the more pedantic, and imminently more effective games of his contemporaries, or the Swiss Mister to whom he would be supplicant.  In one point, his backhand volley drops lovingly 24 inches into his opponent's court, and in the next, it lands 24 inches short of his own net.  The exuberance with which we celebrate the former is followed by the exasperation with which we decry the latter: such is the metaphor of his game.  How else can you explain the inexplicable experiment with the occasional one-handed backhand, other than the undeniable aesthetic appeal of that particular shot?  And I've always been left with the impression that Tsonga hasn't honed in on one or two ways to reliably slog through all of the matches he should win.  Not because he cannot learn or acquire the skills to do so, but because he doesn't have the sensibility for it.

There is something impressive about someone who won't sacrifice the beauty in their chosen field of endeavor at the altar of efficacy, but there is also something tragic.  A little bit like a Hollywood starlet, well past her due date, that won't go out of the house without her make-up.  Admirable...but also a little pathetic.  I have to admit that I have a lot of sympathy for Tsonga, and a lot of patience for all the little things he does to entertain, but no more time for the all the more things he doesn't do to fulfill his capacity.

He should have been a contender, he should have been the next savior of French tennis.  Maybe he'll make the French fall in love with him all over again by winning the Davis Cup this year, with that other French hero as captain.  But I don't think Jo-Wilfried Tsonga will ever win a major.  No matter how beautiful his game or his smile, it just isn't good enough.  That may indeed say more about the game than his, but it is often the most beautifully sad paintings that truly speak to us.

The truth, when unsheathed like a bare bodkin, cuts like one too.

Tsonga and his little doppelganger...MMT Jr.

ADDENDUM: The following is a clip from Tsonga's match with Nishikori at the Australian Open this week - I swear I didn't watch this before writing this post, but much of what I discuss in this blog can be seen in this court level view.

Nishikori vs Tsonga Oz Open 2016 

AN OPEN LETTER TO JAMIE HAMPTON

Dear Ms. Hampton:

You don't know us because we've never met and you probably wouldn't remember if we did, but we are fans of yours.  Now, we're certain that somewhere in your heart you felt the butterfly wings of trepidation upon reading that, such is the world we live in, but we can assure you that our admiration is strictly professional.  That is to say, it is based in our love of the game you play professionally and more specifically, the way you play it.  We don't think you're the best player in the world, but that didn't stop us from enjoying the games of Henri Leconte, or Ilie Nastase.  And while the likelihood of usurping the still fire-breathing "babe-o-crats" of tennis is low, it is our opinion that your game, or some derivation thereof, is the best candidate to do just that.  Not because of what you do, but because of what you don't do...but allow us to explain.

We have always shared the opinion that if one seeks to be great, the worst thing to do is exactly what everyone else does, even the great ones who precede you.  If it were feasible to do so, while they still inhabited their place at the top of the pyramid, it would have been done long ago - after all, the world hates nothing more than an empty throne or an unworn crown.  But the path of least resistance is rarely the most effective for achieving something beyond being "one of the bottle" as Jose Mourinho once famously said - better to strive to be, "...a special one."

Well, Jamie Hampton, your game is a special one, and it is missed.

Though it is a marvelous sport, the game of tennis cannot simply be a utilitarian pursuit - if it were, the French wouldn't love it so much.  In fact, one of the reasons why the rest of the world finds French tennis fans, particularly those that attend Roland Garros every year, so capricious, is precisely what makes the game of tennis so special.  To play the game correctly, is to play the game beautifully, and doing so simply must be the most effective method - otherwise, as Jesus said of a God who would compel his (or her) worship, there is no point to it.  

That is because no other sport begs to be played beautifully like tennis - sure teams and individuals in other sports play beautifully - sometimes they win, sometimes they lose - but tennis isn't supposed to be like that.  The worst thing that can happen to the game of tennis, is for its greatest exponents to play the game in a way that is less than aesthetically appealing.  Granted:  aesthetics are a matter of opinion, but like those who inhabit the upper gallery at La Scala in Milan (poetically placed above the rich and privileged), only those who value form and function as co-equal branches of the same governing principle, are in a position to judge.  And for those principled few, the gavel falls hard on those who would sully the game with efficiency at the expense of inspiration, with brute force at the expense of violently beautiful music, with victory at the expense of exaltation.

That's what is missed about your game.

Your are not endowed with all the gifts of the game's greatest exponents and greatest athletes, but you are endowed with those that we value most.  If you study the history of tennis you'll note that the name of the game comes from the Old French expression, "Tenez", which itself is derived from the earliest versions of the game, also coined by the french, "Jeu de paume" or "Game of the palm [of the hand]".  And, as you have certainly surmised, since the predecessor of tennis was a game of the hands, good hands remain today, the hallmark of what true amateurs (in the Latin sense of the word) admire in tennis.  Good hands that can as readily slice a backhand as come over it, flatly drive a forehand up the line, as roll it at an acute angle cross court, as cut a judo chop that it teasingly drops the ball inches from your opponents side of the net.  It is the hands of Riggs, Laver, McEnroe, Federer, Tomic and yes you, Jamie Hampton, that can make game look as it should - like it's still played with the palm of the hand.  

And that's also what is missed about your game.

But lest you think we are only interested in your tennis for its looks, we would point you to your own words, when asked to introduce/describe yourself as a tennis player.  Taken prima facie, perhaps attached to someone else's name, it might be interpreted as the height of arrogance - to us it was merely a statement of fact:

"I think I can do a little bit of everything. I can play offense; I can play defense; I can take time away; I can serve well. I can return well; I have a backup plan if plan A is not working".

Ah, the back up plan - as rare as an albino whale, which, we the tennis world's passengers on the Pequod, have been looking for ever since Justine Henin retired, and in you we seem to have found two or three.  And as far as backup plans go, it is only as good as it can be executed.  And once again, your execution had the hallmarks of the Jacqueline of all Trades we know you to be.  The game sorely lacks your variety, but more importantly lacks the hope that even if faced with an immovable object, you and your hands might find the force that it cannot resist.  Time and again tennis is, today, played like an evening of Japanese pantomime, where the intrigue is so lacking (because the beginning and the end is already known to the audience) that only the scenery and execution can entertain.  

But you disrupt the script, and we implore you, whereever you are, whatever you're doing, to disrupt it once more.  Please come back to the game that so richly deserves your talent, and is so sorely missing your brand.  Let the plebeians have their Empresses and the subjects thereof, so long as you return and give to us, once again, the palm of your hand where we would, so happily, reside...we promise to neither boo nor hiss.

Sincerely,

The Virtual Loggionisti of Tennis

CITI OPEN: READY OR NOT, STEVE JOHNSON'S COMING FOR YOU

Let's be honest - his is not the most aesthetically appealing game in tennis.  Not many will watch him play and wonder how he does it because it is as obvious as his game.  An outstanding first and second serve that serves him well whether or not he's under duress, a heavy forehand that clears the net with plenty of margin, but still pushes his opponent behind the baseline, and the option to hit a two-handed backhand for penetration, or a slice for defense, gives Johnson a lot of options to compete.  And competing is what the man does best.  Just ask Bernard Tomic, Grigor Dimitrov and Jack Sock - three celebrated and talented opponents this week at the Citi Open whose heads rolled off the block of his guillotine.

You might not know it from watching him play, but Johnson, is a two-time NCAA singles champion from USC.  In 2011 he took care of the much heralded Rhyne Williams of the University of Tennessee, and in 2012, Eric Quigley of the University of Kentucky.  Both of his opponents play a style which is more in line with what one might associate with an ATP tour-ready game - and neither has been heard from since.  That's because neither of them has the one element in their game that Johnson has in spades - 100% pure American steel.

If Johnson struggles coming over the backhand, he can slice it deep pushing the ball through the court and force his opponent to generate all his own pace while retreating.  This is a skill that few players possess, even in the professional ranks, and it has been the one element of his game that has taken Johnson further up the international ladder in the last two years, than any of his more illustrious contemporaries.  The serve is by far the strongest part of his game, if not for the pure pace of it, then certainly from the spin, accuracy and reliability.  Aside from the occasional blip, like the double fault that cost him the first set against Australia's Bernard Tomic, Johnson's serve is as difficult to attack as any in the game.  Hit with an exceptional amount of spin, giving him the option to attack from the baseline, or follow it to net, it is laboriously constructed, but it is a labor of love.  The options available to him with the serve mean that even if a player gets a beat on one delivery, there are three or four other reliable ones that he can go to to keep the returner honest.

But most significantly in his arsenal, Johnson doesn't suffer fools when it comes to competing - unlike some players who seem to find solace in putting in a good effort, he's not here to play the straight man to someone else's punchline.  The number next to his name in the draw is a meaningless to Johnson as it is deceptive to his opponents.  A talented European who thinks that he might have an easy time of it with Johnson's gripping an groaning with every shot, will find himself on the wrong end of a junkyard dog's bite.  And while others may prefer the streamlined grace of a greyhound, gliding about the court looking for space between the rain drops to place their shots, Johnson would just as readily put a hole in your chest, as the back fence...either way, as long as he wins the point.  And boy, is he winning a lot of points lately.

An oddity of his career is that he is currently coached by a player with whom he might have teamed at USC, had they been born two years closer to each other.  In the brief period that Peter Lucassen has worked directly with him, Johnson appears to have come to terms with the likelihood that success as a professional will depend less on his ability to dominate his opponents, than his ability not to be dominated.  "Go ahead and try", he says, "it ain't gonna happen - not today, not tomorrow...not ever."  And in a game driven towards homeostasis, Johnson's margin, athleticism, and dogged determination not to concede even the least significant of points, gives him the edge over the litany of pampered former junior phenoms who are learning the hard way that talent will only get you so far.  Johnson does not appear to suffer from such delusions, and it is the strength of that acceptance, and the game he has constructed to make the most of it, that has left him one of two Americans left standing at the Citi Open.

I was struck by Johnson's match with Bernard Tomic the other day - though most were there to catch a glimpse of l'Enfant Terrible of Australian tennis, Johnson won the majority of the crowd over, not just because he is American, but because he plays with such American values:  nobody cares how you get to the top, as long as you get there.  With support from the crowd irrelevant to him, we probably felt better for giving him support than he did for receiving it - such is the depth of his concentration.  Time and again, as Tomic tried to engage the funny bone of the intimate audience of Grandstand 1, and even on occasion his opponent, Johnson responded the only way he knows how - with a glare that would make Josie Wales do a double take, and a ferocity of resistance that might have saved Cassidy and Sundance.

The loose fitting clothes, the ever present baseball cap, and the simultaneously stiff and languid gait, belies a physical force to his game that leaves audiences and his opponents shaking their head in admiration.  What drives someone to fight, scratch and struggle as he does?  He doesn't appear to enjoy it.  His is a frosty disposition, which seems to have no patience for even a single point lost, and if you didn't know any better, Johnson's resolute competitiveness almost appears masochistic.  The truth is something more pleasantly sinister - he is, in fact, a sadist, prepared to put his opponent through the most miserable two hours of his life, if he wants to prevail.  In doing so, he may find himself with nothing left in the next round, and if the roles are reversed, and Johnson wins, he'll do it all again to the next sucker who takes him for granted.

Perhaps two years of winning the NCAA championships has prepared Johnson in a way that breezing through the junior circuit, and earning the easy money that comes to so many of the Bolletieri brethren who show promise and turn professional before their fruits have ripened, has not.  Perhaps, the education he received in college, including the commitment to learn from those who know more than him, the sense of independence that living on your own with nobody to tell you to go here and there or eat this and that, and the physical strength to break his body down every day, and build it back up the next (just a little bit better-stronger-faster each time), is exactly the kind of education that all of his contemporaries who eschewed the pursuit of knowledge for the pursuit of early glory, are missing out on.

I don't know how good Steve Johnson will be - he may win some tournaments, he may reach the top 20, and he may be a part of the hallowed US Davis Cup team.  But one thing is for certain about Steve Johnson - the most admirable thing about him - if there's a stone unturned, he'll find it...and fire it right between your eyes.

CITI OPEN: DAY 5 SUMMARY

Who the hell is Louisa Chirico?  Well, for starters she's a woman who's had two victories over top 50 players in the first two rounds of the Citi Open, and finds herself in the quarterfinal of the event.  That wouldn't be so impressive if she herself had a pedigree to speak of - she doesn't.  She's a 19-year old wild card entrant who herself is ranked 128, and has never won a tournament at the WTA tour level.  Her main claim to fame was winning the French Open wild card tournament, and proclaiming that she would have liked to play Serena Williams as a reward - a bit like winning the lottery and then looking forward to paying all the taxes and fees.  But Chirico is fearless and one gets the feeling that competing with the best players in the world brings a kind of satisfaction of vanity that is required for precocious success in tennis.  And her prospects of doing so are greatly assisted by the paucity of tactical acumen required by her style of play - if she were a man you'd say she wins based on balls and braun - a very Spanish style of play.  For a woman, I call it big babe tennis, and Chirico is definitely a big babe.  Whether she can continue today against Sloan Stephens (another big babe) in the same vain, is anybody's guess.  But the way she's playing, and the fact that Sloan Stephens does not have the most cerebral game in the world, I'd say her chances are 50/50.

Lleyton Hewitt said good-bye to the tournament he won in 2004 - honored as a former champion, never called to task for his racial outburst in 2001, and well received by the tennis audience with probably the most black people he'll see in an audience of US tennis fans, Hewitt returned to the Citi Open over and over again.  Accustomed to the hot conditions, he would have taken advantage of the quick surface that does much to facilitate the penetration of his strokes, which have always had the deceptive quality of being deep without giving his opponent much pace to speak of to work with.  This quality in the early stages of his career, before all the issues with his hip restricted his movement, allowed him to consistently pull off a kind of tennis jujitsu, where you use the power of the bigger, stronger player against himself, until he looks like a giant buffoon power lifter, tearing his own arms off as he tries to clean and jerk a new world record.  And if Hewitt weren't such a reprehensible personality when on the court, with the celebrating of his opponents errors, the confrontations with his opponents, the periodic abuse of officials, one might find more beauty in the Gilbertian quality of his tactical acumen.  As it stands, I'm less than enamored of either his coming or going.  Thanks to Feliciano Lopez, he's going.

Speaking of going, Bernard Tomic is going just as he came - shrouded in cynicism.  I watched him practice Tuesday morning, and he looked very loose and relaxed, laughing and joking with James Duckworth who had a match later (that he lost to Kei Nishikori).  I found it refreshing that after all he'd been through at Wimbledon with his Tennis Australia comments,  then in Miami Beach with his Dade County police comments, that he seemed to enjoy himself a thousand miles away from all that misery visited upon him(self).  Perhaps the purity of his time on the court was precisely the tonic needed to resolve some of the tension that must surely have built up over the last couple of difficult months.

Then I watched his match with Steve Johnson.  

Now, to say that a player isn't giving his best effort is a serious accusation, one that I myself was reluctant to sign on to.  After all, to be inside a player's mind and body is impossible, and without such an invasion, knowledge is inevitably subjugated to perception, and perception leaves us only with speculation.  But not all speculation is equally tenuous, and the case of Bernard Tomic against Steve Johnson, is hardly tenuous.  First, I noted that throughout the match, any time Tomic went down by two points on Johnson's serve, he made almost no movements at all towards the return of serve - and on the (frequent) occasion that the serve was hit within his wingspan Tomic's effort to return was as enthusiastic as it was succesful.  I note also that frequently when he had sitters from Johnson's outstretched racquet, he would hardly move his feet at all as he blew through the shot for a winner - in fact at some point he hit an overhead drop shot, such was his level of comfort, not exactly the kind of shot one would expect from an uber competitive player.

In my opinion, Tomic is the better tennis player than Steve Johnson - he uses the ball to do his bidding, whereas Johnson appears to be fighting it with every stroke. Tomic easily switches from heavy spin to short slice, to deep flat, sometimes even side-spin - Johnson hits with heavy topspin whether or not it's in his interest to do so, and frequently it isn't. Nevertheless, one other important thing Johnson always does is chase the ball - every ball - regardless of whether he had a chance to reach it.  Tomic frequently watched balls go by him from a safe distance - at first it looked like he was hoping the ball would go out, but at some point I started to get the feeling that he wanted the opposite, and commensurately to be put out of his misery.  One particular game in the third set that went to something like 7 deuces, Johnson hit winners up the line of 3 ad court second serve returns in a row.  Tomic watched each of them with a smile.  Later in the game, Johnson figured, if he was making so little effort on the second serve, why not do the same on the first.  As a matter of act, Tomic went wide in the deuce court so frequently, I started to wonder why Johnson wasn't keying on that and blowing a hole through the back fence. He almost did just that for another 2 points in a row.  And Tomic smiled at every one of them, like a kid in his driveway, oddly smiling at perfect strangers as they drive by.

There were moments in the match where Tomic tried to engage Johnson in one or two of his running jokes - at some point Johnson's attempted pass hit the tape and then jumped up into Tomic's chest.  Tomic looked over his shoulder in search of a smile or an apology - Johnson gave him neither.  Before serving the next point he gave a gallic shrug and plaintively asked, "Why mate, why?" as in, "Why did you have to do that to little old me [Mr. Beauregard]".  Johnson stared back blankly - his lack of facial expression a Nishikorian indication of his irritation.  Later in the match, Johnson hit a forehand close to the baseline that was called out, which Tomic disagreed, and softly pleaded with the umpire that he wanted to concede the point.  The umpire shook his head, insisting that the call was right. Tomic then asked to challenge the ball, which the umpire again refused (on what grounds, I don't know, but he refused nonetheless).  Not satisfied, Tomic insisted, loud enough for anyone in the stands or walking behind the court to hear, that Johnson challenge the call.  "Challenge Steve, challenge!" he said, feet spread eagle still unmoved from the end of the point, another gallic shrug, and palms pointed to the sky.  The crowd laughed at his insistence, as did the umpire, but Johnson, who had initially turned his back and ignored him, turned to face him and responded again with another blank stare.  Was he on to Tomic's ruse, or just wary of it?

I found the exchange entirely Freudian - it seemed to me Tomic really did want the call challenged, not because he thought it was out, but because (like so many who incorrectly challenged) hoped it was in - only here I think he wanted the ball to be in so that he could be one step closer to ending the match.  In fact, the very next service game Tomic burned one up the T, Johnson hit a very short reply, Tomic charged the net, feigned a drop shot, then in the style of Federer hit a slice forehand deep - the ultimate tomfoolery that makes an opponent appear to be a puppet made to humiliate himself on the end of a string.  Only Tomic promptly hit the slice forehand 6 feet out and humiliated himself - well he would have been humiliated if one assumes that he gave a shit.

It went on like this mercilessly, and towards the end of the match, in one of the longer deuce games, which conveniently persisted the illusion of effort, one had the feeling that Tomic grew irritated with Johnson that he was so profligate in all the opportunities he was giving him to finish him off.  Tomic didn't appear to have any trouble controlling points when he wanted to, and although Johnson was making all the right moves, like a rhythmless enthusiast, desperately learning the moves to a Michael Jackson video, it was all there but horrific to behold nonetheless.  Johnson is a committed professional, and will almost certainly maximize his results - he's serious and leaves no stone unturned...he just doesn't have a lot of stones.  That match took an hour longer than it should have, although he prevailed in the end.  If Tomic had tried as hard to win that match, as he tried to make it look like he was trying, the match would have been done an hour earlier as well - only the result reversed.

Speaking of a match that took longer than it should have, Grigor Dimitrov won his 2nd round encounter with Guido Pella 6-4, 6-1 7-6, 6-4.  He should have won the match in less than an hour, but his old junior nemesis from Argentina held firm in the first and broke him precisely when the Bulgarian should have mercilessly closed out the first set. In fact, down a break at 5-4, Guido Pella proceeded to break, hold and break again, and had the set in his hands.  But the South American lefty's convoluted and thoroughly concocted forehand broke down at the absolute worst times, and he wound up losing tamely in a tie-break.  The second was a repeat of the first, with Dimitrov up 5-1, with two breaks.  Then Pella held, broke and held, to bring himself within one break of equalling his feat in the first.  In his interview after the match, Dimitrov intimated he was experimenting with going for his shots, almost as if he wanted to test the limit of how precise he could be if it was necessary.  Well, it wasn't necessary, and he found out what the other side of the limit was last night, almost to his own detriment.  Fortunately for him, he's come a long way since the juniors, and he was able to reel it in when he needed to.  We'll see if he was experimenting or merely missing the mark, because I have a feeling that Johnson will not give him the gifts that Guido Pella did.  Although on the basis of his performance against Bernard Tomic, I may live to regret that assertion.  I was impressed (as I have been since I first saw him play in 2011) with his game, but unimpressed with this result for Dimitrov.  I have a feeling Johnson will also be underwhelmed, in which case Dimitrov better figure out the right side of that limit, right quick.

Speaking of right quick, boy was that a quick and terrible journey for Andy Murray, who was eliminated from both the doubles and singles in the first round from the home tournament of his clothing sponsor, Under Armour.  A bit like Lewis Hamilton going out of the race on the first lap of the German Grand Prix...if there were a German Grand Prix this year (but I digress).  I have to say, Murray made an effort of it - he just came up against that terrible condition that all the top players fear.  A guy who has a lot of tools in his kit, but is consistently inconsistent, just happens to put together the entirety of his arsenal...just for you.  Gabashvili was hitting first serves consistently at or just below the 130 mark, which is unusual for him.  Combined with a mammoth forehand, and a backhand that easily switched from cross-court to up the line, he presented the kind of problems that are normally reserved for only the best opponents Murray will face.  

After going down an early break in the first, Murray found his way back to 4-4, then proceed to get broken for the set after some profligate serving and unforced errors trying to do the exact opposite of what got him back in the set.  Namely, rather than daring the Georgian to see who would outlast whom in the cross court rallies, he attempted twice to change direction on the backhand up the line, which he's normally good at, but not off of the depth of Gabashvili's offerings last night.  In the second, Murray settled down and did what he does best, hit harder and deeper to the same spots until he elicits a soft reply.  In the ultimate game, Gabashvili was still the aggressor, and looked like he was getting exactly what he wanted down set point with long points shortened by his power up the line, eliciting a high defensive lob.  Now I happened to watch Gabashvili practice overheads for about 15 minutes in his pre-match hit with Vasek Pospisil.  So he would have been beside himself when he dumped his overhead 3 feet wide of the ad court sideline - he was, because before the score was called he had slammed his racquet in to the ground in disgust.

The third set was tense and the quality of tennis high.  Although Gabashvili was resolute despite a calf-injury that appeared to be tempered by adrenaline, Murray was in control and served for it at 5-4.  But after a couple of uncharacteristic (even for this match) unforced errors, Murray sent a backhand long and they traded holds until the tie-break.  Murray went up 4-3, but wouldn't win another point after that.  He again reminded anyone who would listen that it was his first hard court tournament since March, but that doesn't explain the loss, which was the result of Gabashvili playing exceptionally well for an exceptionally long time. Murray, who was his usual steady self, never really raised the level of his game, and it cost him the match.  Here in DC, where only his reputation is at stake (and an extra 500 points is nothing to shake a stick at) it will be seen as an anomaly, but I found his entire stay here in DC to be subdued, from his interviews to his training sessions to his matches.  In my mind I always found an excuse, it was hot in the presser, it was hot on court, it was a doubles match, and finally he hadn't played on hard courts since March...

Time will tell, but I have a feeling that Murray is displeased with something in his camp that hasn't come out yet.  Frequently in the match, he looked over at his camp, and his answer to my question about using hawkeye data in practice in Miami this year, leads me to believe that something is amiss, of which his disappointing performance is a symptom.  If it isn't resolved, like most immune responses, left untreated, will eventually kill his him - or at least his chances at the US Open.

THANK YOU CITI OPEN - THE REAL BERNARD TOMIC 2015

If you google him, you'll read about a couple of school boy stunts that, if he'd never picked up a tennis racquet, you'd think little of it.  And if you search him on YouTube, the first clip you'll see is the now infamous one where he asks the umpire to ask his father to leave the court, and then thanks the umpire when he gives him a code violation for coaching.  Now there are about 1,000 reasons why that may be of interest to you, but if you've bothered to search clips of him I would implore you to go to the second clip - the one of his best points.  In it you'll see an array of shots, point constructions and a display of some of the best hands in tennis, against some of the best players in the world, over and over again.

This is the real Bernard Tomic - the player who won the Australian Open Juniors when he was 15 years old (yes 15 years old) and the US Open Juniors when he was 16 years old.  The Bernard Tomic that won Sydney in 2013, Bogota in 2014 and again in 2015.  The Sydney title was especially encouraging given its proximity to the Australian Open, and much was was expected of him as a result, but unfortunately for him he ran in to Roger Federer for the second year in a row, and failed to progress beyond the 3rd round at his home major.  Next year, he had the great fortune of facing Rafa Nadal at his home major (for those of you in the blogosphere that still believe draws are fixed).

So what is it about his game that has brought him his results?  His serve is good, but not overwhelmingly so, his forehand can be hit with venom, but is as often hit inside out with side-spin and while equally awkward and effective, nobody would suggest that it is the best in the world.  While his backhand is this most reliable shot, both the flat double-hander and the slice (which he has indicated is his favorite shot) it doesn't always have the pace that one would associate with a weapon.  He volleys well, and has a solid return of serve when he's in the mood, but none of these tools in his kit would appear to be one that could deliver the coup de grace at any given moment in a point.

That's because Bernard Tomic's greatest strength is his hands - with supple touch, and an ability to both inject and extract pace from the rally, his hands give Tomic a breadth of capability on the ball that eludes the vast majority of his contemporaries.  While their games are based on brawn and overwhelming force, Tomic's is based on guile, dexterity and improvisational acumen, reserved for only the most talented of players.  And because talent can so frequently be overcome by brute force, Tomic's greatest strength often appears to be insufficient against those players least likely to surpass what I belief will be an outstanding professional career.

The key to tennis is technique, and although Tomic stands at nearly 6'5", it is not physicality that strikes you when you watch him play, it is sheer ball striking ability that conjures angles, spins, pace and delivery that is so unique, it can appear awkward when not firing on all cylinders.  I am of the opinion that this is the reason he is so frequently accused of giving less than his best effort.  He is, in my opinion, no more or less committed and any other 22-year old (yes, he's only 22) that finds himself seeded at the majors.  But the impression left by his technically sensitive game, is conflation of a lack of freneticism with a lack of effort - the two couldn't be less mutually inclusive.  Just because you hoot and holler on every stroke, groaning like the pard, sweat like a mule, and slip and slide around the court like you're playing on linoleum, doesn't mean you're giving your best effort.  I mean, what about the effort of that "muscle" that sits three feet above your ass?

For anyone with the opportunity to watch Bernard Tomic play in person, the absence of such outward displays does not connote an absence intent.  After all, how can you measure how hard a player is thinking?  And if you're not putting to best use your understanding of how to hit a tennis ball, how to set up a point, how to disrupt your opponent, and how to use the tools available to you in the most effective way, who's to say you're giving your best effort?

The thing I like the most about Tomic's game is his ability to improvise - no player on tour, with the exception of perhaps Roger Federer, appears to come up with unforeseen ways to win a point than him.  It would be easy for him to rely on his physical qualities, which are formidable, but Tomic does what so many players on tour today seem unwilling or unable to do - every time he plays he teaches you something new.  He teaches you that you can be just as effective with side spin as with top, that you don't have to slice cross court every time, that you don't have to come over the forehand every time and still beat some of the best players you play.  As a matter of fact, if Tomic teaches us anything about tennis, it's that sometimes the best thing you can do to win a point is the exact opposite of what your opponent wants you to do.  And to do that takes skill, intelligence, and a commitment to a tactical approach that could be more effective, but will deliver you to a great deal of criticism if it isn't - that takes a kind of courage of conviction that tactics and technique are the key to success in tennis.

Tomic doesn't get stuck in cross court rallies with players who are better at that than he is, and in doing so, straight away, he takes away a strength of 90% of his opponents.  He is also capable of hitting inside out from either wing, frequently with sidespin causing his ball to trail away from his opponent, having the added effect of disrupting the optimal footwork and point of contact for his opponent, and eliciting errors or soft responses (what I would call "soft" errors that don't lose the point immediately, but lead to an opponents shot that will).  This too diminishes the impact of one of the characteristics that separates the best players in the world from the rest of us - their footwork.  One of the reasons why it's always guess work as to exactly when a player starts to get tired, is that the stroke is actually the last place where it will show up - the first place it shows up is in the footwork.  And this is why errors begin to pop up on players when they start to get tired, before the racquet head decelerates appreciably.  Essentially, as the body tires, it can no longer reliably repeat the optimal technique.

The brilliance of Tomic's technique is that his ball, so quirky on one shot, so flat and true on the next, deep and penetrating on one wing, then disruptively short and angled on the next, mimics the kind of  muscle memory amnesia that frequently results from fatigue.  As such, when he is at his more imperious, it is not Tomic his game that appears awkward, but often his opponent's.  And like Leo Messi, causing a world cup winning defender like Jerome Boateng to trip over their own feet nothing tells an opponent that they're for a long day, like making him destroy himself for no apparent reason.  That only happens when your technique is superior to your opponents, and I can't think of many players on the ATP tour that do that better than Bernard Tomic.

I have a feeling we're going to see the real Bernard Tomic in Washington, DC.  Not the guy that so many people seem to want to criticize.  And when he comes to the Citi Open, I'm going to watch him practice and I'm going to watch him play, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to learn one or two things along the way.  

For that gift, to all tennis players, I say "Thank you Citi Open".