Now for the gloating
Who was that clever, clever person who, after the Australian Open debacle, said it was only a matter of time before Roger Federer wins his 14th, 15th, 19th grand slam titles? Oh, right: it was I. And who was it who called her friends during the live telecast of the Federer-Sampras match at Wimbledon in 2001 shrieking at them to turn on their TVs? When that match ended and I saw the crying for the first time I said, “I don’t know who you are, funny-looking boy in ponytail, but I’m following you.”
The payoff was not immediate; it took another two years for me to reap the gloating rights, but I have held them for the better part of six years and have no intention of relinquishing them. I’m no fair-weather fan. (I’m looking at you, Mike Torres, you turncoat blinded by Nadal’s musculature. And you, Dorski Granada, and your “Um, Djokovic is cute.”) I did not abandon Roger despite the emergence of a player whose strength was the countermeasure to his genius. (Genius is offended and then fazed by unyielding resistance. Also, genius does not like to get dirty.)
Throughout the bad year (only one slam), when many said the reign was finished and not just in exile, I bit my tongue. Doomsayers, you did not factor in a variable so obvious it is always overlooked. In order to win, First You Must Play.
For the record, we did not wish Rafael Nadal ill. (Hindi ko siya kinulam.) How could we not admire such a fierce but polite competitor?
I don’t like the “Kill every ball, die for every shot” style, but I admire willpower and I see why he is popular among spectators who demand drama. The downside of the “Kill and Die” style is the wear and tear on the body. Professional sport is punishing enough, but the Kill and Die player will naturally have a shorter peak than the finesse player who conserves his resources and relies more on cunning. As a nerd I root for the player who uses his head.
We do not deny that Nadal’s early defeat to Robin Soderling was a big factor in Roger’s victory at Roland Garros. However, this does not put an asterisk next to Federer’s achievement. The Fed fulfilled his part: he made it to the final and beat Soderling. First, you must play.
With the French Open win, The Fed tied the 14-slam record of Pete Sampras (who never won the French). We put off the celebration until the 15th, record-breaking title. By the way it is 3 p.m. Sunday in Manila, hours before the men’s final, but I have no doubt in my mind.
Our lives are ruled by randomness, we cannot control outcomes, but always trust in talent.
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Every year Roger has showed up at Wimbledon in a special outfit. First the white blazer, then the suit with Velcro-on pants, the cardigan, and now the high-collared jacket, vest, and trousers ensemble that looks like a tribute to Michael Jackson. Sportswriters and bloggers have heaped scorn on the outfit, calling it “foppish,” “dandyish,” a throwback to Brideshead Revisited that undermines efforts to make tennis more accessible to the masses, and “elitist.” One writer urged him to “Man up,” meaning, “Roger, you look gay.”
This is in addition to the usual charges that The Fed is “superior, pompous, condescending,” staples in the “You think I’m better than me?” school of resentment. Not everyone is charmed by a regal demeanor, good suits and fluency in four languages. It’s positively un-American.
But we are talking about the tennis player whom his peers and elders have proclaimed the Greatest Of All Time. If he wants to wear a little white sundress on Centre Court, he is entitled to. “Entitled” — there’s a concept that rankles among professed democrats. We’d like to believe that all men are created equal; here’s proof that they are not. The Fed is an affront to egalitarianism.
There is no disparity between Roger’s game and his outfit, though the latter with its monograms and gold accents is much less subtle.
Elegant player, elegant attire. It is very mid-20th century to require
“real men” to not care about their appearance. No doubt it is disturbing to the “macho” way to see someone with perfect hair and an interest in fashion casually dismiss sweaty, grunting, “manly” players. It brings up class resentments: he makes one feel like a peasant. But why be so vehement in the defense of manliness? Unless...
As for the charge of elitism, it is disingenuous to pretend that tennis is accessible to everyone. Magkano ba ang racquet? Dose mil. (How much is a racquet? P12,000.) And court time? The Williams sisters have emphatically proven that talent and drive can overcome economic barriers. But there are economic barriers nonetheless.
It is also condescending to assume that the poor are not interested in dressing well, and that all who side with them should look “proletarian.” As an expression of one’s personal beliefs, it is shockingly shallow. Raul reminds me of an interview in which Miuccia Prada was asked how she could be both a communist and a designer of luxury goods. She said, “I do not understand the question.” There is no contradiction between elegance and waging class war. Do not believe all the ridiculous runway statements: Dressing is an expression of dignity. Fashion belongs to the people.
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Postscript. The men’s final was not at all what I’d expected. Andy Roddick put up a terrific fight. In the crucial second set tiebreak, down a set and facing four set points, Roger was on the brink. He dug himself out of that hole, but Roddick refused to go away. The final was not decided until Roger broke him for the first and only time at 15-14 in the fifth set. Roddick played his best tennis, Roger did just enough to win. Life is not fair, and as Roger put it, “Tennis is cruel.”
I think one aspect of being a sporting champion is closing off the part of your brain that recognizes the possibility of defeat. If the shadow of a doubt crosses your mind you’re done, and in the past Nadal cast a big shadow. The airlock has been sealed. Slam number 15, Wimbledon title number 6 was not one of Roger’s artistic triumphs, but he displayed something critics have accused him of not having. He showed guts. All those missed opportunities did not haunt him; at the moment of crisis he made the right decisions and executed them perfectly. All hail the king.
On to number 16.
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