An Affair Called Roland Garros

(Photo by Matthew Stockman/Getty Images)

It’s tried to woo me for several years now, but I’ve ignored all its advances. It’s a little rough around the edges, slightly unkempt, often unsightly, and not very easy on the eyes.

I talk, of course, of the jarring red clay of Roland Garros.

While relentless warriors continued to battle on perhaps the most famous patch of dirt in the world, I followed with a sense of curious detachment, seeing but not really watching, checking the score while dismissing the ball striking, listening to the broadcast but overlooking the visuals, for the soothing green grass of Wimbledon’s Center Court was but a few short weeks away.

The slick and unpredictable surface offered by the finely manicured lawns of the All England Club beckoned to me in all its grandeur: the British insistence on pure white ensemble, the strawberries and cream, the incessant rain delays, but most importantly, the offense, the risk-taking, the winning as opposed to not losing.

On clay, I blamed the painstakingly slow back-and-forths, the unforced errors that came after laborious scrambles, and the out calls that followed excruciatingly painful baseline battles.

No one was forcing the action, making a foray into the net to dictate a point, throwing caution to the wind and swiveling up in mid-air to take a ball early.

And then Roger Federer paid a visit to Paris. I watched him, year after year, play aggressive ground strokes, hit approach shots instead of consistent rallies, move his opponent along the length of the baseline before deftly flicking his wrist so the ball went sailing into the open court.

In other words, he gave me a glimpse of what could actually make clay-court tennis not just aesthetically pleasing but also worth my while.

Of course, others had tried it before him: John McEnroe, Stefan Edberg, and Boris Becker to mention just a few. But none had been quite as successful as Federer.

None had made it to three consecutive finals. None was the second-best clay-court player of his time. None had come close to toppling the Clay King of his era.

That aggressive style of ending points early instead of merely prolonging them first got Federer as far as the semi-finals at Roland Garros, and devoted fan that I am, I cheered him on. I am guilty of following a player rather than the sport itself.

The red clay jarred and the colorful outfits clashed against its backdrop, but I watched. I watched him hit a powerful serve and storm to the net; when the serve wasn’t nearly good enough for that, he’d satisfy himself with an inside-out forehand winner from the baseline.

The volleys and drop shots were fewer and farther between as compared to what we would see at the cathedral of tennis a few weeks later, but they were there, nonetheless.

Bull-dozing Spaniard Rafael Nadal, who looked like he had materialized from the very clay he was playing on, deposed of the World Number One with a flourish.

I didn’t think Federer would make it that far again (I assigned to him the same fate as Sampras) the greatest player never to win at Roland Garros. And I was OK with that.

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