Close to Perfection Part 2: A Portrait of Roger Federer at Wimbledon

I take a seat on a quiet outside court where, rumor has it, Federer will practise a couple of hours before his match. Sure enough, a camera crew, trainer, and knock-up partner prelude the quiet arrival of the man himself.

It provides a perfect counterpoint to match-play. A gentle knock is gradually cranked up to harder ball striking, forays to the net for volley and overhead drills, and then a retreat for serving and more ground work.

It is entirely routine yet endlessly fascinating. A slight adjustment here, a sudden upping of tempo there. One minute joking with team members, then dropping into a centred silence.

And when this near-private session concludes, he drifts unsummoned across to the few fans who have found this oasis, and carefully signs programmes in surprisingly elaborate curls.

A graphologist might assign “emotional intensity” to them. I couldn’t possibly comment.

Perfection is Federer’s middle name. And what he applies to his game he also applies to every other facet of tennis.

He knows its history inside out. He respects the traditions and qualities of each different tournament. And he has set new benchmarks in sartorial style.

Love it or loath it, the total “look” he launches at each successive Wimbledon has attracted headlines, and shows an innate confidence in his own skin—but leavened with a touch of fun.

Few could carry off the white and gold safari look—he somehow does.

The fluidity and lightness of Federer in motion underpins his whole game, and infuses his tennis with elegance.

Experts and fans alike struggle to convey how he moves. They talk of his ability to “float” across the court. Most will compare him with a dancer. Many will focus on the footwork and the balance.

It is, of course, a combination of all these things, and their synergy produces an effortless grace unparalleled in the modern game.

At the other end of the fashion scale, Federer’s on-court garb is stripped down in its simplicity: immaculate fit, pristine white with just a hint of gold in the Nike swoosh and RF logo.

Understated, practical and classy.

Nuff said.

An iron fist in a silk glove, the Federer serve begins with a fluid sway, arms and shoulders poised at its peak in marble stillness, before the body folds into delivery.

Identical in its simplicity every time, but delivering the ball in a different direction, at a different speed and with unpredictable spin. Whether at 110 or 120 m.p.h., it can be an ace.

Smiles are rare during a Federer match. His contained concentration is often taken for aloofness, humorlessness, even ill-temper.

But his calm exterior masks a steely mind able to manipulate tactics, adjust timing, impose a rhythm, and calculate a pattern that can winkle out the weakness in his opponent.

It’s almost possible, when he’s at the top of his game, to see the cogwheels whirring during the change of ends. Not a calorie of wasted energy, he placidly gazes into the middle distance.

It is the tiny details that tell you this man is fastidious. From his profuse and glossy curls to his immaculate shoes, everything has a gleam.

Even his finger nails are manicured to perfection. Not ostentatious, just neat, perfectly shaped and with a pearly buff. And they complete outrageously long, artistic fingers.

He must have been a musician in a former life!

Long regarded as the finest in the business, the Federer forehand cracks like a whip, and leaps from the baseline in the blink of an eye. Well, that’s the drive down the line.

The inside out forehand bends away from a rolling wrist to leap off the sideline.

And the top-spin launched cross-court targets the intersection of both lines. The action is smooth, swift and efficient. The outcome—usually—a foregone conclusion.

Back to a more exposed practice court on second Monday. Federer is winding down, but the simple rope boundary begins to bulge with the pressure of over-enthusiastic spectators.

The crowd shouts and pushes forward, thrusting paper, clothing, even their children, under his nose, begging for signatures, photos, a word.

It must be part of the everyday to him and his team. It is a shock to the uninitiated.

His first move, though, is towards the ball kids waiting patiently to one side. He signs for them, and then slowly works his way along the court’s margin. It means the world to the countless fans who have come for this one moment of contact, and he knows it.

Make no mistake. The almost casual walk and ball selection belie a supremely fit man.

The speed, poise and reactions look unrehearsed: of course they are not. The gift is to make it look easy: the Fred Astaire approach. But all the skill in the world still needs a powerful physique to deliver it.

Slim of limb, narrow at hip, the strength comes from large muscle mass in torso, flank and leg.

Federer caught at the point of impact has the build of a thoroughbred bursting from the starting gate.

That second practice takes place in gentle morning light, no need of hat or bandanna.

Loose hair, collarless T, and no fierce sun to furrow the brow, Federer has the youthfulness and profile of Florence’s favourite son: David transformed into a warm shade of honey.

The signature sweep of that right arm from behind his left ear to behind his right shoulder is one of tennis’ great pleasures. Its close cousin, the sliced version that ends alongside his right hip, is another.

The Federer single-hander, once regarded as a weakness, has turned into both defensive and offensive weapon.

It is one of the most extreme actions in tennis, both arms folding back like the wings of a swooping bird. And one can only guess at the rotation that is required in the shoulder joints.

It may lack a little of the penetration of the double-hander, but it delivers disguise, touch and a flexibility normally associated with squash. A two-handed player would struggle to make a backhand winner with his back to the net.

14 Grand Slams and counting.

21 Grand Slam semis in a row, and counting.

Happily married, with fatherhood around the corner.

Voted yet again the ATP fans’ and fellow players’ favorite.

Still hungry, still adapting, and still working hard.

Classy tennis, classy man.

And pretty damn close to perfection.

(This is a visual recollection of Federer and Wimbledon. Its companion, word-based, is at
http://bleacherreport.com/articles/207927-close-to-perfection-roger-federer-at-wimbledon)