Time drags its feet through the fading days of October.
The wait is long, and the gaping hole he leaves seems bottomless.
The absence of Roger Federer from tennis brings a thirst that will only be quenched when, at last, he takes to the courts of his homeland. But the oasis of Basel seems still a distant mirage.
So the anticipation for autumn-tinged November has never been as great.
Until then, though, the only respite—like drops of rain in a parched desert—is found in recordings, recollections, and writing.
Thus watered, the desert bursts into a Technicolor meadow of flowers, each blossom a single moment from a year of contrasts.
As days shorten towards the Tour Finals, the first memories to surface recall oil-dark events, a year ago, under the magnolia roof of Shanghai.
God gave us our memories so that we might have roses in December (J. M. Barrie)
Last October, Federer turned a painful back on Paris. By November, his appearance had darkened to midnight blue for the pale violet courts of Shanghai.
The Chinese city’s exuberant fairground atmosphere threw his navy form into sharp relief.
Against Andy Murray, he played fearsome and fearless tennis, but was reduced to a shadow by an inspired opponent. First bent double like a stem without water, then prostrate at court-side as though blighted by winter frost, Federer was a broken reed. The rhapsody in blue turned to grey.
Winter advanced through December towards January. New shoots of growth appeared at a warm-up showcase in Abu Dhabi and a first tournament in Doha.
But the Persian Gulf shivered in chill winds. As though in sympathy, Federer remained swathed in the colour of the night sky—and continued to lose to Murray.
Jewels of rich and exquisite form (William Shakespeare)
As Federer has matured, his color palette has narrowed and refined into a winter spectrum. The occasional greens and yellows of his youth have been replaced by every imaginable blue tempered, according to the season, by strong jewel-like hues—ruby red, coral, azure.
In the Australian final, on the first day of February, a vivid lapis lazuli shirt trimmed in pure white recalled cornflowers swaying in the breeze.
The moon-tinted blue of the Melbourne court provided a perfect counterpoint to the glowing topaz of his limbs. Cropped dark curls were bound in sweat-darkened inky blue. Sapphire-hued shoulders swooped wide in his dramatic and elegant single-handed whip.
These cool colors belied the heat of the weather and the tennis. Federer’s longed-for rematch against Rafael Nadal produced the expected drama, scintillating tennis, and swinging fortunes.
The prize went to Nadal. The tear-stained face of Federer went into recuperative hibernation for five weeks.
If winter comes, can spring be far behind? (Percy Bysshe Shelley)
Federer’s winter solstice eventually passed, and a gentle sun rose into his spring sky. He was to become a father
Indian Wells chimed perfectly with his optimistic mood. It’s a place drenched in blue, completely in tune with its watery origins. Its serene mountainous backdrop, cloudless skies, and dry heat come as close to a garden of paradise as a desert can offer.
Federer stripped his look back to the simplest blue-black, shoulder-to-knee in navy. The collar was replaced with a simple neckline dipped slightly at the throat. What might be sombre was lifted by white headband and feet, signed off with a pristine swoosh on the breast.
His tennis was anything but sombre. He overcame some of the best hard-court players—Ivo Karlovic, Fernando Gonzalez, and Fernando Verdasco—yet he fell once more to Murray.
Late March brought one of the brightest and breeziest tournaments of the year. Miami’s searing sunshine alternated with breezy outbursts that kept both players and officials on their toes.
And at last, Federer’s winter hue lightened to white and mink leavened with turquoise highlights. But while spring blossomed across his shoulders, fingers of frost touched his tennis, and storm clouds broke out over another loss. This time it was to Novak Djokovic.
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