Roger Federer Ends Year As True Master, Even in Defeat

ith particular relish.

I’ve always had a soft spot for the Argentine – I like his style of play, his swinging drives, his intelligent all-court tactics, his unpredictability, his determination to overcome injuries and patches of poor results. And he has the ability to bring out the best in Roger.

The Basel final is a joy. Both men play beautiful tennis but Roger is as sharp as lemon zest. He moves so fast, seems to have endless pace on every shot and, on striking the ball, makes his characteristic leap with trailing leg lifted, an arabesque pose worthy of Sadlers Wells, simultaneously whipping racket behind his left shoulder.

Strike after strike is timed to perfection, the racket head a blur, the ball speeding to far corners. Volley, drop shot and lob intersperse forehand and backhand sweeps, executed at times with a casual flick, at others with piercing focus.

Nalbandian works his socks off, produces superb swinging serves, runs like a rabbit, but is a hunted man almost from the start.

Roger wins in straight sets, conceding a mere seven points on his serve. His arms are raised, his smile is broad, he fidgets coyly in his courtside interview like a small boy in a sweetshop.

Then half way through Paris, my balloon is popped by the pin “Federer withdraws injured”. It’s one of those silent-scream moments—very Edvard Munch. I can’t cry out loud but every molecule in my body is shouting ‘no!’ Rafa too is injured—and I and my daughter are going on this huge trip to see heroes who will not make it.

We duly get the announcement that Rafa has withdrawn but that Roger has arrived in Shanghai—at least there is some hope he might play.

The nerves are jangling as departure approaches. I’m nearly packed, I’m not sleeping, I’m worried about so many things. But on Saturday, here I am on a plane, beginning a solitary 11-hour flight.

Tired though I am, I don’t sleep, my eyes are sore from watching videos, my seat is sore from lack of activity, my stomach is tight from too many carbs, my brain buzzing with manoeuvring from plane, to immigration, to baggage, to daughter and taxi—will it all work? It does, of course, and the two of us are on our way to central Shanghai.

We venture out into the local streets—it’s buzzing, furious, neon-lit, sky-scraping, every step a photo opportunity. We take pictures of each other, of buildings, of the lights, of the hotel soaring up like a rocket to the stars.

We head to the river and a boat trip of a lifetime. For a mere £4, we watch the Shanghai skyline turn from dusk to night, and the best lightshow money can buy. Pudong on one side, Bund on the other, verging on Bladerunner but with a New York personality.

Down the river come vast floating TV adverts, one flashing up images of last year’s Masters Cup—Roger’s face in full neon glory sailing in front of the Oriental Pearl Tower is a must-get photo opportunity!

There’s another Roger moment as we walk back to our hotel. At a major intersection there is live neon broadcast of him playing Simon. I stop in my tracks and see him win the first set with an ace—

You're currently logged into Facebook

Do you want to share your Bleacher Report activity on Facebook?