Roger Federer Ends Year As True Master, Even in Defeat

a wicked taunt in what transpires to be a dreadful loss over the following hour. Meanwhile, my daughter has crossed the road, shouting at me to catch up before the traffic pounds across my path!

On Tuesday, we go to Xi Zhong for the first time and see Djokovic win and Tsonga lose their matches. But it’s on Wednesday that I see Roger for the first time since Wimbledon.

The match is uncomfortable, though. Roddick had pulled out with an ankle strain and Roger plays against Stepanek. It is an odd encounter, I’m not clear of the status of the game (does the result count or is this just an exhibition?), Roger is not on great form but manages a win.

He’s gorgeous of course, the shirt has changed from the white in Europe to midnight blue, and the colour sets off his honey-coloured skin perfectly. He reveals, in the post-match interview, that he has been ill the previous day. This explains his performance, but is a worry for the forthcoming encounter with the toughest of all opponents on Friday.

A little voice keeps whispering that Roger may at the last minute pull out. Reason tells me he won’t because Roddick has already gone, and Roger will be mindful of the need of the tournament and the fans. I could not foresee just how committed he would be to this event when Friday came.

I’m in a strange position, supporting, as I should, the best British player in decades, admiring, as I do, his tennis and his huge efforts this year to mature as a player and a person. But against Roger, my true colours flutter in red and white.

The atmosphere in the arena was fantastic (especially compared with the hushed play at Wimbledon), a real sense of camaraderie, a coming together of fans from across the globe. I sit next to South Africans, and queue for a taxi with New Zealanders. In both cases, they had come to support Roger. And I felt right at home amongst the dozens of Swiss flags.

I duly see Simon win and have to wait half an hour for my last glassful of Roger. Then his entrance, to a roaring, adoring crowd, through mist into the coliseum.

And from the outset, the tennis is spectacular from both men but it’s Roger who has the ascendancy. I’ve only ever seen him play like this on televised matches, and here I’m watching it in real life.

The speed of the ball, the low trajectory, the angles to furthest corners: mindblowing. His face still looks tired, a little pale, and he stretches his limbs between end changes. I notice too that he is massaging his right arm underneath his towel: no fuss, understated, subtle, but there nevertheless.

My hopes rise as he takes the first set – not because Andy plays poorly but because Roger is superb. The lines in his face could be strain from lack of sleep, or determination, or a combination of both.

I can’t then believe the unfolding story. He is broken straight away in the second set.

Andy’s character has firmed this year and he bounces back from the opening set with grit and purpose. There are so few errors from his racket, the rallies are so long that fatigue forces a few mistakes from Roger.

But this is a set of high quality, probing ground stokes, both men matching each other with floating backhand slices, forehand drives of perfect depth, down line and across court.

Both anticipate the other’s shots, both run and make one beautiful drive after another. Interspersed with volleys, lobs and drop shots, Andy starts to score more winners, Roger to make the occasional over-strike. The long volley will become Roger’s downfall and later on a costly error that throws away a match-winning opportunity.

It becomes clear, deep into the second set, that Roger is struggling. His actions become so uncharacteristic that the match will probably go down in the record books: the only time Roger had to sit down between points (on a line judge’s chair, on three separate occasions); had to take on water when not changing ends; had to prostrate himself on the court three times for a trainer to manipulate his lower back and hip.

Most noticeable, to me, was his posture in the chair at end-changes, sitting forward with head bowed: he normally relaxes back, legs dropped apart, shoulders curved downward, gazing around the arena.

He hits balls in frustration, shakes his head at missed shots, and he even moans with the effort of serving – this usually serene, silent, floating genius groaning with exhaustion.

He strides off court unannounced after the second set is finally lost in a tie break. He must give in and retire. He cannot maintain the movement, energy, desire to try for the third set. Yet he does.

I still struggle to find the words for that final set, the ebb and flow of who it appeared to favour.

The hours clicked by, the tension rose, his health declined but he carried on. It was awesome, humbling, heart-breaking yet ennobling. One game lasted over a quarter of an hour, Roger serving over and over, with no energy to do so, yet he won it.

But the dice were cast. In the end he could not makes his serves, could not plunge for accurate volleys, could not twist to retrieve backhand angles. After more than three hours, defeated, he was able to escape to the relieving hands of a physio.

Against a less than brilliant opponent, he would have succeeded. But Roger ended the year as he began it, ill, stubborn, beaten by his body despite his will, food poisoning like quote marks at either end. But it was a true privilege to have witnessed this contest, and to watch Roger, a sporting champion to his fingertips, fighting to the end of a superb match rather than retire. Bravo!

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