The Federer Effect: How One Woman Came Back to Tennis

It was when I received a letter in the post in May telling me I had drawn tickets in the Wimbledon ballot for Centre Court on men’s semi-final day that his journey began. Though in reality, it must date back more than three years; it was the first time for perhaps 20 years that there seemed time to watch tennis again.

I had watched Wimbledon devotedly from childhood through to child-bearing, had played (reasonably well) and had queued for ground tickets, though never saw a Bjorn or a Stefan except through my television screen.

But work and family took over, and Sky, of course, hadn’t been born. Squash replaced tennis because it took less time and could be fitted into a lunch-time. Some time around 2005, though, I saw Roger and my love affair with tennis was reborn.

It began slowly...the beautiful movement, the immaculate style, and shot-making that was beyond any former memory of tennis. Continue looking, and you’re drawn to the grace, the composure, the bearing, and apparent ease with which those shots are made. He won: I was won over.

During the summers of 2006 and 2007, the joy from this game and this player grew at such a rate I could barely contain it. I dipped into Google, read articles, found interviews, and this glorious tennis player was also gradually revealed.

A loyal friend, a constant lover, a generous benefactor, a sportsmanlike opponent, a tennis ambassador without parallel...it was all too good to be true. Admired, respected and genuinely liked both within the tennis world and beyond it, he has won the Laureus Sportsman of the Year award on four consecutive occasions, the ATP award for sportsmanship also on four occasions. Yet he maintained his position at the top of his sport, week after unbroken week, for over four years. No wonder people the world over are coming back to tennis.

So to Mon. 23rd, 1 p.m., Centre Court, and Roger appears to cheering crowds with old friend Dominik and one hugely anticipated cardigan.

It’s not certain whether the ovation is for the players or to welcome a fashion statement that swept us all back to a the misty golden notion of what Wimbledon was like in the 1920.

I run ahead of myself. The usual pattern is to reserve a corner of my computer screen for live-streaming match scores and, if I’m lucky, catch up with the recording in the evening. So I know it’s an easy win, and I get a familiar happy flutter in my chest. I can’t wait to get home, pour the wine, play the tape and watch the two friends and the cardigan take centre stage.

The tennis is perfect, the mood relaxed and (cardigan discarded) he is resplendent in pristine white. 

The Press on the Tuesday morning were full of praise for the tennis and the closing moments between two affectionate friends. It had been hard to believe—reading, listening, watching the circling vultures who had begun to pull his game apart in growing numbers since January—that here was a man celebrating his 230th consecutive week at No. 1.

He seemed genuinely shocked and, not surprisingly, hurt that former adulation could turn to critique in the blink of an eye.

“I haven’t been listening to what people have said,” he claimed, though he clearly had. Witness the quote in The Times shortly afterwards: “Sometimes you would like to think people would not want to shoot me quite so quickly.”

Even the mighty Borg, who last year embraced Roger as one of the greatest players of all time, placed him third in line to win this year’s trophy. More words had been written about his frailty in recent weeks than were written about his brilliance in the last year.

Meanwhile, more considered experts were showing ever-growing affection and admiration for him. There was something truly uplifting about the elegant, mature and usually proper Virginia Wade, in a Wimbledon preview on the BBC, coming over "all girly" in talking about Roger: she just wanted to watch him play all the time.

Back to Tuesday, and back to my in-box, which has a message from Wimbledon advertising that a few seats at the back of Centre Court will be sold at 8.30 each evening.

I have deadlines, important ones. But Roger visits these shores just once a year and I can’t afford overseas tournaments. How many chances will I have to say “I saw Federer play and it was wonderful?"

Could I, should I even consider trying for Wednesday tickets? Of course not.

And I resisted until I saw the order of play on Centre Court that same evening. Well, I could log on and see what happened since the chance of getting anything was negligible.

At 8:25 p.m., I sit at my keyboard, refreshing the ticket site every 20 seconds or so and, at 8:30 precisely, the order form appears, I click the box, follow the instructions and, bingo, have a ticket. I simply don’t do this kind of thing. I’m shocked with myself but immediately have to email my team to tell them I won't be in the next day.

My seat is high, but in comfortable shade and with a perfect view and clear sight-lines directly behind the umpire’s chair. The sun shines on the brilliant emerald green of first-week grass.

Then into the arena walks Roger. The audience rises, applauds, and cheers. My heart pounds. I have to get to grips with this camera and try to record the moment. It clicks away, taking image after tiny image, and then I stop simply to admire the view…

Roger was quoted after his first match as saying “Every time you walk out [onto Centre Court] it is beautiful.” Yes it is.

The lightness of touch and movement, the ripple of shirt as he moves through the air, the sound of ball on sweet spot, the sway of body from ankles through hips to shoulders during serve—it is all beautiful.

I remember to try and follow the game, the score, the action across the whole stage. Soderling is a fine, testing opponent yet is subdued by flat and fizzing forehands, by almost silent, skimming backhands and by serve placement that often seems to draw the ball like a magnet to the lines.

I’ve read of the hushed gasps that accompany Roger’s shots, but I now witnessed them for myself, heard and made the gasps, and felt my heart jump with the joy.

It is over so soon, a straightforward win, a gracious acknowledgement of the crowd, waves in all directions, and autographs for the many waiting by the court exit.

It’s almost 7 in the evening, so I must have been here for six hours – it seems a fraction of that. Nothing left but to take home my memories, photos and a selfish desire to see more and more.

Round three brings another straightforward win over Marc Giquel but I forget to record the match, and problems at work demand my attention all day so I don’t even follow the scores.

As the days get closer to Friday and the prospect of those semi-finals, I get more agitated. The weather forecasts are conflicting—some show rain, some showers and sunny intervals. How will I bear it if those near-courtside seats come to nothing? And in the way, no longer Lleyton (my interactive scoreboard tells me) but Ancic.

Friday 4th dawns, Mario has been safely dispatched and Roger has made the semis on a rising curve of brilliance without the loss of a set.

The forecast is good, but the sky says otherwise. My daughter and I are both anxious as the billowing white and grey clouds bubble around. I’m worried about the traffic, she’s worried she hasn’t got to a cashpoint—anxiety city!

We arrive early and I hope, of course, to find the right practice session but am fed a decoy by one of the information points and find the right court once Marat has taken it over from Roger.

But for my daughter, fortune shines. A bustling court reveals Rafa knocking up with John McEnroe and we easily edge to the court-side. I grab a load of photos of Rafa in standard shorts and T, looking decidedly more solid in the legs than his pirate pants suggest. My daughter, nevertheless, is open-mouthed.

At 12.45, we head down steps to our entrance and thrill at our first sight of the green expanse in front of us. As we descend the steps, the realisation of just how close we are to that grassy heaven stuns us. Three rows back, level with the base line.

In no time, he enters to rapturous applause and then I realise I’m saying, over and over, “I’m so excited, I’m so excited…” until my daughter gets the giggles.

The warm-up starts and it’s perfection. My only dilemma: do I take photos or watch in awe? These precious minutes give me an opportunity simply to soak in the man rather than the player.

Even small actions such as gathering tossed balls into slim fingers is effortless and elegant.

But when play begins, new impressions come thick and fast. In the serve motion, he sways, reaches and explodes—perfect delivery after perfect delivery. This becomes one of the features of the match and why there never really seems any threat of a loss, despite some intensely fought games.

In rallies, he bends low into a backhand slice, arms splayed wide, then runs into a leaping, swirling forehand that leaves the crowd gasping. The next moment he is hurtling towards me—or so it seems—to make a backhand top-spun drive and what I see from this vantage point takes my breathe away.

At the point of impact, for several shots in succession, his whole body vibrates with the intensity of the strike. Hair trembles, then shoulders and trunk and buttocks as the muscles go into overdrive. It is the signal that he has upped the odds in this rally and means to win it. It happens so fast and so frequently that it is simply not captured on television.

Then there is the sound. His play is quiet, the audience hushed except for the gasp, pause, applause at another impossible winner. But up close, there is an intimate soundtrack that reveals the true effort of making this tennis look effortless.

How to describe it—almost like a series of sighs but from deeper down, conveying intense work, as you might hear after the 100th sit-up in the gym yet more subtle. It says he is working very hard, despite the ease with which he moves. Yes, a gentle, almost imperceptible moan.

Time seems to stand still, yet here is Marat serving in the third set at 4-5 and it’s as though Roger has decided he’s ready for dinner and pushes all the buttons in a devastating final break of serve.

Suddenly it’s over, Roger roars, they embrace at the net, he waves to us and before I can prepare myself, it is all over.

I will never forget the experience. I could go on to describe Rafa’s less-than exhilarating match but all that follows is an anticlimax. My daughter is thrilled by his win, we both relish the final but will not be able to watch together, our hopes for the outcome are poles apart.

But it’s wonderful to share a similar passion, to both have the right outcome and be able to enthuse freely about our experience when others listen in bemused silence. Witness my husband’s patient smiles as I regale him with the minutiae of Roger, and Wimbledon, and Roger again. I download photos, talk some more, but inside begin to feel drained and slightly down.

By morning, I face the reality that my love affair with tennis will never achieve such fulfilment again—the right seats, the right day, the right weather and the right result.

Scanning through my photos again, I have one heart-stopping moment when I realise that, in one shot across the court at a changeover, he is staring directly into the camera lens, eyes apparently looking into mine.

Of course, it’s an illusion—he always gazes across the court from his chair—but it feels good nevertheless.

Postscript in the aftermath of Wimbledon:

I've pondered, since my visit, on how Roger's loss to Rafa came about. Remembering his play on Centre Court, followed immediately by Rafa's, it seems incomprehensible. Roger's was like a wizard waving a magic wand, Rafa's closer to wielding a whip at a herd of fearful cattle.

Even my daughter, when back home and reliving our day, said Roger's play looked hugely more impressive in the flesh...and she's the biggest Rafa fan you could imagine!

It seems to me, though, that if Roger is not to be beaten down by the brutality of Rafa's game, the All England Club seriously has to address what it has done to its turf.

Roger would not use the slowing of the courts as an excuse but, during the course of the match, the BBC expert used the "hawkeye" technology to prove that a shot played on this year's surface was slower and bounced higher than when they first played one another. I wonder if Roger or his team has access to this evidence?

I wonder, too, when the administrators will firmly apply the time rules both in between games and in between points. By making Rafa—and of course Novak—truly play continuously, their fitness, endurance, speed and technique will be fairly measured against Roger's. I believe I know who would be the winner in such a contest.