Roger Federer Ends Year As True Master, Even in Defeat

I couldn’t have imagined, after Roger Federer’s win at the US Open, that within weeks I’d have a Chinese visa, two guidebooks on Shanghai and an envelope containing Master's Cup tickets sitting by my computer!

My daughter—she who has accompanied me in much of my tennis journey this year—had been planning to travel for some time, and settled on Australia and the Far East. She walked in one evening and said “Do you fancy meeting up with me in Shanghai? You could buy tickets for the tennis for my birthday present…..”

My response? Of course I can’t—I’ve got work, it would cost a fortune (and, in reality, I’m too scared to make such a trip on my own).

No sooner had I said ‘no’ than the idea had bounced round my brain, flipped my perspective and changed the answer to a question: “Why not?” I have a bit of money from the legacy left me by my dad, I have a bit of leave to take, I can meet up with my daughter even if I can’t travel with my husband. I could see Roger play again.

So the plan was laid.

Then, after a victorious Davis Cup, the bombshell. Roger had pulled from Stockholm with exhaustion and was taking a break, possibly for the rest of the year.

My first reaction was a plummeting heart—to have spent so much and anticipated more, to have worked myself to such a pitch of excitement at what I was going to see was all too much. But this is Roger—he would make this decision only if he needed to. I have to swallow my disappointment and enjoy what remains of the thrilling adventure I have planned.

So I content myself with replay after replay of the USO final – deriving more joy at each viewing, wonderment at the final game of the second set where the world around him slows down so that he can produce four of the most stunning points I've ever seen played consecutively.

I am also drawing on the memory of my first (and what may now transpire to be my last) experience of Roger in the flesh playing at Wimbledon. I am going to have a wonderful trip, meeting my daughter on the other side of the world, when I've never so much as flown alone before.

And if I never have the chance to see him play live again, I can still say 'I saw him once and he was magnificent'. And while I await what fortune serves up, I always have the recording of Roger in red, returned to full glory, at Flushing Meadow.

Then news. He is to play at Madrid. I am shocked. If he plays poorly, is knocked out early, he may draw a line under the season. No Masters Cup. If he plays well but is exhausted—same result. I fear this is how it will be until the middle of November: I’ll be afraid of my own shadow. But he beats, in straight sets, each opponent until Murray, who produces his best tennis at the right time. Andy wins well, and Roger is magnanimous in defeat.

Roger then commits to Basel—it's his home and he's current holder of the title, so it’s not a surprising decision.

But a little demon continues to turn the tiny screw in my head, distorting my view as though I was wearing rose tinted glasses tinged with yellow—a particularly gloomy shade of mud. If Roger loses, if he wins but is drained of energy, if he injures himself, he may draw a final line under 2008.

But the wins come, all in straight sets to tricky opponents. I get to see none of these matches so anticipate the final against one of his oldest and toughest adversaries, David Nalbandian, with 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—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!