Bill Simons
Roger Federer being inducted into the International Tennis Hall of Fame is about the least surprising tennis newsflash we can imagine. Still, it’s a moment to relish the man who many consider the most wonderful player in the history of our sport. Here’s our reflection.
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“The aura of Roger Federer is all over the US Open,” noted writer Lloyd Carroll. More to the point, for decades Roger’s aura was all over tennis. The storybook of the game revolved around the ethereal Swiss.
We recall the chapters.
The raw, long-haired kid shocked mighty Pistol Pete Sampras at Wimbledon in 2001; grabbed his first Grand Slam on Centre Court in 2003, and wept when Rod Laver handed him a trophy Down Under.
Sure, he fell to Rafa in the greatest match of all time. Still, across three generations, he inspired wannabes and left his foes dumbfounded. In his shadow, seemingly mighty athletes appeared ordinary. “He made Roddick seem like a Buick,” quipped one observer.
At his peak, the man who won 20 Slams and 103 tournaments simply dominated. Sue Mott claimed, “Dictionary writers will soon be asked to absorb the verb ‘to Federer,’ meaning ‘to demolish with gasp-inducing precision.’”
Okay, if we might dare to note, the great man could be a bit smug. Still for many years Roger remained an impish kid, giggling with Rafa or weeping at award ceremonies. And, of course, no other champion could so astound us with a mere flick of his magical wrist. The New Yorker said, “To root for Federer is to root for a platonic ideal. It is like rooting for truth.”
Here was one monarch who was comfortable on his throne. “I can’t imagine anyone waking up every morning being so content with everything,” noted his wife Mirka. The man exuded an existential equanimity. He was a tennis rarity – grunt-free, with little angst. He sported a retro cream blazer at Wimbledon, yet was often a street-fighting man in black. Over 50,000 devotees came out to see him in a Cape Town exhibition. Tennis pilgrims traveled thousands of miles just to see him practice. His elegant brand – confident urban chic – was impeccable. Where was he not embraced?
Roger not only had a bulging trophy case, but an adoring wife and not one, but two sets of twins. His no-sweat, “I’ve got this covered” social skills impressed almost as much as the easy fluidity of the most beautiful shot in tennis – his cross-court topspin backhand. With barely a blink, he navigated through press conferences in three languages and hobnobbed with the mighty, chatting with Tiger Woods about the isolation superstars endure, comparing tennis and hoops with Michael Jordan or sitting at the Queen’s side at a proper English lunch.
All the while, he was a regular fellow. “He’d beat the crap out of you,” recalled James Blake, “then, in the locker room, just be one of the guys.” Mid-match at Wimbledon, Dominik Hrbaty thanked him for being his friend.
The man helped kids in dusty Africa and wowed well-heeled glitterati in Monte Carlo. Stamps and streets bear his name, tournaments gave him cows. He gave us memories.
His devotion and love of tennis brought to mind Rod Laver. He had the discipline of Djokovic and Lendl, but with disarming ease and joy. Like Sampras, Wimbledon’s Centre Court was his private garden: “Quiet – genius at work.”
Rafa’s muscles glistened, Novak’s a sublime craftsman, but Roger was the game’s artist in residence. His strokes were liquid. His staccato steps, quick reverses, flash accelerations and subtle slides were a balletic celebration. “Federer moves like a whisper,” said Nick Bollettieri.
Imagination was Roger’s friend. Creativity was his ally. No wonder he drew comparisons with geniuses like Leonardo da Vinci. Neither man could avoid beauty. Federer was sports’ answer to Fred Astaire – kinetic perfection, acrobatic balance. Like Baryshnikov, he lifted athletic grace to astonishing heights. Like Picasso, his distinctive strokes inspired. Both he and the wizard of Silicon Valley, Steve Jobs, did their best work in sneakers.
To master coach Steve Stefanki, “Roger never looked like he was imposing his will…He played off the music of his opponent.” David Foster Wallace said he defied gravity. “He somehow coaxes the ball to be still, to hang in space for a curious half second, almost still.”
Jim Courier is famous for his celebratory dive into a Melbourne river, but he said he wouldn’t do it again – because Roger might be walking on its waters. A sign at the Miami Open read, “Commit your sins when Federer is playing. Even God is watching.”
No wonder Mary Carillo gushed, “Roger bends time. He never seems rushed…The man approaches incandescence.”
Eleanor Preston couldn’t help herself as she asked, “Is it possible that Roger is the most perfect tennis player, the most perfect man – in the history of everything, ever?”
We dearly miss the guy. Of course, we know that all things must pass, but, oh, if only it were not true. After all, immortality does have its appeal.