A FED-LETTER DAY IN A LEAP YEAR

Consider this: It was the longest fifth-set in Wimbledon history. Andy Roddick, who has saved 6 out of 6 breakpoints in this match is serving at Deuce at 14-15. He makes a mis-hit. It's Advantage Federer - the first Championship Point of the match. It has been over 4 hours of see-sawing and brilliant serving bothways and big returns and enough of classic moments. It is late, past 11 at night, and you WANT A RESULT. You move forward on the edge of your chair, biting your nails, praying, as conflicting thoughts scuttle around in your mind late. (NOTE: The kids have obligingly gone to sleep on their own. Story-reading session postponed in view of his-STORY-making session on TV).

"Roddick will hit another ace and get himself out of this 7th break point." "C'mon Federer, hit back, go into a rally, give it one of your amazing running forehands/ sliced backhands/cleverly-disguised dinky lobs, anything, man. Just get it back and in there."

And Federer does. He gets it back at Roddick and readies himself for the rally. You are with him totally, egging Federer on to hit a winner. And Roddick, brave and brilliant till this point, hits the MOST IMPORTANT SHOT OF THIS MATCH
w-i-d-e. It is the pressure of history, the weight of destiny, of the sheer expectations and importance of the moment that does it. Federer does not have to hit the anticipated winner. So with all the pent-up energy and the won't-give-up focus and give-it-my-best adrenalin, he leaps into the air. And screams. Echoing the screams of all us Federer-fanatics around the world. Primal, relieved, exultant.

As the spouse (sharing, among other things, a love for Federer) said, "When you are witnessing history being made, it sure feels good to support the winning side."

I still feel too overjoyed for originality, so I'll just mention these:

As SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE fatefully prophesied, "IT WAS WRITTEN."

And, as the SAMSUNG MOBILE advertisement wonderingly predicts, "NEXT IS WHAT?"

FEDERER-R-R-ROARS INTO HISTORY

I AM ECSTATIC. Because ROGER FEDERER has won this year's FRENCH OPEN.

• Equalling Sampras (another fave)' s record of 14 Grand Slams.
• Becoming a champ on all four surfaces, a long ten years after Agassi.
• Settling the debate on who is the greatest player of all time (in my mind, though, there was no debate, it was only a matter of numbers).

I know, there are the nitpicking-Nadal-naysayers who will smirk about his huge deficit against his Spanish-nemesis. It WAS a stroke of luck that Nadal got eliminated early on in this year's French Open. But then, champions are made of talent, hard work, determination, and a generous dose of luck-by-chance. And who cares, actually? The records books will write down his name as the winner, and that is enough for me.

Actually, I am not just a Federer-fan, but a Federer-fanatic. You may wonder at a sedate 36-year-old college-teacher behaving in such an uncharacteristically juvenile manner, but even I was surprised, a few years back, when I started following Federer's matches regularly, by my passionate involvement with his game and with his destiny as a tennis player. I had thought that kind of nail-chewing intensity of tension (while he played), that kind of euphoria of elation (when he won) and, yes, that kind of broken-hearted agony of depression (whenever he lost) was a thing of my volatile teenage past.

But then that is what Federer is all about. He has made me revisit my adolescence. He has made me feel again the pure see-saw of emotions that the best of sports can kindle in the spectator. During the French Open final, there was a fan in the stands carrying a banner which said ROGER and MAGIC, with the words written like a + sign, intersecting at the G.

That's Federer for me.

FADE –ERER?

2008 has been a BAD year for Roger Federer. He began with illness and defeat at the Australian Open and ended similarly with sickness and slump at the recently concluded Masters at Shanghai.

For Federer-fanatics like me, it’s been a year-long low of watching and hoping, and then wincing at each unexpected defeat. You see, defeats were unexpected from Federer, till this year. Oh, there have been flashes of flair and grace of movement, and touches of perfection in shot-making, but the consistency’s been missing for quite a while. Except in the by-now-familiar shake of the downturned head, in defeat after defeat.

I am all admiration for the huffing-hardhitting tenacity of Nadal, and the goofy bang-on mimicry and success of Djokovic, (even Murray’s laidback scruffiness is fine), but Federer is above mere admiration. When in top form, he evokes the jaw-dropping awe and the breath-taking adrenalin rush associated with sheer, supreme, seemingly-effortless perfection. Gliding to victories, soaring into record-books, he made his fans coast along on a heady tide of invincibility for years, minor blips at the French Open notwithstanding. If Agassi could say, grass is for cows, Federer-fans could add, clay is for potters. He was winning everything else, anyway.

Till we came down with a series of thumps this year. From the ritual-humiliation at the French Open, to the agonizing-albeit-classic encounter at Wimbledon. The only bright spot was the US Open, where the Federer-aura was humanized by the underdog-edge and the emotions were as much on display as the sublime skills.

And now, in 2009, will Federer be able to surpass his past? He has both defeat and victory to motivate him. The defeats of 2008 can be avenged to teach the brat pack the lessons of the maestro. Victories will raise the records-bar even higher.

We’ve lucky to witness his rise and his glory. Now if Federer has to fade away, please please please can he do it with a BANG and not with a whimper?

THE IPL FINAL : THRILLS WITHOUT PASSION

The IPL is over, long live cricket! Rajasthan Royals, led by the crafty Shane Warne, defeated Chennai Super Kings, captained by the cool Dhoni, by the proverbial last-ball –whisker. There were spills (Parthiv Patel’s last-over fumbling comes to mind) and thrills galore …an appropriately well-contested final, inappropriately over-dressed cheerleaders (does anyone even glance at the male jack-in-the-boxes?).

The cricketers played to the gallery (some sixes went beyond), the gallery (with its eyeball-grabbing assortment of stars) played to the media (Aamir Khan displaying his toothy debutante nephew Imran) and everybody either paid or made money.

Gautam Singhania, Aamir Khan and Sachin Tendulkar standing side-by-side in the VIP stands made a telling visual synopsis of the IPL: Corporate + Bollywood + Cricket = IPL.

But this media-created, money-backed hype does not translate into passion. And sports, genuine sports, is all about passion. It is about cheering from the heart at a win, it is about heart-wrenching grief at a loss. It is also about taking sides passionately.

You can support an individual (a Becker, an Agassi, a Venus) or a nation (your own or Brazil – in football, that is) or a team (Man-U, Mohunbagan). This support of the fan is won by a history of togetherness – player and fan triumphing or agonizing together to form that special bond that is sport’s gift to the ordinary person.

Hype is shallow, lasting till the match ends and the stars go home; support runs much, much deeper. The most natural support is for teams or players belonging to one’s own country; created from a sense of identity and creating a new sense of pride.

Money can buy cheerleaders who jump up-and-down with practiced perfection, it cannot buy the sea-wave-like roar of noise when countries clash in the World Cups. It cannot buy the fans dancing impromptu on the streets long after the match is over.

IPL was fun and forgettable. True sports leaves behind memories.