OF GRAND SLAMS AND SOUR GRAPES

Grand Slams look unfamiliar these days.

Because Federer is exiting so early. No, not the first-round, but even the quarter-final is such an unexpected result from my favourite player. In fact, I usually do not watch the early rounds in Grand Slams at all, catching up with Roger when he strode into the quarters and beyond, mostly winning, sometimes losing, but always, always immensely, delightfully watchable.

Now, without Federer, the courts seems emptied of artistry, bereft of magic. The red clay of Roland Garros is harsher, bloodier with the grunting, lunging, gutsy, athletic Nadal and his power-tennis. Wimbledon's grass is no longer that shade of brilliant green it was for the past so many years.

Now, watching the finals of a Grand Slam is no longer a matter of biting fingernails, knotting-up stomach and clenching fingers together in prayer. Where I would jump from point to point, game to game, set to set, swinging between hope and despair. Where I could cry unabashedly when Federer's subtle charms would self-destruct or be mauled by the hard-hitting determination of his opponent, usually Nadal. Where I could watch, enraptured by the mastery of a man who could transform a movement into a masterpiece with his timing, touch, grace and fluidity. Where I would rejoice at witnessing magic and history weaving together a unique spectacle.

Now, I can relax during a Grand Slam final. It's just two men slugging it out - with the stronger one, in mind and body, the one who seizes the moment, winning. Tennis has become a battle of power once again. A game for gritty warriors, not the magic of the artist.

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?"

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?