Federer

2^nd July, 2001 was an ordinary day for me, the excitement over my performance in my 10^th boards having subsided by then. Wimbledon was the only interesting thing around. That day, my then favourite sportsperson of all time, Pete Sampras, was only playing the fourth round. His opponent was some Swiss kid. It was obviously going to be a breeze on that particular day, but I was worried about the future. The draw ahead had Sampras possibly playing the eternal British hope at Wimbledon, Tim Henman, in the quarters, and Goran Ivanisevic, whose serve at that time was still ballistic, in the semis. Though I was an eternal optimist, I had to objectively concede to myself that my icon was aging. His reflexes were slowing down, and for once, it looked like he could truly be beaten at Wimbledon. (The ’96 quarter-final against Richard Krajicek was an aberration that I’ve always managed to conveniently forget.) I wanted Sampras to win this year so bad!

And then I felt those shivers. The pleasant chill up my spine that I often get, when I think of some iconic people whose very existence has helped shape me. ‘It is Sampras! Pistol Pete! He will show what a true champion is made of!’ I thought then of his serve, that bullet down the T. I throw an imaginary ball up in the air, and it stays up there for an eternity, all the while revolving in slow motion, so slow that that phenomenal fluorescent shade of green is nothing but a blur. And then it descends, again in slow motion, the carpet of grass 8 millimetres high beckoning. Just when it feels like nothing can stop it from uniting with Mother Earth, it makes contact – with my racquet. The ball hurtles like a bullet from a pistol, clean past the net, towards the white centre line. For an instant, my opponent is confused. ‘That ball will be wide for sure. A fault!’ His folly. The ball finally makes contact with the grass exactly where it was meant to. Amidst cheers and claps at Centre Court, I hear the Umpire call. ‘Ace!’

I just knew it. In one week, Sampras would lift that familiar trophy for the 8^th time, possibly against his only true rival of that generation, Andre Agassi. And my hero would be hailed as the greatest grass court player in the history of the game, the only thing stopping him from being called the greatest tennis player ever – his lack of Grand Slam success on clay.

In order to derive some near-sadistic pleasure out of watching Sampras obliterate a young kid, I sat to watch the match that day. A nice bit of information I got just before the match started was that this would be Sampras’s 100^th win at Wimbledon. As the match started, I felt like being fair to the 19 year old with the ponytail, so I prayed that the experience that day would hold him in good stead for the future. And then I sat back to watch the demolition.

5 sets later, I was numb with pain. Sampras quietly congratulated his vanquisher, the kid with the ponytail, and walked off the court, his legions of fans cheering him. They were also cheering the kid. As I stared at his red face, in tears, at having beaten the man who, I’m sure, was his idol as well, I felt a surge of anger within me. Perhaps for the first time in my life, I truly felt rage. I hoped and prayed that I’d never have to see that kid again. I felt like ripping his ponytail to bits, and then breaking his arm with his own racquet. That day, for the first time in my life, I felt genuine hatred towards another human being.

That moment, the moment of pure hatred, is perhaps the single-greatest ironic moment in my life.  Because that man, the man who I felt that hatred for, taught me years later, that it is possible to fall in love a second time. That man, is Roger Federer.

Some of the people, apart from Pete Sampras, who make me feel that pleasant chill I mentioned earlier are Saurav Ganguly, Amitabh Bachchan, Michael Schumacher, Michael Jordan, Al Pacino, Lal Bahadur Shastri, Steffi Graf, Aditya Chopra, Akira Kurosawa, Satyajit Ray, and most of all, my father. And then, there is Roger Federer.

That day, when Sampras lost, I had an inkling that he would not win a title at Wimbledon ever again. And I knew that I would never, ever come across a sportsperson whom I would like more than Pete Sampras. Little did I know that merely two years later, that same kid with the ponytail would not just start off his journey towards the at-one-time-unthinkable - displacing Sampras and becoming my favourite sportsperson ever. More importantly, that he would also start off his epic journey towards being the greatest tennis player, perhaps the greatest sportsperson of all time.

From a viewer’s point of view, watching Federer play is arguably the greatest joy in modern sport. His near-perfect serve, his movement across the court, his amazing forehand, his sublime backhand, his serve-and-volley, everything, absolutely everything about his game has that touch of genius, that grace, that beauty, all of which makes Federer’s tennis the closest that a human being can get to God on earth. But the greatness of Federer lies, then, in his humanness. His mistakes on the court (that silly shank he gives to the ball in eagerness, causing it to sail into the spectators’ stands), the tears following a victory, the tears following defeat, the sight of Mirka watching him every game, game after game, all this and more. The greatest thing about Federer is that he is not God.

Due to circumstances, I could not watch two of the most momentous occasions in Federer’s professional life – his victory at the French Open earlier this year, equaling Pete Sampras’s record of 14 Grand Slam Singles titles, and his moment of victory at Wimbledon yesterday, his record-breaking 15^th Singles title. ‘Is Federer the greatest ever?’, is a question that will be long debated. But there will be a debate only for the sake of a debate, only because we as human beings love to debate. Taking an opposing point of view is as intrinsic to human nature as wetness is to water. As glaring-but-intentional-omission-from-illustrious-list, Shahrukh Khan says, ‘Genius is prolific.’ So, if nothing else, then the numbers speak for themselves. Federer is the greatest tennis player in history.

The most crushing moment of my life, when Federer lost to Rafael Nadal in the 2008 Wimbledon Final, made me realize just how much Federer means to me. That was when it was truly sealed as far as I was concerned. For me, Federer is Number One in any list, even if it is a list of my favourite fruits. 2008 was the most important, the most amazing, the most significant, and in a sense, the most tragic year of my life, the reasons for all of these adjectives being too many. It was also the year when I did actually fall in love for the second time in my life. And the hope for that, the belief that it could happen, again, was Roger Federer.

There are too many things that can be said about Federer’s monumental journey. A journey which is as yet unfinished. Records, statistics, observers of the game, fans, writers, contemporaries, legends, critics, everyone will chronicle his career better than I ever can. But I can state for a fact, that for me, no one can come even close to Roger Federer now. The irony here is the simple fact that it was Federer who taught me that, when it comes to what you feel, Never say ‘Never’!