Coming to grips with Roger Federer’s latest close call.
Djokovic def. Federer 6-4, 5-7, 6-4, 6-4
I didn’t cry when my father was diagnosed with cancer. I didn’t cry when my best friend was hit by a car at 3 a.m. and left for dead on the side of a road. Not when my girlfriend agreed to become my fiancee, nor when she became my wife. For the past 12 years that well has been dry.
When Roger Federer lost to Novak Djokovic in Sunday’s US Open Final I broke down.
As a person navigates the waters of life, his or her fandom matures in three different phases. This first is youthful idolatry. Admiring players who are bigger-stronger-faster as they perform superhuman feats. Posters on walls, talents to mimic, stats to memorize, personas to adore. A lens to the future.
The third segment of fandom is largely retrospective. Watching young athletes come up through the ranks while comparing them to legends of the past. Debating how the times have changed. Glasses adjusted to 20-20 hindsight.
In the middle is, perhaps, the most fleeting segment. It’s also the most personal. There is a period of times when a fan’s age directly aligns with the current generation of superstars. It’s a parallel of athletes peaking, while laymen are just catching stride. The parties’ timelines may be different, but their ages are not. There is a hint of idolization, a dash of remembrance and a strong sense of presence. There is also competition.
Can I be as good at my career as this otherworldly person is in theirs? How does their daily routine translate to my life?
Roger Federer ascended to the top of tennis when I was in college. At the time there was no way of knowing that he would later be considered the greatest to ever play the sport. He was simply a man playing tennis more beautifully than I had ever seen. I was hooked.
As his career progressed, I was there, at least in spirit, every step of the way. Waking up at 3 a.m. ET to watch his Australian Open matches. Marveling over the Greatest Match Ever Played against Nadal in 2008. Wanting to give him a hug as he broke down on the podium after losing the Aussie in 2009. Whooping when he beat back Andy Roddick’s last gasp at Wimbledon. Sitting catatonically when he lost to Del Potro in the US Open. Talking happily with my mother when Roger and Mirka married, when they had twins, and then when they had twins again. He’s a presence in our household; a first name that everyone recognizes.
When he started coming back to Earth, my life finally started to take root. I stopped managing fast food restaurants, quit cobbling together income checks from Jimmy Johns and Home Depot, and began writing full-time. Roger was working to beat back the younger generation of tennis players; I was working to prove that my generation can hang with the old-guard of sportswriters. For the first time, we were, and are, grinding at the same time.
Singles tennis is the most isolating of all professional sports. Two athletes stand eye-to-eye, with fans elevated all around, and go to battle. It’s a quickly changing chess match. Unlike MMA or Boxing, there are no mid-match meetings with coaches. Once on stage it’s two minds and bodies aggressing and adapting in order to gain an upper hand.
During Sunday’s final, Federer pulled out all the stops. Serve and volley. Serving quickly. SABR-rattling. He threw the entire kitchen sink at Djokovic. It wasn’t enough.
And that’s where the heartbreak comes in. Federer was on point with every part of his game except for with his forehand. What has long been his best shot, arguably the greatest forehand in tennis history, wasn’t there. Matched against a fellow all-time great, that one chink in the armor was enough to do Federer in.
The mortality hurts. We can grind ourselves into the ground. We can work every angle. We can practice, catch a few breaks, hang tough and yet still come up short. If it happens to the greats, then what chance do we mortals stand? Sometimes a person’s best simply isn’t good enough.
ESPN’s cameras were the dagger. As the match slipped away, producers took a hard zoom on Federer’s face. Everyone sitting at Arthur Ashe Stadium could feel Djokovic taking control. Roger’s eyes didn’t let on. The camera pulled closer; Federer did not so much as blink. He was dead in the water, but would fight, jaws clenched, to the very final point.
Our lives are a mixture of hope and reality. One makes the other more palatable. Occasionally they merge and we reach a level of fulfillment.
I hope Roger has one more Grand Slam left in him. And I hope that he sticks around to grind for a few more years. He’s fun to root for.