Jottings - Slice of life - 312 ( The master bows to a fit successor - Novak wears the Wimbledon crown)

Jottings - Slice of life - 312 ( The master bows to a fit successor - Novak wears the Wimbledon crown)

Tennis is a lonely game at the highest echelons of the sport. All the intense match preparation, prodigious talent, enormous fan following, must be left behind in the locker rooms, or laid at the altar of the game, to stand alone - existentially alone - without any props whatsoever, to face the opponent on the other side and play the game as it unfolds every match. Precedents don’t matter, previous records are mere numbers on paper, what matters is this day, this match, this game, and well — this upcoming point in question. No matter how big a champion one is, or how much of history one brings to the court, the game has its own inimitable way of leveling the playing field. The game of tennis is not merely mastering a set of physical skills or techniques to perfection; but more of a psychological battle; preparation of the mind and the ability to get into the opponents’ mind as well. A mishit volley, or a long forehand, or a crucial double fault can trigger cataclysmic psychological changes in both players. A shot played from the center of the racket can boost confidence, and the one that loops of the frame can dampen the spirits. The repercussions of a few such strokes can affect the course of a game, sometimes the entire match. At the highest levels, especially between two great champions, there isn’t much to choose in the skills between them; they will match each other stroke to stroke, until the balance slowly begins shifting towards the player who shows more mental resilience, physical stamina, constant focus, and above all that ability to finish the match with that last crucial point, which always has to be won, and never given.

Roger Federer had two match points on his serve in the fifth set. On a better day, against a lesser player, Federer would have closed out the game and the match. But Djokovic belongs to a different league altogether. The lanky, tall, athletic, flamboyant, emotional and passionate young man from Serbia is as complete a tennis player as Federer is - both mentally and physically. He knew that if Federer could be pushed the distance, an opening will emerge, and when that happens Novak could close the match. That opening arrived in the tie break of the fifth set( a new rule at Wimbledon reluctantly breaking its rigid tradition to ensure that players play to win and not endlessly trade tired shots with one another) and Novak seized the opportunity and pushed the pedal. When a Federer forehand went high and long, the marathon match that lasted four hours and fifty-seven minutes came to end. There was exhaustion, and all that the champions could do was to whisper “well played” into each other's ears. Djokovic took a moment to realize how intense the match was, and how sweet his victory. He bent low on the favorite center court, plucked a few strands of grass and chewed it with relish. Like the sacramental bread that promises divine communion and resurrection of the body in Christ, that blade of grass that he so reverentially chewed represents Novak’s unity and gratitude to the surface that has served him five Wimbledon titles, equalling once again the great Bjorn Borg’s record and brings him into the league of very few champions in tennis history to lift the coveted five times.

The two champions were gracious in their praises of each other. There is no defeat or shame for Federer in this final. He played his best tennis, as he always does, making us forget that we were watching a man nearly thirty-eight years old, and without any visible signs of wear and tear. The intensity, the will to win, the trademark stoic calmness was still there, but on this day, Novak did a little better than him. That’s all. One wonders, how many more years will we be honored to watch Federer play the game at this level. Each time he loses, the end seems to inch a little closer. On the other hand, Novak has few more years left before he turns thirty-eight, and if today's match was any indication, it will not be long before he surpasses all known records to become the greatest champion the game has known.

It was great to see Kate Middleton handing over the trophies to Novak and Federer. She is indeed grace personified. For a long time, I have admired Katharine, the Duchess of Kent, who would so effortlessly play the role of patron and representative of the Royal family. I still vividly remember that 1992 Wimbledon ladies final, when Jana Novotna cried on the Duchess' shoulders, and her highness held her in her arms until Jana was pacified. And there was another when she insisted on walking down the carpet with her leg in a cast to give away the trophies. Such was her grace, and love for the event. Kate Middleton, as the Duchess of Cambridge, has taken over that role beautifully. Clad in an elegantly embroidered blue skirt, she infused the proceedings with the fragrance of tradition. Wimbledon’s charm lies in these rituals of royalty.

Over the last two weeks, I have written eight pieces on the Wimbledon championships and tennis in general. I enjoyed writing each one of them. Unlike my regular writing which follows some amount of research and deliberation, all these essays were spontaneous. My love of tennis was sown in me a long time ago. I thank my father, who took my brother and me to the cosmopolitan club in Coimbatore to watch the live telecast of the Wimbledon finals, sometime in the seventies. I don't remember much of what I saw, or who the players were. But what has remained with me is the color of lush green surface and solemnity of the occasion.

All these pieces are dedicated to my father, who, had he been alive, would have enjoyed them, and probably silently smiled a little reminiscing how naive, hesitant, and ignorant I was about the game in my childhood, and since then how much I have learned to appreciate this great sport, and also write about it fluently . Like many other things, this education and transformation couldn’t have happened without him.

Thanks, Appa.

God bless…

yours in mortality,

Bala