Photo: @TheTennisLetter
Four years on, and I still can’t look away.
One of the questions that come to me at large is: who’s your inspiration, or one person you look up to?
My answer has always been myself. Sometimes, though, for diplomacy’s sake, I’d mention one name. Thinking of him feels like watching the full moon on a not-so-chilly night. That feeling hasn’t changed in over a decade, and I’ve never had second thoughts about it. If I had to look up to anyone out there, it would be the legend himself.
That name is Roger Federer.
Fed’s tennis always felt pure. His matches were a treat to watch, and he could keep you at ease through a five-hour epic. On one side there’s the Grand Slam champion with 20 majors. On the other there’s the King of Grass, with eight Wimbledon titles, and nobody has more. I could go on for a long time. The matches I watched still play on a loop in my head, and they bring the same calm you feel when you’re at peace.
Four years ago I wrote that the Laver Cup would be the sumptuous meal you hope turns into a perfect date. It was, and it got teary like I said it would. I just didn’t expect him to cry that much, or Rafa too, the two of them sitting side by side and holding hands. For fifteen years they had been fierce rivals, and that night they were just two friends saying goodbye. I don’t think sport has given us a more human picture.
It’s been four years now, and here’s what I’ve learned: you don’t stop being a Federer fan when he stops playing. You just go back and rewatch more.
I still find myself on old highlights late at night. I watch Melbourne 2017, the comeback nobody believed in, at 35, against Rafa, from a break down in the fifth. And of course the one-handed backhand, which looks less like a stroke and more like a signature.
And then there’s Wimbledon 2019, the one I still can’t fully make peace with. He was a few weeks short of 38 and had beaten Rafa in the semi-final. In the fifth set he served for the title at 8–7 and went up 40–15, two championship points on his racquet, on his court. I remember sitting up, sure that this was it: Wimbledon number nine. Novak saved both. The match went to 12–12, and for the first time a Wimbledon final was settled by a fifth-set tiebreak. He lost it after 4 hours and 57 minutes, the longest final the tournament has ever had. The strangest part is that he won more points than Novak did, and still went home with the runner-up plate. Most people remember the matches their heroes won. With him, I remember that loss just as clearly. Maybe it’s because it showed that even the most graceful man in the sport could be human. And he walked off with the same grace he’d always had.
Tennis moved on the way it had to. New names lift the trophies, new rivalries fill the stadiums, and the game is in good hands. But it’s a different game. The time I spent watching tennis I now spend missing it a little.
I’ve watched him play for nearly two decades, and I’m still mesmerized. Maybe that’s what a real inspiration is: not someone you copy, but someone who taught you what doing something beautifully looks like, whatever that something is for you.
So, in a gist, four years later and even more sure of it:
there’ll never be that moment of sheer elegance again,
there’ll never be that heartfelt emotion again,
there’ll never be the same Centre Court again,
there’ll never be another Federer,
and there’ll never be the same tennis, ever again.
Thanks, Roger. Still. Always. Love. 🎾