It’s hard not to get up early here. Between the never-ending sun, the remnants of jet lag, and the sound of tennis balls being smacked outside my hotel window, I’ve been working on about 5-6 hours of sleep a night so far. Feels good, too—it’s amazing what you can get done when you’re not required to spend all day in an office, or on your couch watching TV, or parked on a stool in a bar.
This morning I woke up to a loud “pop…pop…pop” and looked out to see two card-carrying members of Tennis World, Andrew Friedman and Andrew Burton, batting them back and forth. I was impressed by the cannon-fire sounds their shots were making—it felt like a tennis air war was being waged a few feet away. But when I saw Friedman this morning, he said it was just the acoustics. “I like playing on that court because every time you hit the ball, it sounds like you killed it.” That’s the kind of court I'm going to build in my (imaginary) backyard someday.
The upshot is that I got to the site a little earlier than planned, which is not really a problem on a day that featured Nadal-Tsonga, Murray-Haas, Gasquet-Blake, Nalbandian-Ferrero, and even a minor classic between Fish and Hewitt. There was nothing else to do at 11:00 A.M. but get it started.
Stadium 2: Wawrinka vs. Lee
One mark of a well-conceived tennis arena is that it feels right when virtually any level of pro plays in it. Last night as I was walking off the grounds, I heard the words, “Game, set, match, Ivanovic” come from Stadium 2. A whoop went up from the crowd as people began to file out. This morning I walked into a similarly sized, and similarly enthusiastic, audience in Stadium 2—for a much less marquee matchup, between Stanislas Wawrinka and Hyung-Taik Lee.
I planted myself in the middle of a bunch of makeshift Stan fans. They weren’t all that sure about his name, or where he was from, or anything about him at all, but like good American fans they needed someone to root for. The guy next to me had his own reasons for pulling for the Pole turned Swiss: “Stanislas is the real name of my cat,” he said cheerfully. A little later, when the court's scoreboard stopped working, he said that “the scoreboard operator must be a democrat.” (Not sure what the connection is there, but both comments struck me as worth repeating.) Others in the crowd just kept it simple and called Wawrinka “Stanley."
Stan's fans didn’t have much to cheer about, as Lee was closing in on the second set. But true to form, he stumbled at the threshold, getting himself broken at 5-3 when he’d been up 30-0. Lee is nothing if not a polite and well-mannered player. He dresses crisply, usually in whites and always with a white cap. He doesn’t express anger or even much frustration, offering at most a rueful smile after a bad miss. Even his game is unintentionally polite: He hits the ball so cleanly, and with so little spin or variation, that he gives his opponents a chance to find their rhythm even as the match is going on.
Lee can direct points with his backhand, but it failed him at just the wrong moment today. He got ahead with a backhand crosscourt winner, then shanked a few backhands to give the lead back, and finally won the set with a counterpunching backhand pass winner. It’s a classic scenario: When you earn a lead, you no longer have the other person’s score as your target. How many times have we seen basketball teams come from way behind, tie the score, and then go flat? When you’re ahead in tennis, you’re hitting into the unknown, running a race with no one in front of you, and that requires total belief in yourself. Lee didn't have it, and he lost the match to Wawrinka 6-4 in the third.
Does “Stanley” have a chance against Djokovic tomorrow? Not based on today’s evidence. He was regularly caught out of position, with his feet not set, yet still insisted on going for the low-percentage shot.
The Shopping Court
No tennis tournament would be complete without a long line of white tents promoting pretty much anything. Indian Wells is no exception. Here, among the fans who have escaped the sun by sprawling—or perhaps collapsing—under a shade tree, one can peruse shops for Mercedes, Ralphs grocery, Magic Teeth Whitening, Mamacita’s Tacos, Jeffrey Scott Fine Magnetics, and Canine Companies for Indepedence. What this list says about the purchasing tendencies, or world views, or tennis fans I have no idea. And I don’t think I want to know.
Practice Courts
It’s pretty empty here today, but Novak Djokovic is out getting ready for Guillermo Cañas. Actually, he seems more than ready, since he spends the five minutes that I’m watching playing left-handed. No worries for Novak these days, as he wins 2 and 3 later in the afternoon.
The other star I spot is Nadal, who is working on flicking his racquet up more on low backhands when his hitting partner is at the net. His coach for the week, Carlos Costa, keeps asking for a more violent low-to-high motion. I can only guess that he’s thinking about how Tsonga controlled their match in Melbourne with his volleys. From up close, you can see how much Nadal’s shots dive as they cross into the opposite court.
Stadium 1
It’s 1:00, and I hear someone on the grounds near me say, “Showtime!” This is the cue to head for the big stadium, where Rafael Nadal is facing Jo-Wilfred Tsonga in what will almost certainly go down as the match of the week.
Everything is a little tight about this one. It’s hot and both guys are nervous to start, breaking each other in the opening two games. The rest of the set, and most of the match, is a series of mini ups and downs for each guy. Tsonga unloads on a forehand winner, then pulls one into the alley; he spins four straight first serves wide, then drills three straight aces into the deuce court to hold; he overswings on a backhand volley and frames it into the middle of the net, then cups a delicate drop volley off a fearsome Nadal crosscourt pass. It’s typical today for Tsonga to recklessly hammer a jumping forehand 10 feet long on one one point, then come back with a judiciously controlled backhand to wrong-foot Nadal on the next.
Rafa goes through similar ups and downs. He’s missing more forehands than usual, especially sitters, but his serve is effective and he doesn’t face many break points. You can see that Tsonga troubles him in at least two ways. The Frenchman is good at changing speeds with the ball, floating up a high backhand to Nadal’s backhand, then firing a forehand into the opposite corner with his next shot. He also neutralizes Nadal’s speed and mad scrambling ability by hitting behind him as often as he can.
Despite Tsonga’s erratic brilliance and charisma, the match is about Nadal. The first set ends when he makes three very uncharacteristic unforced errors with his forehand in the tiebreaker. And an hour or so later he almost blows the third set in the same way, sending at least two awful shank ground strokes way up and over the baseline. One of them makes its way into the first row of the stands. I’d noticed, watching him in practice earlier, that Nadal can struggle to decide which foot to hit his backhand off of; if he chooses the back one, it generally doesn’t end well. And that’s just how he hits the worst of his backhands in this game.
That makes it 2-5, and based on his body language to that point, I half expect Nadal to go away quietly. But I've obviously forgotten who I'm watching—as Djokovic says in his own presser later, "There's no giving up for Nadal." The Spaniard hits a winner on the first point and lets out an immediate fist pump and a “vamos!” That gesture alone changes the tone in the arena. Everyone forgets the score; Nadal has let us, and Tsonga, know that this is still a match.
Each set has been punctuated with spectacular points that take each player all over the court. Now, with Nadal at his best again, they give us three classics in the next three games. In these rallies you can see the making of a great rivalry—Tsonga long and lean, hitting flat and north to south, jumping forward; Nadal muscular and explosive as he guards every inch of the baseline.
Serving at 5-3, Tsonga is broken after missing two forehands, stumbling through a volley error, and putting a drop volley into the net. He’s blown his chance, because Nadal is at full strength now. He comes out ripping forehands and reading Tsonga’s serve better than he has all match. By the last game the Frenchman is shellshocked—forehand into the net; backhand return long; backhand wide; lob wide. In the quiet presser afterward, his most common response to any question is a long “Aaaahhhhhh…” followed by a long exhalation. He doesn’t have any answers, except that he credits Nadal for having a “good state of mind.” He’s right—that was the difference at the end.
The potential for a Tsonga-Nadal rivalry goes beyond their games. They’re also mirror images in style, manner, and general flamboyance: Gallic flair vs. Latin fervor. Tsonga entered the court today jumping and pumping his fist—he seemed to reach about 15 feet in the air. Nadal followed him in his usual way: Strutting purposefully forward, head down, one racquet already pulled from his bag.
The trajectory of their celebrations go in opposite directions as well. After winning a big point today, Tsonga might skip sideways, leap upward, kick a ball behind him soccer-style, or thrust his hands above his ahead to rally the crowd. Nadal countered with his traditional repertoire of fierce fist-pumps and teeth-baring cries. Tsonga is a showman who sees the crowd and tries to sway them; Nadal is the inner-directed Mr. Intensity who hardly seems to realize that anyone at all is watching. It’s no surprise that Tsonga was the crowd favorite today.
At the end they came together for a sporting handshake—Ali Jr. meets Mr. Intensity, in wrestling terms—but like any real rivalry, this one has teeth. Tsonga complained bitterly to the umpire about how long Nadal took between points. In his presser afterward, Nadal said he hadn’t noticed Tsonga say anything, but that it “wasn’t nice” of him to try to prod the umpire to make a call. In his press conference, Tsonga said Nadal’s rampant pre-serve ball-bouncing bothered him, but that it was up to the umpire to stop it.
They’ve called a truce for now, but I’m looking forward to the next time they take up weapons against each other again.