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by Pete Bodo
John Isner put it best, in the brief on-court interview when play was suspended because of darkness today at Wimbledon, with Isner and Nicolas Mahut (Ma-hoo) deadlocked after the second day of their now 10-hour match, at 59 games all. That's a set of 118 games, and counting. I haven't done the addition, but I wouldn't be surprised if Rafael Nadal played fewer games than this set contained in an entire two-week run to the Roland Garros title.
"Nothing like this will ever happen again," Isner said, those Bambi-like eyes wide with wonder at what he'd been part of—what he's still going to be part of when the match resumes tomorrow on Court 18 at the All England Club. Fittingly, Court 18 is tucked up against the side of the Broadcast Center. One thing we know for sure: the match, with all those records it has immolated, all its historic peculiarities, will be fodder for the media—even on a day when the U.S. and England, two of the more media-saturated nations on the earth, advanced in World Cup soccer action.
At around 18-all in this match today, I found myself mentally composing the story I would write, which would be defense of these 16-14, 18-12, 10-8 in-the-fifth scores you get at Grand Slam events that eschew the fifth-set tiebreaker. And that you most especially get at Wimbledon.
Perhaps I have a perverse streak, but I like matches that go into overtime; I find them soothing and enjoyable, in a Zen kind of way. By the time the score reaches 9-all, it's clear that the players have fallen into a rhythm—one that, as the games roll by, begins to look suspiciously like self-induced hypnosis. As each man steps up to the line to crack yet another ace, or punches out a sizzling volley, he seems lost in a world of his own, in communion with himself in a way that's unusual in a one-on-one confrontation. He might be building a ship in a bottle, gardening, or trying to paint a woodland scene on the head of a pin.
That self-absorption of each player is fascinating, and it underscores something important about the game and the secret glory of tennis on grass, tennis at Wimbledon. On a surface so friendly to the big serve and bold placement, the game really is all about you—insofar as doing the job of holding serve (with no tiebreaker looming), is an achievable feat. Your destiny is more firmly in your own hands than in any other match you'll play, anywhere.
On no other surface does your level of execution have such a preemptive effect on the aspirations of your opponent: the grass court enables you to insulate yourself with excellence. It invites and dares you to slip into a cocoon where your opponent cannot touch you. Two men playing at the highest level on grass are immersed in a tough job that asks only that they focus on what they are doing. They work independent of each other, like neighbors at some corporate cube farm. It goes that way until least until one of them yields the high ground of execution, which inevitably happens. But it usually happens at 2-1 or 4-all, at a set apiece and 1-1. The beauty of today's set is that it didn't happen.
Ma-hoo, 28 and currently ranked No. 149 in singles, is a former boys' singles (18-and-under) champion, but as an adult he's never made it past the third round at Wimbledon. Isner, 25, is ranked No. 19 and has never won a match at Wimbledon (he missed last year with mono, and lost in the first round the only other time he's played). The details hardly matter, because both men have big serves (fittingly, today each of them shattered the record for most aces delivered in a match (78, held by Ivo Karlovic), even though this one isn't over yet: both men could have 100 aces by the time they finish.
The fact that these men could play to 59-all in a fifth set without either of them losing serve, even once, is borderline supernatural. There's something comforting knowing that a fellow can have such unequivocal control of his own destiny.
When we got around the 20-all mark, I found myself composing a lead paragraph, something about the ghosts of Pete Sampras and Kevin Curren, Boris Becker and John Newcombe, Steve Denton and Goran Ivanisevic, chuckling, nudging each other with their elbows as if to say, Remember guys? We used to be just like this, too. . . So much for all this stuff about the slower grass. It's still. . . grass.
And don't Isner and Mahut know it.
But even something like that seemed somehow weak, given the way the match was going. Each player had found a groove, and moved into that psychological space in which the other guy, across the net, has nothing to do with it. The place where a sufficiently aggressive attitude and ability to execute was all he needed to go on. And on. And on. That this unique state of tennis grace visited both men on the same day is passing strange.
By the time we got to 30-all, the pattern began to emerge. Whenever Isner needed, he was able to reach back and deliver an ace, or unreturnable. And whenever Mahut, a guy known for being mentally shaky, needed a point on his serve, he stepped up and took one with all the confidence and aplomb of a barfly reaching for another peanut. It was a marvelous thing to see, if tiring in a way that all nail-biters will understand. I cant stand to watch another point of this; I can't look away. I'll watch just one more game. Please, let it end; don't end it now! That's it, I'll go for a run when they hit 40-all. It's 48-47 and I don't even dare go take a leak.
These matches have a minimalist kind of majesty. Because the rallies are so intense and brief (the longest one occurred with Mahut serving at 34-35, and it lasted all of 17 strokes, five shots more than the next longest to that point), the deep breath, arch of an eyebrow, or missed first serve is taken as an omen; a sign from on high that a turning point is imminent. If either returner managed to get to 15-all, the words "critical point" flashed through the spectator's mind. I can see how people thought the set was as exciting as watching grass grow, but I have a confession. I enjoy watching grass grow. Frankly, I like it a hail of a lot more than I like staring at my Blackberry.
The purity of this battle leaves me reluctant to engage in the ritual analysis. Sure, I felt that in the middle stages of the set (30-all, a middle stage—how weird is that?) Isner might have made a stronger effort to pressure Mahut. After all, the guy serving to stay even is always under more pressure than the guy with the one-game lead. At, say, 29-28, you need to step on the gas, apply the pressure. On the other hand, there's nothing wrong with following the old Sampras formula: don't get anxious or nervous, don't put yourself into a do-or-die situation when the other guy is serving. Just take care of your serve, and the rest will take care of itself.
The rest took care of itself. We're at an impasse presently because the rest took care of itself at both ends of the court.
I do question Mahut's decision to persuade the referee to postpone the end of the match, for I think that he was slowly but surely wearing down Isner. The 6-9 American's service speed was dropping, steadily, although he remained sufficiently determined to reach back and smoke one when he really needed it. Mahut was getting deeper and deeper into Isner's service games, and looked altogether fresher in the late stages of the set. But the rankings and statistics suggest Mahut was playing over his head—living in The Zone—while Isner was treading water, using those long, elastic arms and the aces they delivered with such discouraging regularity to keep himself afloat. Ma-hoo may wake up tomorrow morning to find himself transformed back onto Nicolas Mahut. With (relatively) fresh John Isner to serve first.
However, while Isner's feet and general movement late in the match did not lie, his body language did. When it comes to looking spent and, well, out-of-it, even vintage Sampras had nothing on this kid. But the laconic youth from North Carolina is unflappable in the same way that Sampras was, and I learned in a recent visit with him that he has an intelligent, realistic grasp of the game—in all its dimensions (more about that, probably tomorrow). He's one of the most competitively fit and able players out there, and that ought to pay a dividend when the match resumes.
But really, who can possibly know how it all will turn out? For when they stopped play this evening, it was as if a spell were broken. I can imagine many things tomorrow, but the one thing I don't foresee is a reprise of today. Today, was special. Today strained credulity. I think Isner hit the nail on the head when he said this will never happen again.