It’s become pretty clear that in tennis, 18 is the new black. Like Pete Sampras before him, Roger Federer wasn’t content to break the all-time Grand Slam singles title record—he shattered it. And it’s a shame in many ways that he did it so soon after Sampras’ epic feat.
Roy Emerson, whose mark Sampras surpassed in 2000, won 12 Grand Slam singles titles—the final in 1967, the year before tennis went Open. It was a greater effort than it may appear today, because in Sampras’ era nobody thought Emerson’s record would be broken. The players, it was thought, had just gotten too good for anyone to enjoy such spectacular success; even John McEnroe or Bjorn Borg couldn’t break it, they said.
Sampras added a final major title for emphasis in 2002, less than a year before a Swiss upstart won his first Wimbledon title. Federer would go on to see Sampras’ bet and raise him three majors, winning his 17th Grand Slam title in 2012. And here we are.
One thing this unexpectedly quick revision of history demonstrated is that tennis’ record book is fraught with deceptions because of the transition to Open tennis. A lot of that comes down to two factors that changed the game profoundly once the Open era began: First, players who once were minions of their respective national federations were suddenly free to pick and choose where they played. They also suddenly had a wealth of new playing and earning opportunities as tournaments sprouted like mushrooms. They began to follow the money, and it did not lead them to Australia in December.
As a result, the Australianna Open rapidly lost its appeal, and tennis became a three-Slam game. It remained that way until the Australians moved their tournament from December into January; then, in 1988, built what is now the best facility in tennis—the National Tennis Center in Melbourne Park. Since then, the Australian Open has re-claimed its original, eminent status.
All that helps explain why titans like Jimmy Connors, Ivan Lendl, McEnroe, and Borg look like relative pikers in the Grand Slam record books—heck, they didn’t even hit double figures! It also makes these reflections on the significance of the number 18 more credible.
If you told someone in the 1940s that we would put a man on the moon within three decades, he or she probably would have called you crazy.
If you told a tennis fan in the 1980s that within three decades, two men would break the major singles record, you probably would have gotten the same reaction. But here we are, with Federer sitting pretty at No. 17.
This subject is a lot like the young vs. old debate. Just as older players have been sending shock waves through both the ATP and WTA in recent years, turning our smug assumptions and theories on their ears, our concept of Grand Slam greatness has been exploded.
But that also raises the question, why should the number 18 be greater than any other number? Why not 19? Maybe some stud will win 22 majors within the next decade. Or a pony-tailed wonder will make Serena’s record seem anemic.
What’s so special about 18?
Well, for one thing, it’s one better than 17. Yet two players, Federer and Williams, have recently hit that lower mark, diminishing its juju.