In the latest edition of the Book Club, Kamakshi Tandon and I discuss Jon Wertheim's "Strokes of Genius: Federer, Nadal and the Greatest Match Ever Played." You can read an excerpt from it on Tennis.com. This is the final entry of four.
Hi Kamakshi,
See what I mean, Jon even dodges the “rushed” criticism! He's the tennis version of John Gotti, the Teflon Don. Seriously, though, it’s hardly a damning thing to say about a book that was started and wrapped up in a few months, and in which the protagonists didn’t participate. Wertheim went in with the idea of doing something along the lines of Levels of the Game. For that book, John McPhee was given a chance to sit down with Arthur Ashe and Clark Graebner individually over the course of a week in Puerto Rico and watch a tape of their entire 1968 U.S. Open semifinal. (He also played touch football with them on the beach for good measure.) As Wertheim points out with dry understatement in the postscript to Strokes of Genius, he didn't have quite the same access to Federer and Nadal.
Let me start with the question of the Federer forehand and its mass appeal. If we’re talking about serious junior players, yes, they could profitably copy Federer's stroke. But then a serious junior could also easily find Nadal’s grip and mimic his swing. I learned tennis watching Bjorn Borg, whom no one considered even remotely textbook at the time—he essentially wrote a new one of his own. But if we’re talking about the majority of players that you see at public parks, it strikes me as far-fetched that they could try to produce anything resembling a swing like Federer’s. He opens up on it as much as any other pro, and he barely stops to set up for it as he’s moving forward. Plus, he can generate an absurd amount of pace even as he’s falling away from it and hitting it inside-out. The grip may be ordinary, but nothing else about the shot is. Sorry tennis fans, but we must choose: Is Federer a god, or is he a man? (Though come to think of it, he did have a kind of Christ-like look to him around the time he won his first Wimbledon . . .)
Which gets me to the division between Federer’s and Nadal’s fans. I like your extended analogy about their differing modes of response. And in theory I like your idea about Federer lending himself to the written word more than Nadal. It’s just that I personally find the opposite to be true. I’ve devoted much more space on this blog over the years to Nadal, mainly because I find more about him to analyze, particularly in the ways he goes about winning matches. I can see what he’s doing and find a way to describe it, whereas with Federer I often can’t think of much more to say, from a tactical or mental standpoint, that goes much deeper than “he played his game”—this may partially be explained by the fact that Nadal plays many more tight and dramatic matches, while Federer always seems to be cruising.
Off court, there’s obviously plenty to say about both of their personalities and press-conference approaches. I wasn't bothered that Jon considered Nadal a tough interview; where I thought he sold him short was in maintaining that he was a master of the programmatic non-answer. Like I said, I’ve always found Nadal to be thoughtful, if tight-lipped, in his pressers (it helps to be there to witness the interaction between a player and a particular writer, of course). And while I can see where Nadal wouldn’t offer much to a daily reporter, Wertheim isn’t functioning as a daily reporter in this book.
If we do a David Foster Wallace book club someday, we’ll have more opportunities to explore the Federer-Nadal dynamic and what may be behind the way writers frame it. As for the hardcore fans of these two guys, the Internet has proven what should have been obvious: Rooting for one player means you can’t really root for his rival, or even like his rival—you’ve chosen your guy for a reason, even if you can’t explain that reason to yourself. Of course, there are exceptions, and I personally like both Federer and Nadal, but in general it’s a little like asking a Red Sox fan to enjoy a World Series win by the Yankees; or god forbid, asking a Phillies fan to shift his loyalty to the Mets for an evening. Rational assessments of the enemy are rare in all sports, and hardly mandatory. What's interesting about Tennis.com is that it’s become a neutral site frequented by partisans from both sides. There’s a lot of talking past each other and probably not a lot of minds changed in the process, but at least there’s talking, and at least you know the other sides' arguments.
But let me finish by moving away from the Duel to some of the extras who pop up briefly in Strokes of Genius. As I said, the most original character to my mind is the Luddite-like Uncle Toni, an authentic radical in his own old-fashioned way. You can hear his down-to-earth philosophy in the words of his nephew. On the Federer side, I thought Mirka could have been given more space—she seems to be of comparable influence as Tio Toni—but that was almost certainly a matter of access (or lack thereof).
Two other memorable bit players in this story are “Daylily,” a passionate Nadalite (and Tennis.com regular), and the chair umpire for the match, Pascal Maria. Daylily is Diane Morales, a 58-year-old Spanish teacher from Memphis, Tenn. Wertheim uses her as an example of the depth of devotion that both of these European players inspire, even in the middle of America. At one point during the final, Morales decides that the fact that she’s watching the match is jinxing Rafa, so she turns off the TV and cleans the house. Later she finds out online that he’s at match point—maybe she was right to turn the tube off.
But it’s Maria who supplies the most mysterious and to me the finest detail from the Greatest Match of All Time.
Around this time, Pascal Maria, the chair umpire, noticed something odd. Both players were making eye contact with him, briefly but unmistakably, after almost every point. Even from yards away, even with a box of supporters they could have locked eyes with instead, they seemed to want to make a connection with him, the third man on the court. He interpreted it not as a plea for preferential treatment but as a tacit message: “It was like they were saying, ‘We need each other’s support,” Maria would describe a few weeks later. “‘There will be a winner and a loser but let’s deal with everything together to make it special.
I’ve never heard of anything like that before. What it reinforces for me is just how lonely a Grand Slam final, an event watched by millions, is for those involved. There aren’t 18 baseball players or 22 football players or however many people take part in a soccer match. There are just two, along with one umpire. His comment shows that while we like to talk about the unforgiving nature of tennis, about its warriors and gladiators and the many contrasts between its rivals, the sport at its peak also brings those rivals in close enough proximity to create something “special,” as Maria says so touchingly, together.
Thanks for doing this, Kamakshi, it's always a pleasure. See you at the Open.
Steve