About midway through yesterday's second set between Andy Roddick - meaning about the time that The Mighty Fed was getting so close to having a break point that he could almost see it with the aid of the Hubble telescope - a smitten female fan somewhere behind where Steve Tignor and I sat hollered, "Federer, you're unreal!"
Now that got me thinking. TMF certainly is unreal. But what if were, well, really unreal?
What if this "Federer" didn't really exist, except as some Jungian figment of the imagination of all those aesthetes who ever had to sit through a Luis Horna vs. Mariano Zabaleta match on clay? Or perhaps this "Federer" is an android, built by a bored, unemployed, Swiss time-piece designer. I mean, come on - doesn't this whole thing about "Federer" coming from Switzerland have "Jamaican Bobsled Team" written all over it, except for the fact that the Jamaicans in question couldn't find their way to the bottom of the hill with a map, while "Federer" is already, according to some, the GOAT (Greatest of All Time)?
Doesn't it strike you as just a little bit suspicious?
Hail, maybe this "Federer" started out as an idea in the mind of some Sega Genesis game designer, but the algorythms just got out of hand and he leaped across the Great Divide like some character out of a Philip K. Dick novel. Or maybe he's just a good old-fashioned hologram, like on your credit card. In any event, I think it's high time we asked: Does Roger Federer really exist?
The arguments for those who suspect there is no such thing as a Roger Federer, that we're just the victims of some humongous cosmic tennis prank, falling head-over-heels for a character no more "real" than Bart Simpson, Superman, or Zac Efron, were never better articulated than last night. Andy Roddick has a gigantic serve. He's a former U.S. Open champion, and he's been World No. 1. And he's bigger, stronger, and more experienced now than he was back then.
Last night, Roddick was playing his flat-out best tennis on a court that, if you believe what many of the players are saying, is faster than Wimbledon's Centre Court. And he was doing this was in front of an adoring American crowd, willing him to win with a vibe so strong that it put all that harmonic convergence baloney of a few years ago to shame. And yet. . . at the end of the set, what was the score? "Federer" was rolling toward the finish line, 7-6,7-6, to be continued. . .
Now, isn't that enough to make even the most Cartesian reality freaks among you wonder, at least a teensy-weensy bit?
How about what Roddick said after he lost in straight sets: You know, I thought I made him play as well as he could play. . . Personally, I think it was just tact that kept him from finishing that sentence: . . . for somebody who's really an android, hallucination, psychic projection or some other weird thing.
Beyond that, do you ever notice that this so-called "Roger Federer" has perfect hair that never seems to get mussed or out-of-place - the dude looks like one of those pictures your local barber has tacked up all around his mirror, hoping you'll be hoodwinked into dropping an extra Jackson on the full "I want to look like I'm in a boy band!" look.
You ever see, oh, human being Rafael Nadal's hair? Notice how wet and stringy it gets, and how it flies all over the place when he runs around, because he's working so danged hard? Now that's genuine human hair - tennis player cum rock star hair. How about Nikolay Davydenko? Okay, he doesn't have hair. Forget him. I think whatever "Federer" is, that hair is just painted on, like on those old-fashioned, pink, soft plastic dolls that smell so cool.
Have you ever noticed how this "Federer" doesn't really sweat?
Oh, late in a third set he gets this sheen on his forehead and cheeks, but that could just as easily be some kind of cooling apparatus meant to keep the machinery from overheating, like those sprayers that keep the vegetables fresh at your local Whole Foods. How about the fact that the guy never freaks out, pitches a fit, or, having broken serve (which he does quite a lot, actually), rolls out one of those flying scissor kicks, punching the air and yelling "Vamos!"
Androids only have feelings in strange movies like Blade Runner; in real life, they're probably real quiet dudes like "Federer", who's idea of an in-your-face end-zone dance is making a small fist and quietly aspirating a "Yes."
