I got there shortly after Berdych had pounded his way through the first set. The second was fairly even, with Davydenko patiently taking the body blows, a schoolboy being punished for transgressions he did not commit - being diminutive hardly can be termed misbehavior. But I had faith in our Kolya the Obscure, even if nobody else did. That was an easy impression to get, because The Tomas Berdych Army was once again out in force.
Bare-chested (do we detect a theme here?), face-painted in the red, blue and white Czech colors, shaking and tossing a large Czech flag that was more soiled than any flag should ever get, they entertained the crowd with a stream of complex songs and chants.
Judging from the looks of them, it had to be some kind of victory that they actually remembered the words.
But Kolya hung in there, and it was appreciated by at least one fan. Facing the Berdych army all alone, he occasionally wailed, Daaaaavyyyyyydeennnnnnko! and I couldn't quite make up my mind if it was a war cry or a petition for mercy. Kolya, dressed in a pristine white shirt and black shorts, head ascetically shaved, looked like an earnest seminarian. And once again, it began to look like the Big Fella was on the little fella's side. As the second set chugged along, Berdych began to make the usual, sloppy mistakes that seem to haunt all but the best of big, rangy, powerful players. He began spraying balls, and there wasn't a danged thing that all those chants (If you love Tomas Berdych clap your hands. . . ) could do about it.
Kolya won the second, and by midway through the third the handwriting was on the wall. The light, fleet, patient, focused seminarian had absorbed the heavy blows and he was not taking Tomas Berdych apart, one consonant at a time. Don't you love seeing a big galoot go down?
Berdych did get a second wind after Kolya won the third, and that big serve and forehand once again began to inflict damage. At one point, Kolya started freaking out, and that wasn't a pretty thing. It wasn't Boris Becker-grade ugly, but this guy, who does so many things well, if not overpoweringly, doesn't do "freak" well at all. Daaaaavyyyyyydeennnnnnko!
And then, wonder of wonders, shortly after the Berdych army fired off another chant as lengthy and complex as Beowulf, a handful of spectators dared answer: Kolya, Kolya, Kolya. But the collective voice wavered, the chanters became sheepish (Ohmigod, what are we doing?) Their voices kind of trailed off, leaving the gulls shrieking with glee.
No matter. Kolya don't need no stinkin' support group. He did what he always does: he hung in there, focused and steady, weathering the storm, knowing by now that in a big man like Berdych, the mayhem was apt to be as short-lived as it was violent. And so it was. Kolya stood toe-to-toe and traded blows with Berdych through the fourth set, and even when Berdych wiped away three match points while serving at 5-6 down, love-40,Kolya's resolve held.
In the ensuing tiebreaker, Kolya sat back and waited for the inevitable errors that so often follow a patch of heady play be Berdych. He was not disappointed, and he advanced to the quarterfinals when he converted his first match point of the 'breaker.
By then, the girl in the Roo flag and her two friends were busy posing for pictures taken by a kind, elderly gentleman one row down. Still bare chested, the boys held aloft their beers, arms around each other, thumbs up. It was all the Roo girl could do to cling to her boyfriend's mid-section and shoehorn herself into the picture.
When Kolya was asked in his presser (I don't have time to describe it; I have to call the Nadal-Murray match in a few minutes) if he was disappointed that the match wasn't played in Rod Laver Arena, he answered honestly and perhaps a mite literally: "I was disappointed I didn't play in Vodafone, where I play before some times (that's our Kolya, never one to take the seared tuna appetizer when there's a pig-in-blanket on the platter) and I like the conditions. Now they put me on Margaret Court. I don't know, for quarterfinal maybe they put me on court No. 5, or 3."
It was a gem of a presser, BTW, make sure you read the bits about his wife, and how Kolya gets "crazy" if he doesn't play tennis for three weeks. I'm tempted to say that Kolya needs an image makeover, but actually I like him just as he is. So my only recommendation would be a name change. Drop the Nikolay and go with Davy Denko - just like Davy Jones, of The Monkees. The Aussies will love this too; you'll immediately be dubbed, Dave-o. Just a thought, Kolya. In any event, Davy, I'm a believer.
Okay, match call starts in a few minutes. This is an experiment and I'm not entirely sure how it will work out (especially with Typepad). I don't think I'll be able to answer questions too often, but feel free to throw them out as we roll along. We'll see how it all works out.
