I went to sleep last night with the singsong chant ringing in my ears: “Mar-cos, Bagh-da-tis. . . Mar-cos, Bagh-da-tis. . . “ What an amazing shootout it was, too, on the floor of Rod Laver arena. Today, The Cyprus Cyclone is the toast of Melbourne, not to mention Nicosia, Limassol, Polis, Vasilikos—and certain blocks in the New York borough of Queens.
In case you didn’t see Baghdatis’ stirring win over David Nalbandian in the semifinals of the Australian Open you can get the details here. My take on the epic five-setter is that two volatile elements were mixed together to create the explosion we witnessed: Baghdatis’s sunny but deceptively lethal competitive temperament and Nalbandian’s fatal flaw—his lingering inability to close the deal on the Big Stage.
Some of you got on my case for dubbing Nalbandian “The King of the Second Tier” after his triumph in Shanghai last fall. You saw again last night why I can't put him in the same kennel as the big dogs. He’s a gifted, entertaining, interesting player, but if you’re David Nalbandian and you’re up two sets against virtual Grand Slam rookie Marcos Baghdatis, you close the deal. You must. Period. Punto final.
But we ought to focus on the Yin to the Nalbandian Yang, which was the way Baghdatis performed. It’s one thing to go out and produce a blizzard of entertaining, creative, “Gee, how did he do that?” shots, win a few rounds, and then go quietly into the night. Remember Emilio Sanchez? Andrew Ilie? Hicham Arazi? There have always been court jesters, but ponder the words of Bob Dylan:
Well, there’s no frown on this juggler, Marcos. He showed a great capacity last night to have a blast and play like he means it. He treats this tournament like it's his personal rave. One minute he’s blowing kisses to his girlfriend and doing the Hellas Wave with his “sweaty dudes” up in the cheap seats (what is it with those Greeks and their facial hair?)—the next he’s sticking a dagger in Nalbandian's heart.
Two episodes in particular stand out. In set two, Baghdatis clawed his way back from 2-5 down and got himself into a position to level the match. Suddenly, explosions began to rock the humid Melbourne night, as the Melbourne's nuclear-grade Australia Day fireworks display got under way.
Bang! What? Bang! With that shock-and-awe backing track, Marcos made an unforced error to lose the next point. Clearly rattled, he played a terrible game, effectively giving Nalbandian the second set. What a pity, I thought. It was just the kind of oddball incident that knocks the inexperienced, late-stage competitor off his horse.
Not Marcos, though. He smiled, shrugged, and went back to work. The second episode could have been even more unnerving. Late in the fifth, Nalbandian was crumbling. He played two desultory service games and, just like that, Baghdatis was serving for the match, 5-4. Firing on all cylinders, surfing along on a wave of confidence, he won the first point and the skies unexpectedly opened up, pouring hot rain on the arena. The match came skidding to a halt.
Once again, I got the awful feeling that the Gods had spoken: Marcos, you fresh pup, what do you think you’re doing? You need to pay some dues, dude—you’re outta here!. I could see him back in the locker room, on his knees, weeping and crying out as he tore at his hair and gnashed his teeth: How could you do this to me! You guys live on Mt. Olympus. Dudes—that’s in Cyprus, you’re supposed to be my homies!”
Actually, what really transpired in the locker room was more interesting. Baghdatis tells it:
How cool is that? No wonder Baghdatis responded with unexpected composure and discipline. When the match resumed, it looked like the delay hurt the veteran Nalbandian, rather than the upstart Baghdatis. Nalbandian’s effort to regroup and recharge failed (Injury? Take the plea to someone who might care). Marcos simply came out and rocked the house, burying Nalbandian with an icy precision that belied his happy disco-boy demeanor.
So the Cyprus Cyclone is either on the run of a lifetime, or he’s that rarest of players: the huge talent who’s as good a competitor, right out of the box, as he is a striker of the ball.
Excuse me, I’ve got to run up to the rooftop and start chanting, “Mar-cos, Bagh-da-tis . . . Mar-cos Bagh-da-tis . . .” I wonder if they can hear me on Mt. Olympus, where they make those cameras.