Ever since Marat Safin beat Pete Sampras in the U.S. Open final of 2000, he's been a sure bet: Nobody would break your heart—or, if you're the betting type, your wallet—quite as consistently, unconsciously, or self-punishingly, week after week, tournament after tournament, year after agonizing year.
Perhaps all that changed tonight. Perhaps on this, Safin's 25th birthday, he's finally turned the career corner that everyone on the planet, at one time or another, seems to have tried to shove, drag, threaten, or lure him through. Beating Roger Federer 9-7 in the fifth, in the semifinals of a Grand Slam Federer was defending, after failing to convert six match points—that can do it for a fellow.
This was a terrific match, pitting two of the most versatile and inventive players in the game today, with Federer holding a slight edge in creativity and Safin an equally slim margin in power (although Federer out-aced Safin, 22-16). In the end, the power prevailed and carried Safin into his third Australian Open final.
What a curious, magnetic personality we have in the scruffy, lanky, beady-eyed Safin. He has sparse facial hair, hinting of Rasputin, and a long, cylindrical head oddly like that of Bart Simpson. He's taken to draping gold chains and charms around his neck, along with what appears to be a bone of some sort, in the shape of an arrowhead, on a leather thong—he's a little bit Surf Punk, a little bit Al Sharpton; he could make a second career with the Village People.
He's probably deferred having to think about that for a few years with this win, and he good-naturedly tried to elaborate on that for the 15,000 new best friends who were still packed into Rod Laver arena
when the match ended after four hours and 28 minutes, at 12:27 on Friday morning.
Safin took an open mike from Jim Courier, who's been doing a masterful job here as a commentator and on-court interviewer, and essentially spilled his guts. He babbled on about the daunting task of converting a match point against the world No. 1 (“Even at the first match point, psychologically, I am thinking I have across the net from me—Roger Federer, what I supposed to do?”); he frankly uttered various conjugations of the verb “to choke,” which most players avoid like the plague; and he found himself at a loss for words and flapped his arms around instead, as if he would beat statements out of the air.
Sympathetic to Safin's state, Courier joked, “Hey, it's my job to ask, I'm easy.”
When Safin failed to reply, Courier added, “Do you need a hug, or what?”
The two men embraced.
When Courier informed the crowd of the significance of the day, they all sang “Happy Birthday” to the winner. He responded by saying the match was his birthday present to them.
It's seemed pretty clear all along that if Lleyton Hewitt, an Australian, managed to get to the final, he'd surely be the crowd favorite. Now I'm not so sure.
Safin won a lot of hearts here tonight. Think of him as Goran, but with ground strokes.