I’m putting it all down to Olivia Newton-John. She came sashaying out of the tunnel leading to the court in Rod Laver Arena to sing her '70s hit, "Magic," and–shazaam–nothing ever seemed quite right from there on.
Who would have guessed that Newton-John would be the warm-up act for the men’s final between Marat Safin and Lleyton Hewitt? Ha, world! You thought you’d seen the last of that blond helmet; that down-market pants-suit look (sequined, of course); those studied, not-too-racy dance moves. And, of course, that song. “Got to believe in magic, nothing can stand in our way…"
Funnily, Newton-John was virtually inaudible over the PA system. All I could think as we watched her bop around like a mime on the distant floor of the stadium was, “Exactly whose idea was this?”
Magic. If there was magic tonight, it was freaky mumbo-jumbo put to a strange purpose–preserving the status quo of the ‘70s, when Newton-John ruled the airwaves and Mark Edmondson reigned as the Australian Open champion.
Edmondson, or Edo, was a curious character with a walrus mustache and a halo of receding, kinky hair. He was a 21-year-old journeyman in 1976 when he became the only unseeded player to win this title–taking it from John Newcombe, a national idol and the overwhelming tournament favorite.
Edo was a hard-serving and volleying bloke, and he was ham-fisted as well. When he was presented with the trophy on center court, he promptly dropped it, and the Norman Brookes Challenge Cup broke off its base.
It proved to be a seminal moment, like the point in a horror move when the cute, innocent kid’s eyes turn green, his head starts to revolve on his neck like a police flasher, and he sprouts horns while thunder-and-lightning crackles in the background. A curse is born. No Aussie male has won his national championships since Edo. Tonight, bobbing along on a wave of national pride and support, Lleyton Hewitt–10 times the player Edo ever was–was supposed to change that. He was meant to break the hex. He was fiercely locked on target for the past two weeks, and he persuaded multitudes--myself included--that he would do it.
In fact, I’m tempted to delete the post a few items down—the one slugged "Day of the Locusts"—because my prediction about the mens’ final turned out to be so spectacularly wrong. Think I’ll leave it, though; it’s only fair. If nothing else, it may be useful to remember how comprehensively Hewitt was favored to beat Safin here in tennis-mad Australia.
Hewitt didn’t do it, despite all the hype and outpouring of good will. The reasons for this aren’t very complicated. Safin is a terrific player who should have at least twice the number of Grand Slam titles (2) on his resume, and he played Hewitt perfectly.
After suffering from nerves and giving up the first set, Safin dug in and found his big game. He kept Hewitt under constant pressure with his power, both when he was serving and when he was locked in a rally.
It’s hard to get a true measure of just how “physical” a game Safin plays. He punishes and beats up opponents, pushing them around with heavy groundstrokes that land deep in the court. Hewitt, of course, is masterful at grubbing out shots–but asking him to repeatedly run down and retrieve groundies of the kind Safin unloads is like asking your Labrador to fetch and return an endless succession of cinder blocks. It’s simply expecting too much.
Safin was able to keep the ball deep in Hewitt’s court, forcing him to play from back on his heels; gradually, he ground down the Aussie (a feat that speaks volumes in and of itself) and proved that at the end of the day, size still matters.
Edo, always a gruff customer, gradually grew disgusted as this tournament progressed and finally stopped giving interviews.
I’ll bet he sleeps well tonight.