The Next Point

The final Major tournament of the 2012 season finished several days ago. It was held in New York, and concluded on a Monday, as is customary. Andy Murray won it. This news somehow feels more surprising now than it did when it happened. Given time to sink in, it has sunk to that place where we blithely assumed every Major was a three-way race. I hope that has changed, for the good of the sport. Andy Murray is the US Open champion.

The delayed Monday final, which had been widely anticipated, was due directly to a tornado that visited Queens on Saturday, but indirectly to a series of controversial decisions on the tournament’s part. One of these decisions was to retain the schedule whereby both men’s semifinals would be played consecutively in that vast research facility known as Arthur Ashe Stadium, which for fifty weeks a year is used to study the effect of chaotic wind dynamics on rodents and birds. For two weeks each September, as typhoons circle impatiently in the Gulf, the researchers are permitted to use human subjects. This important function explains why the structure lacks a roof. It’s science.

To my knowledge, the US Open remains the only Major in which the prize money is advertised during the trophy ceremony, perhaps in the belief that we peasants enjoy it when large sums of cash are made marginally less theoretical. Fortunately they’ve done away with novelty oversized cheques, since these can be used as weapons (a paper-cut from one is like being attacked with a blunt scimitar). There was also the small matter of the gripping US Open Series, which Djokovic apparently won, thereby supplementing his payout by a further half a million bucks. The Serb had the grace to smile awkwardly while this figure was read out to the crowd, who duly applauded. It’s a tricky moment to navigate for a tennis player – they cannot seem too disinterested, yet nor can they imply that they toil for any reason but a noble love of competition – but Djokovic’s gracious tilt of the head struck an appropriate balance.

In any case, we weren’t given long to ruminate on this, since the trophy presentation lasted about 35 seconds. CBS had some vital evening programming to cut to, and weren’t prepared to risk having one of the players attempt to thank their supporters in their native language. However, this did have the benefit of seriously curtailing the sponsors’ speeches. One hopes the Australian Open takes a good look at this, and limits the time it grants to the CEO of Kia Motors, who after ten minutes with the microphone has barely exhausted his warm-up material. Speaking of sponsors, Murray was granted a few additional moments to parade his hastily-located Rado watch, which was later interviewed by Sky Sports.

The commentary at the US Open was about as delightful as ever, meaning it provided a solid fortnight’s fuel supply for those inclined to poke fun, a habit I largely avoid. I also largely avoided ESPN, and therefore missed the combined brilliance of the McEnroe brothers, including a notorious effort in Roger Federer’s opening match against Donald Young. I’ve heard them before, of course, and am well-accustomed to the way their inclination to disapprove contrasts and circles before eventually joining rapturously, rather like the climax of La ci darem la mano (Patrick is Zerlina). The network told John to rein it in. Apparently he wasn’t employed to complain, which seems counter-intuitive. Meanwhile Patrick, whose interests only grew more conflicted as the Taylor Townsend story broke part, received ESPN’s unequivocal backing.

Can someone please explain the commentators’ unwavering fascination with serve-speed? Al Trautwig in particular could barely permit any serve to smack into the back drop before letting us know precisely how rapidly it had got there. Over on US Open Radio they had better cause to recite such details, since they lacked visuals, but they were still prone to focussing on this number to the exclusion of any other. They very quickly ran out of creative ways to mention it.

Elsewhere Frew, Mats and the Eurosport gang remained the pick of the bunch, although Barbara Schett’s interviews continue to pluck at the threads of sanity. The predominantly British personnel kept their heads even as the draw slimmed down and Murray emerged as a genuine contender. Operating under a more permissive mandate, Sky Sports didn’t work the same trick. Boris Becker was presumably employed to provide some balance. The German is famous everywhere, but is notorious on Twitter for commenting on events a good day after they’ve transpired – much like I’m doing with this post – so the fast turnaround of his thoughts was a pleasant change. Becker’s fellow booth-jockeys informed us that he’d absconded within minutes of Murray claiming the title, since he had a high-stakes poker game to get to somewhere in Europe (I’m not making this up). The subtext, I think, was that Le Chiffre doesn’t like to be kept waiting.

Match of the Tournament

I am vaguely aware that, in certain countries, publicly denying that the men’s final of the 2012 US Open was the greatest match of all time can result in a midnight visit from anonymous thugs wielding short lengths of pipe. Luckily for me those countries are concentrated in Great Britain, and are thus about seventeen thousand kilometres astern of my current location. My vague awareness thus doesn’t have to become a painful one. I can say with some certainty that the final was the best match played that day, or even over the extended final weekend. But the best match that I saw at this US Open was the quarterfinal between David Ferrer and Janko Tipsarevic, which the Spaniard eventually won in a fifth set tiebreak.

Ferrer trailed by a break early in that fifth set, but it would have been a brave punter who backed the Serbian in from that position. Tipsarevic was tiring rapidly, which made his frantic efforts only more commendable. Unfortunately for him, Ferrer has learned the knack of deriving sustenance from his opponent’s exhaustion, and thereby gaining strength. They traded desperate points, mostly but not exclusively with Tipsarevic on offence and Ferrer scurrying. Afterwards they both knew they’d been part of something special. Ferrer remarked that either man should have won, which is the kind of thing winners are inclined say. Tipsarevic, rightly proud of his effort even in defeat, hoped the crowd had appreciated it, and now realised that excellent tennis was possible even in a quarter that lacked a member of the big four.

Players

If nothing else, Tomas Berdych’s run to the final of Winston-Salem the week before the US Open demonstrated that these smaller lead-up tournaments, easily written off as being inconsequential, can still serve a valuable purpose for top players short on form. This is quite aside from their usual function, which is to tire out John Isner or Nicolas Almagro for the impending Major, thereby giving everyone else a chance. Prior to arriving in North Carolina Berdych had barely strung together consecutive wins since Roland Garros. After that he was something of a juggernaut, at least in the quarterfinal against Federer, and played commendably for parts of the semifinal in conditions that did not suit him at all. Conversely, a fetchingly stubbled Jo-Wilfried Tsonga reached the semifinals in Winston-Salem, but succumbed listlessly to Martin Klizan in the second round in New York. Klizan is playing the tennis of his life, but there are limits, especially given the Frenchman’s recent heroics at Slam level. Even his disappointing exit in Melbourne was to Kei Nishikori in five sets.

Earlier, Milos Raonic approached his encounter with Murray boldly determined to prove he wasn’t just an unreturnable serve, but then put in a performance that suggested he isn’t even that. Murray dismantled him. I’m apparently alone in not caring that Raonic had a ready smile and cuddle for his opponent, although I confess I found his Lacoste t-shirt pretty offensive. James Blake, in mauling Marcel Granollers, reminded us why he used to mix it with the top five. He was then mauled by Raonic, who proved he can also smile amiably while dishing it out. You can’t ask for more than that.

Mardy Fish narrowly avoided being smothered by a wounded Gilles Simon, his only lifeline the steady rhythm of Al Trautwig reciting the speed of each serve – ‘90mph, 93mph, 92mph . . .’ – in much the same way chatting to coma-victims tenuously connects them to reality. Fish then pulled out of his fourth round against Federer. Federer denied that this walkover had anything to do with his subsequent loss to Berdych. Indeed, the world No.1 seemed at a loss to explain why it had happened at all. He just didn’t play very well, and his opponent did. It happens, even to Federer. It wasn’t the end of the world, even though it coincided with, and briefly eclipsed, the end of Andy Roddick’s career. Roddick’s career, which I’ll discuss at length another time, ended against Juan Martin del Potro. The Argentine has since revealed that his niggling wrist injury might be as bad as we’d all feared. At least it’s the other wrist, but it’s still a damn shame.

I’ve realised that this is one of those posts that could theoretically go on forever – I haven’t even mentioned Isner, Kohlschreiber, Zemlja or Baker – which is generally a good cue to finish. This is therefore the part where I’d normally close with a pithy statement. Please try to think of a good one you might have read elsewhere.

US Open, Day Seven

It has occurred to me, belatedly, that my proposal to have the opening round of the US Open extended to five days carries with it a number of previously unexplored (yet important) advantages, and that highlighting these in my original submission to the USTA would have only strengthened my case. A missed opportunity, to be sure. One I rue.

Firstly, a five day opener would spread the matches out more evenly across each day, which would in turn confer several benefits: the tournament would require fewer courts – meaning some could be converted into something useful, like merchandise stalls or a roller disco – and it would permit more of the top players to play their initial rounds in the main stadium at night, thereby ensuring that fewer Arthur Ashe ticket-holders are forced to endure a remotely competitive match. Secondly, it would mean that any player who survived through the first couple of rounds would therefore feature in the second week. Seneca helpfully taught us that Majors cannot be won in the first week, only lost, a lesson that Pete Sampras famously reiterated. It therefore seems like a net benefit to have more competitors survive this ordeal, even though the US Open’s now-established custom of Monday finals means that no one can win it in the second week either.

Earlier on US Open Radio, there was some discussion of precisely what making it to the second week actually entails. It is something the players talk about all the time, and the hushed reverence of their tone suggests it means more than simply remaining active in the tournament after the first Sunday ends. Nevertheless the definition remains slippery. For half the women, reaching the second week means they’ve made it to the quarterfinals, which is indeed something to be proud of. The other half remains stranded in the fourth round, which is where the surviving men also reside, apart from John Isner and Philipp Kohlschreiber, who as I write are yet to complete their third round match.† It’s all very confusing. Wimbledon avoids this issue by having a rest day on the middle Sunday, and by having it rain a lot on the other days. The USTA is busily implementing the second of these measures. The remnants of Hurricane Irene are even now straggling up the Eastern Seaboard. The best predictions are that they will arrive by Tuesday, and then settle in like a disgraced uncle with nowhere else to be, who just will not take the hint to leave, even when you pack his bags for him, and point out that those bed sores might clear up if he would only get out of your favourite armchair.

(5) Ferrer d. (WC) Hewitt, 7/6 4/6 6/3 6/0

Lleyton Hewitt will not feature in the second week, having fallen late in the first week to David Ferrer. Hewitt failed to win a game in the last set, yet competed with enough gusto that we may regard his defeat as gallant, in contrast to Bernard Tomic several days ago, who pulled off the same feat but suffered immediate crucifixion. Not all bagels are created equal. I think Orwell said something about this. (I will resist the opportunity to extend this metaphor, for any number of reasons, but mainly because I’m not especially solid on how bagels are made – I know they’re boiled, but whenever I boil bread the result is quite disappointing – and it would just take up room. Much like this aside has.) The truth is that Hewitt is congenitally incapable of a performance as insipid as Tomic’s against Andy Roddick, regardless of which explanation for Tomic’s performance we accept. I doubt Hewitt has ever been stage-struck, and I cannot imagine he has ever tanked a set. It’s rare for him to throw away a point, although he is not above blowing some very important ones.

Indeed, this is an important point to bear in mind about Hewitt. Despite his hard-won reputation as the sport’s scrappiest scrapper, Hewitt does have a tendency to grow careless with leads, and he can generally be relied upon to make his own life harder if given the opportunity. For a while some felt that he was only comfortable with his back to the wall, and would therefore retreat until he felt the kiss of the brickwork against his shoulder blades. Only then could his fighting instincts kick in. Certainly more of his matches have devolved into life and death tussles than seemed strictly necessary. This was the case even during his extended sojourn atop the rankings – a nearly forgotten 80 weeks, now an eternal decade past – but has only grown more definitive in his career’s endless twilight, at least in those rare periods when he ventures away from the operating table. It was especially evident today during the first set tiebreaker, when he led Ferrer 6-3, and in total failed to take any of five set points.

It’s worth bearing mind that Ferrer is himself not an especially strong tiebreak player, although his record this year is considerably better than any other year (15-9), and well above his career average, which is decidedly average (106-102). The Spaniard’s reputation as a fighter is as justified as Hewitt’s, but contrary to popular belief neither man represents the ne plus ultra in mental composure. They fight because they must, because fighting is preferable to Tomic’s alternative, but both are still obliged to fight far more often than they should. Then again, Hewitt has the excuse that he’s no longer the player he was, while Ferrer is the world number five, and needs make no excuses to anyone.

There was a time when Hewitt might have outlasted Ferrer, but it was long ago. Ornery attrition wasn’t likely to prove a winning tactic today, especially after a prolonged five-setter against Gilles Muller two days earlier. Having correctly surmised that it was all or nothing, Hewitt set about giving it everything. Suddenly bold, he stepped into the court and hustled Ferrer off it, earning a coveted break early on then hoarding it until the end. This gave his fans another excuse to lament those squandered first set points, but I doubt even a two set lead would have done more than prolong the eventual outcome. Naturally anything can happen in sport, but there was still a firm sense that Ferrer would run him down no matter how long it took. The Australian was once the fittest man in the sport, but not anymore. The spirit remains staunch, but the flesh has parted too often beneath the surgeon’s knife, and suffered too much rehabilitation and mortification still to comply with its master’s will. Conversely, while there were times in his peak years when Hewitt might sustain reckless offence for an entire match – one truly outrageous defeat of Gustavo Kuerten in Florianopolis leaps to mind – they were frankly rare even then. Now he just can’t keep it up, a problem that often comes with age. Then again, Ferrer is almost the same age, and looked like he could go all day.

Even as the second set sloughed away, Ferrer could see that the Australian was close to spent. He has built a career on noting these moments, and then prolonging them until his opponents expire. The momentum shift in the third set was irresistible. Now the Spaniard was deciding how each point should proceed. By the fourth set the result was truly foregone. And then Hewitt was gone: 6/0, a fighting bagel. I still have no idea how they’re made, but I do know they take at least a decade to prepare.

David Ferrer, officially, has entered the second week.

† Kohlschreiber ended up defeating Isner in five sets, at 2:26am local time. Isner therefore technically enjoyed a brief stint in the second week, the definition of which grows ever more fluid.

US Open, Days One and Two

My proposal to have the first round of the US Open main draw spread over five days has, it seems, fallen on unreceptive ears. I believe this to be a shame, since it fulfilled so many of the cherished goals of the tournament’s organisers, such as diluting the level of excitement through the early going, ensuring that at least one of the eventual male finalists is crippled by exhaustion, and guaranteeing that said final will take place sometime in the following week. Their counter-argument was that there are already sufficient measures in place to assure these outcomes. (For example, inspired by last year, they have installed new pumps under all the showcourts, which at the flick of a switch will push noisome and bubbling swamp fluids up through the court surface, thereby causing David Ferrer to shrug slightly, and Andy Roddick to go into cardiac arrest.) If these don’t do the trick, they contend, then there’s always the weather.

But weather, according to biblical authority, is a fickle thing. Notwithstanding the  US Open’s careful placement within hurricane season, there remains a slim chance that several days of play won’t be lost to driving squalls and showers, and that when players are able to take to the court their efforts won’t be fatally hampered by outraged southerly zephyrs. Of course this issue could be addressed by relocating the whole thing to New Orleans, or, better, to the flight deck of the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower, currently patrolling the North Atlantic. These suggestions also featured in my proposal.

Fortunately such measures won’t be necessary this year. Even as I write, Hurricane Isaac has crossed the Louisiana coast. With any luck, the men will have to play their last three rounds on Wednesday afternoon, a fortnight hence. According to the preferred nomenclature of CBS, this will be a Super afternoon indeed. But my point was that it is lazy to rely upon inclement weather to wreck a timetable on its own. Ludicrous scheduling has to shoulder at least a portion of the load. A five day opening round would put it beyond doubt.†

Anyway, until the USTA sees the light, the first round still only lingers for a laughably brief three days, which means that we’re now two thirds of the way through. World No.1 Roger Federer won his opening round match against world No.81 Donald Young on a drenchingly humid opening night. The brothers McEnroe, commentating on ESPN, were scathing of their compatriot, which one assumes was an attitude they arrived with, given that the result had hardly been doubt. The issue, it was intimated, was one of belief, and that fact that Young doesn’t have any, a shortcoming he has in common with everyone else. Luke Jensen, commentating on another network, echoed these sentiments in a more circumspect fashion. After Young won a strong point, Jensen proffered the advice that he should play like that all of the time. So that was the problem. But Young didn’t just achieve a 17 match losing streak because he cannot play well occasionally. His achievement testifies to the fact that he can’t do it often, let alone all the time. Body language aside, I’m sure he was trying his best. The week the American posted his seventeenth straight loss was the week Federer won Cincinnati without dropping serve. There is a gulf between those two outcomes, and suggesting that it can be bridged by faith is asking a lot of a guy who has just spent an entire season demonstrating that it can’t. He did break Federer’s serve, though.

The same critique wasn’t levelled at Paolo Lorenzi, who won only two games against a rampant Novak Djokovic (just as he did back in Melbourne, although the configuration was different). Lorenzi didn’t seem to have much belief that he’d overcome the defending champion, although no one commentating sounded particularly offended at this. Indeed, the prevailing tone was more condescending than anything else. Djokovic was pretty marvellous, though. He must have believed. That’s probably why he wins all the time.

I boldly predicted that David Goffin might upset Tomas Berdych, but that didn’t come to pass. That’s on me. Indeed, Berdych even won a tiebreaker, his first since the Rome Masters. Berdych in turn predicted that no one besides the top three seeds have much chance of winning the tournament, thereby echoing the betting markets and every other person with even a passing interest in tennis, besides a few fans of Juan Martin del Potro (and perhaps del Potro himself). This realistic assessment has seen the Czech strung up by his thumbs, and liberally peppered with envenomed arrows. There’s a subtle difference at play here. It’s one thing to suggest that winning a given match will be almost impossible, but quite another to concede that it might actually be. The former assertion is a valorous attempt to secure the cherished underdog position, in order that any subsequent victory might be lauded as suitably heroic. The latter betrays a fundamental lack of self-belief, and certainly shouldn’t be construed as merely a moment of unguarded candour by a 26-year-old athlete. By extension, we can assume that everything Berdych says must perfectly reflect his inner state. You may recall that Jo-Wilfried Tsonga made broadly similar remarks before the French Open – that no Frenchman would win the tournament – yet he seemed committed enough in that quarterfinal with Djokovic, and appropriately gutted when he lost. Believe it or not, these guys can say these things and still try their very best. Tsonga, incidentally, also won today. Mardy Fish and Andy Murray also won their opening matches, both in straight sets, but were roundly condemned for not winning them better. Some pundits made it known that they weren’t ‘convinced’. I can’t decide if this is disrespectful to the beaten opponents, or just boring.

Even Philipp Petzschner won, and from two sets to love down, which is a nice change for him. His socks were typically magnificent. I’d predicted that his first round with Nicolas Mahut might be a good one. It was: cagey and desperate. It is so far my only prediction that looks even remotely like coming to pass, including the secret one about Andrea Petkovic winning the title and then inviting me to dinner. I predicted an excellent first round encounter between del Potro and David Nalbandian, but Nalbandian’s withdrawal has made that complicated. He has been replaced by Florent Serra, who I don’t expect will pose quite the same problem for the 2009 champion.

Bernard Tomic today saw off Carlos Berlocq in a match that was rendered more straight-forward than anticipated by the fact that the Argentine didn’t play especially well. Tomic will play Roddick in the second round, probably at night in a big, loud, lurid stadium. Given that most of Tomic’s season is composed of killing time between these kinds of grand spectacles, I suspect the young Australian will rouse himself for this one. It’ll be a question of belief, of course. Thank heavens he has that: ‘I don’t think Roddick is like the top three or four. That’s definitely where I have a lot of belief. I believe I can win this match.’

On the subject of stirring recoveries, Marin Cilic and Alexandr Dolgopolov each came back from two sets down, against Marinko Matosevic and Jesse Levine respectively. I’d like to say that the issue was mental – in Dolgopolov’s case it always is, I suppose, though I didn’t see this match – but for Cilic it was more the case that the superior player started playing closer to his usual standard as the match progressed. Matosevic never ceased trying, to an extent that even the McEnroes would have approved of. Sometimes one player is better at tennis than the other one. Believe it or not, this often determines the outcome, even if saying so is frowned upon.

† The Australian Open almost embarrassed itself this year, when the combination of clear weather, two roofed stadiums and a two-day opening round resulted in the final being played on the second Sunday. Fortunately in the final Nadal and Djokovic set things right by playing approximately for ever in order to ensure the tournament entered a third week, as the gods intended.