The Next Point

Australian Open, Second Round (Day Four)

Of the 128 men who contested the first round at this year’s Australian Open, 96 have already lost. This is the ordinary attrition rate through two rounds of a major tournament, so there’s no reason to panic. The numbers check out. Of the 32 remaining, I can say that there are as many Canadians as Americans, even if we include those Americans who turned out to be Russian. Seeds have tumbled – they crunch underfoot when you step on them – but not any of the truly fertile ones, the ones that are likely to bear fruit. Roddick’s loss will be amply discussed, but not because he lost. Those given to considering his thighs now have an excuse. The rest of us have no choice.

There were a number of five setters today, but compared to the first round’s they weren’t savage, although a couple were long. Twice players fought back from two sets down to level the match, only to lose the decider. Three men who’d survived the savagery of round one hit the deck in round two. Only Gilles Simon featured in both groups.

(5) Ferrer d. Sweeting, 6/7 6/2 3/6 6/2 6/3

It never felt as though David Ferrer wouldn’t come back against Ryan Sweeting; perhaps a five-setter had seemed unlikely, but an upset was unthinkable. It was also a useful reminder that just because a match goes to five sets, doesn’t mean it is necessarily close. Nadal’s win over Isner at Roland Garros last year demonstrated this principle, but really, the fact that it requires demonstration is a curious issue. There was a time when it didn’t, when good players were taken to five sets all the time, yet remained favourites to win. A decade of domination by a parade of godlike No.1s has accustomed us to a WTA-like river cruise through the early rounds for the top players. Dropped sets here and there have become newsworthy, and widely analysed, suggesting the rapacious new-cycle as a partial culprit. It turns out there’s not a lot to say about Nadal or Djokovic ambling past a cast of extras on the way to the quarterfinals. Or, more accurately, there is plenty to say, but finding new ways to say it is a lot of work, and it’s easier to spin a dropped set or two as a ‘scare’.

It is entirely possible that I had too much faith in Ferrer, or too little in Sweeting. Idling courtside today, in relenting sunshine and an edgeless southerly, I had the utmost confidence that the tournament would not lose its fifth seed. Ferrer was two sets to one down, but the three sets had not been taxing, barely registering on the Spaniard’s own worn scale for such things. A great deal of this owed to Sweeting, who in the last eight or nine months has somehow transformed himself from a toothless pusher into a daring baseliner. Ferrer took the last couple of sets comfortably, two and three.

(9) Tipsarevic d. Duckworth, 3/6 6/2 7/6 6/4

It was a broadly similar story over on Margaret Arena Stadium, where Janko Tipsarevic dropped the opening set to the promising James Duckworth, and thereafter toiled mightily to secure a four set win. But the thing is, for all that Tipsarevic has earned his detractors, he has also earned his place in the top ten, and he should be willing to work hard for a win. He should, he is, and he did. It’s a nice thing to be able to say about a guy who all too often hasn’t. A fine match.

(24) Nishikori d. Ebden, 3/6 1/6 6/4 6/1 6/1

Kei Nishikori’s recovery from two sets down was a different matter, since it was not a fine match, and he was legitimately in danger of losing it, if only momentarily. The moment came at the start of the third set, when Matthew Ebden was still on a roll, having romped through the first two. But a moment was all it was, and once it passed the last three sets felt like the very long denouement to a tale that had already been resolved. It was probably long enough for Ebden to make peace with his fate, but the vehemently hurled racquet on match point suggested otherwise. There is also the possibility that the fey spirit inhabiting MCA had taken possession of him, as it did to both Nalbandian and Baghdatis yesterday. That court has taken a pounding in the last 24 hours.

At the commencement of today’s play, there was the possibility that two Japanese males might inhabit the third round of a major, an outcome that has happened precisely never before. It was very nearly none, but Nishikori’s eventual victory helpfully offset Tatsuma Ito’s earlier loss to Nicholas Mahut. It is also only the second time Mahut has progressed so far, which is frankly surprising. He next plays Djokovic, so he won’t be going on with it. Lest the goal was an historical angle, I can say that Frederico Gil’s win over Marcel Granollers has propelled a Portuguese male into the last 32 for the first time.

Australian Open, First Round (Day One)

Tomic d. (22) Verdasco, 4/6 6/7 6/4 6/2 7/5

(13) Dolgopolov d. Jones, 1/6 4/6 6/2 6/2 6/2

“Is that Greg Jones? The one with the ponytail?” asked the sun-pinked lady behind me in the queue for Margaret Court Arena. Each of her flushed cheeks sported an Australian flag decal. I brought my mighty powers of deduction to bear, and guessed she might be Australian. She was pointing at Alexandr Dolgopolov.

“Yeah, that’s him,” replied her boyfriend with authority through his utterly ordinary goatee, the kind that is standard issue in IT departments the world over. He wore an Australian flag like a cape.

On the scale of their esteem, tennis clearly languished somewhere shy of the national logo, which I suspect they appreciated on a patriotic rather than an aesthetic level. Happily, the Australian Open encourages both passions to coexist, and so they set about brandishing their flags at their new favourite tennis player Greg Jones, even if he did have a girly ponytail. From that point it took them only five minutes to realise they had the wrong man, having carefully observed that the stadium erupted whenever the other guy won a point. The couple exchanged a chagrined grimace – regretting all the A-grade patriotism they’d just wasted on a foreigner – and set about urging on the dude in the green shirt. When Jones moved ahead two sets to love, amidst a flurry of surly remonstrations from Dolgopolov, they joined everyone else in going nuts. If nothing else, it suggests Channel 7’s campaign to rebrand Dolgopolov as Aussie Alexandr is gaining little traction. No one is buying it.

In Rod Laver Arena they had no trouble telling the Australian player apart from his opponent, since the Australian was Bernard Tomic and his image has saturated the airwaves for weeks. It helped that his opponent was Fernando Verdasco, who’d come dressed as an exploding canary. The green and gold horde in Garden Square had swelled, and the ululating murmur across the grounds grew to a sustained roar as Tomic broke late in the fifth set. I am not superstitious by nature, but I was tempted to look away, if only to spare my compatriots the agony of seeing Tomic broken back. It had been that kind of day. My patronage was the kiss of death.

Cipolla d. Davydenko, 6/4 4/6 3/6 6/2 6/1

At least, that’s how it felt. Every match I visited, the player I favoured either commenced poorly if I was present from the outset, or saw their form take a sharp nosedive once I arrived. First up was Nikolay Davydenko, who has fallen on hard times, but was still a sure thing against the sadly overmatched and frankly underpowered Flavio Cipolla. It was smotheringly warm in Melbourne today, with a bold northerly breeze and an unhindered sun.  Davydenko, from the very beginning, proved incapable of coping with any of these factors, even in isolation. He could not hold serve into the wind, and would commence each service game from that end by conducting an elaborate pantomime, shaking his head and rehearsing ball-tosses, inviting our commiseration. Cipolla brought no weapons to bear beyond a willingness to scurry for every ball, and thereafter apply slice to it. His patience was admirable, but the Russian was still creating plenty of opportunities. The issue was that he could not capitalise on them.

Karlovic d. (31) Melzer, 7/6 7/5 6/3

From there I swung by Court 18, where Jurgen Melzer was incongruously serve-volleying his way to a maiden loss to Ivo Karlovic. Karlovic was, of course, serving big, but he was also making plenty of chipped returns. Through the early going, Melzer was making plenty of volleys, and he looked even less like losing serve than his opponent. It all came undone for the Austrian in the first set tiebreak, when volleys suddenly were missed. Karlovic’s supporters, more comprehensively festooned with nationalistic drapery than even the locals, began chanting mean slogans at Melzer in close harmony. Novak Djokovic was hitting up on the court behind, and so they chanted at him as well.

Kohlschreiber d. (25) Monaco, 7/5 4/6 6/3 6/7 6/0

After that I roamed, swinging by Rod Laver, where Tomic had somehow contrived to lose the second set, to Court 6, where Philip Kohlschreiber and Juan Monaco were just commencing an enthralling five setter, although they weren’t to know that. As ever, it was a match entirely predicated on the German’s willingness to intersperse normal strokes in amongst the plentiful winners and errors, to ‘rally’, as it were. I was seated with Germans for this one – no flags, but plenty of Bundesliga jerseys – which really rammed home just how draining being a fan of Kohlschreiber’s must be. They rode every flashing backhand up the line, and every forehand into the back hoarding.

Dimitrov d. Chardy, 4/6 6/3 3/6 6/4 6/4

Even at this early stage of his career, Grigor Dimitrov’s more cosmopolitan fan base is similarly conditioned to highs and lows. When I arrived at his court, he had a break point on Chardy’s serve in the first set. Four minutes later the Bulgarian had lost his own serve, and, shortly after, the set. As I said, it was that kind of day. It thereafter developed into a pretty wrenching encounter, whose limits were defined by Dimitrov’s backhand, Chardy’s serve and both player’s insipid shakiness on break points. They moved to two sets apiece, and the heat was endless. Kohlschreiber finished off Monaco with a bagel – it was as brilliant as you might imagine – while Dimitrov limped home along a path littered with Chardy’s double-faults.

Over on Margaret Court Arena Stadium, Greg Jones was foundering badly as Dolgopolov galloped through the remaining few sets. The Australian flags went limp, though the groans of the punters were knowing, if not affectionate. Despite his obscurity, Greg Jones, by gallantly blowing a two set lead, was demonstrating his credentials as a native son. The Cultural Cringe dictates that we both expect and celebrate our countrymen falling short against the rest of the world. But in Rod Laver Arena and Garden Square the roar was immense as Tomic served out the match, having recovered from a two set deficit, taking Verdasco’s best blow and triumphing in a touch over four hours of real tennis. It turns out there’s another, rarer kind of Aussie, and we appreciate this kind even more.

As it happened, I did not look away as Tomic served out the match. I’m not superstitious, after all. But for all that I’m not nationalistic, either, I will admit that as Tomic’s final forehand landed and he hurled his racquet to the court, I was clapping and cheering as vigorously as the guy next to me, who wore a pair of green and gold spectacles, and had the Southern Cross tattooed on the side of his neck. Sometimes the moment gets you.

For those men currently battling the elements and, sporadically, each other in the Australian Open qualifying tournament, the news that two of their number have drawn Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal in the opening round of the main draw must inspire both consternation and anticipation. Other potential opponents include Steve Darcis and Olivier Rochus. With due acknowledgement that they have no choice in the matter, it remains a nice question who they would rather face. While either Belgian is a winnable proposition, they’d be forgoing a prime time match on centre court, facing an all-time great. On balance, I suppose they’ll take the fighting chance at a win. Copping a hiding they can bore their grandchildren with is one thing, but one has to earn a crust.

Assuming these theoretical qualifiers overcome Federer and Nadal – surely a safe assumption to make – and that this victory propels each to four further wins apiece, then they will collide in the semifinals. This is because, for the first time in almost seven years, Federer and Nadal have been drawn in the same half at a major. This stat is less astounding than it seems at first glance, since they spent about five years at Nos.1 and 2. Perhaps more interestingly, this marks the first time in seven majors that Federer and Novak Djokovic have been drawn in separate halves, a configuration whose relentless reoccurrence was coming to seem almost inevitable, and therefore nourishing for those convinced the whole thing is rigged. To what end I cannot say, since of all the ways one might pursue world domination, staging endless Federer-Nadal finals seems like a curious method, but each to their own. I have already heard it said that these shady powers-that-be doctored this draw specifically to throw everyone off the scent. (Those dastards.) If that was indeed the goal, then they’ll have to try harder. Conspiracy theorists are by nature hard to deflect, and even harder to reason with, since their cherished notions are too often arrived at unreasonably.

Anyway, a quick QA on the draw, because a QA is a clever way to gussy-up point-form, for when you’re too lazy to continue with actual paragraphs.

Q: Who has the most difficult draw?
A: Paolo Lorenzi, who will face Djokovic first up.

Q: Which of the top players has the most difficult draw?
A: Andy Murray

Q: Will there be a surprise semifinalist?
A: If there is, it will be a surprise. I won’t spoil it by telling you who it is.

Q: Does Andy Roddick have any chance of winning?
A: It’s hard to say a player has no chance of winning, except in Roddick’s case. I suppose nothing is impossible (and according to the miracle of advertising, impossible is nothing). After all, even Thomas Johansson won here. Roddick winning is rather less likely than that.

Q: So who will win?
A: It seems unlikely that you’re reading a site like this and haven’t made up your own mind. I’ll just say that any bet against Djokovic is a brave one.

Q: Which are the pick of the first round matches?
A: Tomic v Verdasco (very winnable for the Australian); Haase v Roddick; Troicki v Ferrero; Melzer v Karlovic; Wawrinka v Paire (winnable for the Frenchman); maybe Dimitrov v Chardy. The more able hardcourters seem to be scattered quite evenly through the draw (probably because it’s rigged). Assuming these guys survive their openers, expect things to really get going in the second and third rounds.

The full draw can be found here.

Australian Open Qualifying, Day Two

To live in Australia is to be never entirely free of sport, unless you are maniacally bent on avoiding it. This is especially true of Melbourne, which rightly prides itself on being the sporting capital of a sports-mad nation, and where regard for football transcends mere love, spiralling upwards and outwards into something closer to mass-psychosis. Furthermore, being an essentially insecure country, we are inclined to look outward, and maintain a more-than-casual appreciation of the sports prevailing in the mother countries. Nevertheless, it is in summer that the flame of interest flares blindingly, and even those un-Australians determined to eschew all sports can no longer shield their eyes from the blaze. Sport, suddenly, is ubiquitous.

Certainly it’s everywhere in our house. My son’s birthday is in early December – he has just turned three – and he already associates getting older with total sport saturation. He intercepts me as I come downstairs this morning, wielding his cricket bat and warning me to stay out of the lounge-room: ‘I’m Roger Federer, and I’m playing golf on my basketball court.’ He’s either a genius – of course he is – or he has anticipated the next craze to sweep the globe. He is surely right that Federer would be the ideal front-man to sell it. I promise to put it to Roger if I bump into him today at Melbourne Park.

As it happens, I don’t run into Federer, although I do come across Nikolay Davydenko, thrashing balls on a remote back-court under the baleful gaze of his brother, Eduardo. The overwhelming impression of Davydenko on television is that he is diminutive, but in person he’s not especially tiny (although his brother is). Eduardo also maintains a pretty terrible beard, though since that is all that protects us from his perpetual scowl, I suppose we should be grateful.  As ever with Davydenko, watching him hit from extreme close range is a transfigurative experience, especially on the practice court where he still strikes the ball the way he used to in competition. He remains categorically superior to all the qualifiers toiling away on the surrounding courts, and so it’s a sad thought that his current career trajectory might see him rank among them before long.

I glance around at a sudden commotion, whereupon I am frozen by an endless tan and miles of teeth at eye-level, followed by the realisation that Ana Ivanovic is as disturbingly flawless from two feet away as she is when viewed remotely. All eyes follow her, including those of the Davydenko brothers. They are the only ones who don’t look impressed, although I suppose being Russian millionaires they don’t find Slavic goddesses all that hard to come by. ‘One last point!’ instructs Davydenko to his hitting partner Blaz Kavcic. The Russian millionaire wins a fine final rally with a savage forehand pass.

Yesterday’s ferocious wind has largely calmed, although today’s cloud cover is more dismally comprehensive. There will be no storms, but at least the storms blew away quickly, even if they were replaced by new ones just as play was due to resume. Today’s clouds aren’t going anywhere, and the drizzle might turn out to be more frustrating as a consequence. Even before play was stopped, conditions were heavy. Now, with everyone milling about awkwardly beneath improvised cover, they’re a bummer.

Before play is stopped, Florent Serra and Robbi Ginepri make it through a whole set of their first round qualifying match, and an engaging set it is. It’s tough on the still-coming-back Ginepri to draw Serra first up, since they’re both frankly too good to be languishing outside the top hundred, and either man would fancy his chance against anyone else in the field. Both are aggressive, with Serra superior on serve and the American striking more clean winners. Serra, on the other hand, is forcing more errors. The standard is admirable in the conditions.

Serra is that specific, perpetually-rumpled incarnation of Frenchman, in appearance something of a sewer rat, and given to offhand shrugs and mordant muttering. Unusually among male pros, he will generally reuse the ball from a missed first serve for the second. At one point he frames a second serve onto his own service line, has the good grace to look embarrassed, but then demands that ball back for the next point. A sense of poetry dictates that he then blasts an ace with it; comedy requires another double-fault. Sadly, he does neither, and Ginepri takes the point. They gain the tiebreak, and suddenly the American inexplicably goes away.

Meanwhile Conor Niland and Stephane Bohli grind out about five games on serve – what little I see is not inspiring, though it seems character-building – while Thiemo de Bakker and Dustin Brown are locked in a titanic and enjoyable tussle nearby. The much-fancied Malek Jaziri is already down a set and a break, which is only slightly less noteworthy than his decision to kit out in an identical shade of orange to the officials. The drizzle intensifies, and the umpires suspend play with ragged cohesion. I huddle in the lee of a temporary stand with Carlos Bernardes, hoping it will blow over. It shapes to, but re-intensifies. The ball-kids receive a master class on the manifold intricacies of court-drying. I kid you not.

The concern is occasionally voiced that electronic review systems result in a deskilling of officials, that too great a reliance on machinery only dulls an umpire’s judgement, sapping his or her conviction. Days like today are a useful corrective to such a view. There is certainly no technology on offer in qualifying – Rainer Schuettler remonstrated about this at some length – and there are plenty of top shelf umpires on hand, honing their skills. The Serra-Ginepri match is governed by Enric Molina, while Gremelmayr’s snooze-fest is overseen by Pascal Maria. They look as sharp as they need to be, though Molina does miss one clanger. I confer briefly with Serra’s coach, who amazingly agrees that his player was cheated.

Play resumes eventually, but Ginepri’s focus proves unsustainable. Serra gains the break in mid-set, and rides it to the end. Niland, for whatever reason, is never quite the same player after the rain delay. Most of the games are still tight, but Bohli is now winning more of them.  De Bakker drops the second set, and he and the arch-Teutonic Brown fight out a tight, serve-dominated final set. The Dutchman wins it 8/6. Jaziri is gone.

As am I.

Australian Open Qualifying, Day One

Kooyong, Day One

Like the scarred face of a basalt cliff, tennis in Melbourne today was destined to be shaped indelibly by the vast frictions of air and water. The forecast was for strong winds and showers, and to be fair there were a number of showers laced amongst the rolling storms. In all, a typical midsummer day, assuming you live in England, where weather is a penance. Still, given that the storms were also relieved by brilliant sunshine, we could say that it was a typical Melbourne day, which as a locale sneers at the cliché of four seasons in one day. Why take an entire day when you can cram it all into recurring ten minute periods? Shine or rain, the constant was the inconstant wind, pulsing and raging as it pushed heroic landscapes of cloud across the sky.

When a large portion of your field of vision is in motion, the mind plays deft tricks in its endeavour to compensate. Anyone who has idled beside a vast river – such as the Amazon or the Meekong – can attest to this, to the way the river banks seem to flow in the opposite direction to the water. Glancing above the juvenile eucalypts dotting the outer grounds, the skyscrapers of downtown Melbourne are clearly visible against the flowing and tumbling sky. Immense banks of cloud are flowing too rapidly to the right. Perspective tilts worryingly, as the buildings crawl gradually left. Reason quickly intervenes, reminding me that buildings don’t generally move like that. So my mind offers another, more mundane explanation: I must be drunk (notwithstanding my New Year’s resolution to consume less whisky before 10am, which has been mostly successful). Or perhaps I have an inner ear infection. The experience has left me queasy. The only solution is to keep my eyes down

The ground crews, toiling with minimum-wage intensity, are displaying a similar inclination. So long as the rain stays its hand, the wind is actually helpful. In only a fraction of an hour – perhaps 5/6ths – the courts are useably dry. With their eyes thus affixed on the surface, the staff appear oblivious to the storm clouds closing, and thus to the Sisyphean shape their day is to take. By 11am play is set to commence. Then the rain returns, heavier than before, though it’s soon augmented by hail. The wind gains force and the thunder booms. This might conceivably be called a shower, in biblical times or the monsoon belt. A chain link barricade collapses beside me. We all jump, apart from the vast woman to my right, who wears her obesity heavily, in the American fashion. Her girth is somehow exceeded by her capacity to be personally affronted by the weather, and she curses with great fluency.

As the downpour abates I climb to the top of Court Three and survey the grounds. It occurs to me that these cobalt courts are displayed at their greatest advantage in Australian sunlight, when they mirror the endless sky. There are certainly surfaces that match the crackle of a sweeping downpour or an onerous sifting drizzle, but not these. At their best they evoke oases in the immense heat. Today they look just like disused swimming pools.

Kooyong is no great distance from Melbourne Park as the crow flies – as the storm cloud scuds – and therefore tastes the same weather. The difference is that today’s matches at Kooyong mean little, while for the Australian Open qualifiers they mean everything. Another hour and a half passes, replete with weather and sunlight and giant squeegees pushing moisture from the courts. Players actually appear on court, gazing amiably at each other but nervously at the sky, and the trees whipping fitfully. The rain, it turns out, had been protecting them from the startlingly changeable breeze. The matches at Kooyong are thus not only meaningless, but almost entirely useless, since it is debatable how valuable a practice match played in a gale can be. I recall Pete Sampras beating Scott Draper in similar conditions a decade ago, and remarking afterwards that he would never practice on days like that. Certainly Jo-Wilfried Tsonga looks willing to call it off today, notwithstanding that he won Doha in a pea soup fog just four days ago. He falls quickly to Jurgen Melzer. Both players look wryly amused.

Here at Melbourne Park, play is actually happening. However, I am quickly reminded that these guys aren’t qualifying because they’re the world’s best, and that a large part of what has hitherto curtailed their journey up the rankings is an inability to perform in adverse conditions. In other words, the weather clearly isn’t helping. The capacity to deal with it is broadly determined by experience. This is part of what makes Qualifying so intriguing, the way it is a snapshot of so many divergent career paths. There are the youths just passing through on their way up (although this year these are harder to discern, whereas last year both Grigor Dimitrov and Milos Raonic stood out). There are the veterans on their way down, and out. And there are the guys who seem to be here every year (where’s Alex Bogomolov?). The wherewithal to cope with the mounting pressure wrought by constant swirling tosses and shanked groundstrokes is proving decisive. Few of the youngsters can resist a tendency towards extroverted despondency. This is their big chance, and it wasn’t meant to be like this. I have yet to pass a court without someone gesturing histrionically, elaborate mimes and riffs on the single theme of wind.

Disconcerted, Amir Weintraub opts for a safe approach, seeking to limit the weather’s role by rolling his first serve in. He seems to be landing plenty, but his opponent tees off, and it’s a rout. The Israeli has climbed about a hundred places since last year, when he scraped into qualifying as an alternate. Sadly, the result this year is the same. I miss most of the second set bagel – I cannot say if there was a health issue – but see him leaving the court. He looks numb. No player has gone into greater detail on the trials of subsisting in the Challenger hinterlands, and every one of the miles Weintraub has pointlessly travelled to be here sits heavily. Perhaps he is hurt. Meanwhile, Ricardas Berankis moves through safely, courtesy of quick feet and compact strokes. A year ago he was the highest-ranked of the much-lauded new guard, but this time around he’s the only one who still has to qualify. Conditions or not, he is a class above his opposition. He plays safe – up and down, mostly – which is the way to play on a day like today. I won’t pretend it is exciting, though.

In general the veterans are more resigned to conditions. Why some of them are resigned to their fate is a decent question, though. Eleven years ago Arnaud Clement made the final at the Australian Open. He is now 34, and has lost in the first round of qualifying. Commentating in Doha last week, Robbie Koenig countered the constant calls for Davydenko to quit by pointing out the Russian earned over $600,000 last year, and asking what he might possibly do that was more worthy of his time. I suppose we can make a similar case for Clement, although admittedly on a more modest scale. In any case, he falls to Bjorn Phau, another veteran, who has made long career out of qualifying. Based on the set I watch, it is a phenomenally dull encounter, with both players under-powered and error-prone. I am surprised to note Clement has not entered the doubles, since this discipline has proved fundamental to his longevity.

Rainer Schuettler also reached the final here (in 2003), and at 35 is the oldest man in the draw. Like Peter Luczak still toiling away on Court Three, Schuettler maintains an evergreen demeanour, but two decades of water, air and sun has further hardened a face that was never soft. He is stern in seeing off Chris Guccione in an inevitable pair of tiebreaks. The standard here is higher, although it takes a seeming eternity to get going. They trade breaks in the second set, and we all gasp at the momentary thrill. Otherwise the serve dominates, largely owing the quality of the Australian’s serving and returning: enormous and execrable respectively. Nor should we overlook Guccione’s proven capacity to fold in the tiebreaks. Schuettler, as he has for well over a decade, stands indefatigable in the face of the elements, and makes enough of his chances when they finally arrive.