Keeping the eye on the ball – Part 5 of ∞

And you thought I’d have finally hit my Federer writer’s block. Nope! The guy just finds something new to do on a tennis court every single time, and I try to come up with new adjectives to describe it every single time. Call it my own way of getting over it.

The CBS coverage of the championship match showcased a clip of a Federer crosscourt forehand followed immediately by a wide backhand crosscourt (like the magic he performs in real time weren’t enough) and Mary Carrillo summed it up – “there’s his range of winners”. You could take that literally, cos I bet I’ve seen him hit the ball at every angle in between, and I’m talking degrees. There! That’s the best way to describe it – or at least it will have to be till I find a better way.

That said, I concede - I need to stop making predictions. Though I did get the 4 sets right – that’s a 1 in 3 shot! And the match was certainly tight between 5-0 Federer and the start of well, 5-0 Federer. It could have gone either way in the third set but for the fact that Roger’s been here 8 times before and gotten it right 7 times. And the fact that Andy’s been here 3 times before and gotten it right once. And that Fed’s been here 11 times before and gotten it right 10 times. And that A-Rod’s been here 11 times before and gotten it right once. Ok, you get it – pro level tennis is all about keeping your composure on the toughest stages in the tightest corners.

In the first set it certainly did look like Federer was going to run away with it. But then the tennis stars began to shine (pun intended) and Roddick decided to get back into it. The second set was fascinating -- Andy was better than I have ever seen him and Roger fell just short of his usual clinical perfection – which brought them to just about evenly matched. Fortunately for tennis fans, the magic lasted through most of the third set. The two back to back games in that very tight set, where each saved 4 breakpoints on his serve were inarguably the best part of the match – light caresses, gentle coaxing, hard-hitting strokes, explosive smashes - the ball saw it all, and at its expense, we were witness to the most beautiful tennis Ashe stadium had seen through the entire tournament -- 25 shot ralleys ending in elegantly placed finishes, incredible net exchanges culminating in perfectly timed winners, followed by the flourishes - Roddick screaming all the way to the stands and Federer doing the contained, calculated fist pump – I think it’s measured, just like every shot he creates!

In the end, the better man came out on top. Federer makes it look so easy we tend to think the competition isn’t the greatest. But the truth is that he has the amazing ability of making even good players look mediocre. Consider this: Andy Roddick is arguably playing the best tennis of his career; he won the US Open series, had been broken only five times in the entire championship before running into Roger, dismissed a former world number one of such versatility as Hewitt in straight sets and countered the elegant artisanship of the talented Russian, Youzhny with some phenomenal shot-making of his own. Federer broke Roddick three times in the first set, six times over-all and blocked Andy’s biggest weapon so decisively that Roddick, the distinguished ace-leader at this tournament with an impressive total of 102, was stifled to a meager 7, and what is more, Federer led him by 10. He doesn’t just snuff out his opponents’ strengths, he also manages to beat them at it, merely to make a point (literally)!

Of note is the observation that Andy has become less gracious and less generous with the compliments; there was more about him getting better and knowing where he was going than about Federer being the greatest ever in his acceptance speech and press conference after, which might be a good thing. It’s the Connors-esque “bad guy” intensity that could make the nicest guy in current men’s tennis give the world number one a run for his money. Countering composure with excesses of emotion has, after all, been the name of the game in the history of tennis rivalry.

Rog vs. A-Rod – The Grand Slam

[These two don't look like they can battle! A truly heart-warming relationship, both on and off court]

As Roger Federer continues to hold the crown at most tournaments and gets as far as the championship match for the ones that elude him, his challengers alter playing styles, seek different counsel, chew over the maestro’s game, scrutinize his strategy, up their strengths, probe for non-existent weaknesses and get ready to give it their best shot, year after year, major after major, game after game.

‘Who is it going to be this time?’ is usually the 64 thousand dollar question. This US Open, the hopefuls and the hopes were many and varied. Most tennis fans had penned down another Roger-Rafa final, and for good reason – the left arm wielding relentless youngster seems to be the only one with even a remote chance of putting Roger on the wrong foot. A host of other names hovered on people’s lips -- would Richard (baby Fed) Gasquet make this his breakthrough tournament and challenge the indomitable player many claim he emulates? If the Frenchman had garnered half the arsenal he boasted in the series preceding the slam, we could have hoped for some notes to complement Roger’s symphony. Would the delightfully charming Marcos, magical shot-maker and relentless go-getter, give us another stunning run at a major and test the world number one? If an unrelenting contraction and a rogue nation hadn’t gotten in his way, he might have had a shot. American fans were rooting for their number one player, whose incredible return game did seem to baffle a slightly faltering Federer in the quarters, but Blake clearly didn’t have enough to come out on top. Some wishful thinkers even had the temerity to hope that their ailing icon might repeat last year’s incredible run before retiring, but they had to see him go early.

Until a couple weeks ago, few would have bet on a stumbling Andy Roddick, albeit a resurgent one, to make it to championship Sunday and meet his nemesis for the third time in a grand slam final. Typically, such a meeting would not warrant a pre-match analysis, but Roddick has never looked better on a tennis court – rushing to the net whenever and wherever possible, throwing in more attitude on that already beautiful first serve, perfecting his ground strokes, baffling opponents with a Connors-esque down-the-line backhand, a forehand that seems more potent than ever and a slice backhand that as far as I can remember never belonged to him. Not to mention the fact that the usually irrational, ace-blasting Andy is actually thinking (we should have known that incredible wit could be put to good use on a tennis court!) Factor in all of that with the premise that the crowds will be on his side (despite New York’s adoration of the unflappable Swissman that makes it his business to walk away with the trophy every year) and like Johnny Mac says, Roddick has his swagger back. And boy, will he need it when he faces off against a man to whom he has lost 10 out of 11 times in his career!

My prediction: Federer wins in 4 tight sets. Okay, I am going to go on a limb here and suggest a score:

Roger Federer 6 7 6 6
Andy Roddick 4 6 7 3

In other US Open notes, a disappointing loss for Justine Henin-Hardenne today. But I guess if you are five foot five and playing a power player that’s six foot three, you have to be on top of your game, and at worst, get most of your first serves in. With due credit to the 19-year old, Sharapova appears to be using that thing called judgment on court (at least she didn’t keep tossing the ball right back to Justine as she did in her four previous losses!) Hope she continues on this line of thought, because as often happens in women’s tennis, those that are blessed with the brawn often seem to forget they have a brain.

Congratulations to the Belgian for the pretty impressive feat of reaching all major finals this year; she is clearly the Roger Federer of the women’s draw. And what could better say that than the fact that for only the first time in tennis history have a man and woman made it to all four major finals in a single calendar year?

Pete’s last laugh

If I were Pete Sampras today I’d break into that endearing half smile I so often did at the end of a phenomenal forehand winner, sometimes unbelievable even to me. If I were Pete Sampras today I’d switch off the CBS telecast, put my arms behind my head, shut my eyes and sigh. If I were Pete Sampras today I’d try to get the full impact of the magnitude of what I have accomplished in my more than illustrious career.

Not that there was ever any question, not that there was ever any contest, not that there was ever any doubt, but today, he has shut up his worst critics for the last time. Today, after all these years people are left with no excuses: the doubts that wouldn’t go away after he won seven Wimbledon titles in eight straight years, the questions that were still prevalent, when he captured his record 14th grand slam after a two-year hiatus, the skepticism that was not erased because he didn’t smile often enough.

He took an injection before almost every match he played during the big W in 2000 and went on to win it. Most people didn’t know because he doesn’t prick and tell. He played his entire career with an inherited blood disorder, but he doesn’t talk about it because it has nothing to do with his tennis. He leaves it to mortal beings to resort to such excuses as health and age and needles.

Not to take anything away from Agassi, he’s had a great career, inspired many and given something to the sport of tennis. But not everyone can be an immortal, not everyone can rise to the occasion and dictate destiny in the way only true genius can. Not everyone can decide on a storybook ending and actually manage to write it.

Just to lay it out for the Agassi-worshipping section of the world, let’s review their final major tournaments. I’m not really trying to rub salt on the wound here, but sometimes you have to break it down for Agassi fans because that sort of unconditional devotion - no questions asked, no answers expected – is often irrational. I have little choice but to assume that when you see endless re-runs and re-plays and highlights of Agassi’s meager wins, when you see people stand in silent ovation for a barely convincing forehand winner (or an opponent’s unforced error) you begin to believe he has done more than he has.

[I sure hope there are no more rain delays through the remainder of the Open cos I couldn’t stand another Agassi-All-day marathon. If anyone’s noticing anything other than his eyes, his playing style is far from entertaining the first time around!]

Anyway, here goes:

Pete Sampras at US Open ’02
1st round: beats Albert Portas 6-1, 6-4, 6-4
2nd round: beats No. 85 Kristian Pless 6-3, 7-5, 6-4
3rd round: beats No. 33 Greg Rusedski 7-6 4-6 7-6 3-6 6-4
4th round: beats No. 3 Tommy Haas 7-5 6-4 6-7 7-5
Quarter Final: beats No. 11 Andy Roddick 6-3, 6-2, 6-4
Semi final: beats No. 24 Sjeng Schalken 7-6, 7-6, 6-2
Final: beats No. 6 Andre Agassi 6-3, 6-4, 5-7, 6-4
Wins championship

Andre Agassi at US Open '06
1st round: beats No. 75 Andrei Pavel 6-7, 7-6, 7-6, 6-2
2nd round: beats No. 8 Marcos Baghdatis 6-4, 6-4, 3-6, 5-7, 7-5
3rd round: loses to Qualifier Benjamin Becker 5-7, 7-6, 4-6, 5-7

Pete is too noble, too much of a gentleman, too much of a sportsman to do it himself, so let a mortal being do it on his behalf:

Hahahahahahahahahahahhaaaaaaaah

People to watch at The Open

Rog Vs. Rafa - The Street Slam

I know, I know, I don't offer news on this blog. I have stuck quite religiously to my goal of rendering random ramblings that don't benefit humankind in any possible way. But this is just too big!

Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal are going to battle it out on the streets of the greatest city in the world! The exhibition match is scheduled for 11 am on August 24th in front of Golfsmith Golf & Tennis at 54th and Lexington in New York City.



That said, I have two quibbles (do I ever!): one, I don't like this marriage of s(p)orts -- golf is a good walk spoilt and tennis is a sport that requires mental, physical and emotional acumen; you don't just team them up cos they don't have teams! Two, Roger Federer owns tennis, not just grass. Please note that he has split his grass and hard court majors right down the middle. Rafael Nadal can own all the clay he wants.

I am wondering if this street duel is worth a trip. I missed out on USO Finals tickets and it would be quite unusual for me to not be at Flushing for the Open. The crowds are a definite turn-off (like NYC is not crowded enough already), but the thought of possibly catching sight of Federer from just a few hundred yards away (even if those yards are filled with a zillion mortal beings I don't care for) is tempting. Also, watching Nadal's less than stellar performance on hard courts, it doesn't look like the two are going to repeat a championship meeting at Arthur Ashe Stadium. So, might as well catch them in Midtown Manhattan...

The other half we’ve been missing

Ever since Roger Federer stepped on a tennis court, the other half has suffered from low self-esteem -- the other half of the draw, the other half of the tour, but most importantly, the other half of the court, the one Federer doesn’t grace with his ever-so-smooth craftsmanship and unflappable on-court demeanor.

Sure, a lot of players have threatened Federer, quite a few of them have come close to beating him and some have even got the better of him, but unfortunately for them, Roger is not just unbeatable on the scoreboard, but also in how he gets there. No player (inclusive of bygone wonders like Sampras) could possibly match his beautiful playing style – that feeling of effortlessness Federer renders to shots we never dreamed possible.

But yesterday, 20-year-old Richard Gasquet proved that the French are not just a beautiful people, but play a beautiful sport as well (he had some help from Mauresmo before him).

Taking a set off Roger Federer in a Masters series championship is tough enough, but matching him shot for shot, combating him point for point, in an uncannily complementary style, with an eerily similar quality and an equally placid demeanor is a whole different ballgame.

And that’s what it was yesterday – a ballgame different from any we have seen in the past couple years of Federer domination. The Swissman did win the Roger’s Cup, quite fittingly, but the 20-year old who’s often called “baby Fed” for good reason came closer than anyone ever has to reflecting Federer’s artistry on the usually unfortunate half of the court.

If Fed’s shot-making choices often seem as effortless as picking a flavor of candy (let me try the drop shot today; now, how about the swing volley?), the 20-year-old decided that two could play this game. It was all there – backhand drop volleys, passing shots around the net-post, perfectly timed overhead lobs, you name it. Just like Roger seems to read the ball seconds before it even touches the opponent’s racket, the Frenchman showed his finesse at anticipating shots upstairs before they played out on court. And if the Swiss phenomenon rarely has a hair out of place while performing his on-court magic, the youngster maintained an admirable icy calm demeanor – obviously a lesson well learnt from his racket-throwing racket a couple years ago. But we all do remember that even Federer was more than a tad temperamental as a teenage sensation, don’t we? If he’s following in Rog’s footsteps, he’s sure as hell not taking any detours. His on-court style might be all-out aggression, off-court, he’s not taking any chances. And who could be a safer bet than the man everyone’s calling possibly the greatest ever?

Yesterday, the world number one surpassed the young gun by concocting winners most people would deem impossible. But then Federer has had a five-year head start. Gasquet seems to have brought all the right goods to the other side of the court and that’s as good a start as any...

Peering out of my tennis bubble...

I decided to peer out of the tennis bubble I seem to be living in these days just long enough to scribble my thoughts on a few goings-on in the world. For god knows the world needs a sound critic like me.



Oh for the love of God, snippet edition

Someone in the Hardball audience asked sometime back – Do you think the middle-east crisis can ever be solved? Such naiveté! People seem to think that if Israel and Lebanon sit down to a perfectly good breakfast and talk, the chaos will magically disappear. Now, there’s a few problems with that theory – one, there is no way to have perfectly good breakfast without pork, two, religion knows no reason or logic and three, religion is practically deaf – by that I mean, the only sounds religious people hear are the voices in their head; earthly tones don’t match that wavelength (pun unintended, contempt very intended).

Tom Friedman hit the nail on the head (as he so often does) on Meet the Press a couple weeks ago -- ‘Why don’t Indian Muslims [you know] get their buzz this way? Could it be because the richest man in India is a Muslim software entrepreneur? Could it be because the president of India is a Muslim? Could it be because there’s an Indian Muslim woman on the Indian Supreme Court? Could it be because the leading female movie star in India is a Muslim woman? You know, when people get their dignity from building things rather than confronting other people, it’s amazing what politics flows from that’. (Oh, I love Tom Friedman. I fault my home country for a lot of things; being religiously fanatical isn’t one of them).

Following Friedman’s line of thought, if people got their ‘sense of fulfillment’ from a constructive day job, would they spend so much time fighting over who’s god is better? An idle mind is a god’s workshop.

Just how stupid is Ann Coulter?

When the conservative diva of the country was throwing abuses at 9-11 widows a month ago, I was too busy watching a ball not in Coulter’s court, but a few weeks ago I happened to catch her venom on Hardball [another reason to hate large gaps in the tennis season – you’re not quite tuned to take on the big, bad world]. Her most recent label for liberals is ‘godless’, which, surprise, surprise, is also the name of her latest book. She makes the case that liberals want to suck brains out of embryos, which in her opinion, qualify as human beings. While I have no doubt that Coulter knows something about sucking brains, I don’t think she quite has the authority to decide what constitutes a human being. What makes this even more ridiculous is that while she doesn’t want to hurt a tiny cell that is barely an entity, she is all for whole human beings wasting away from debilitating disease. Just how godful is she?

Kudos to a sharp questioner in the audience whom Coulter squashed with a conceited “smarty pants”. Calling names seems to be her only area of expertise. No wonder she’s made a living out of the L-word.

Some things never change

The new LG commercial (and fridge) showcases a slick looking LCD screen on the door. The smart people at ‘Life’s good’ technology decided to make it better by combining man’s two greatest obsessions – they put a TV on a fridge. Now, it was alright when writers replaced overflowing pages of illegible hand with the sleek and shiny laptop, when office-goers traded the ageing leather of an overstuffed organizer for the fancy blackberry or even when graphite encroached upon wood in tennis. Let me tell you why this is a bad idea -- imagine a celluloid screen in your favorite kitchen corner that projects family pictures with power-point acumen, flashes thunderstorm warnings at whim and taunts you with to-do and shopping lists. The reason I have a fridge is cos I can store food in it and the reason I have stuff flailing all over it is cos I can; I don’t need it to tell me what emotion I am feeling today and you think someone actually reads the dog-eared clip from a bygone era? Besides, I have a perfectly good celluloid screen in the living room that I sit glued to about 4 hours a day, thank you very much.

The ad ends with a kid’s coloring page that continues to dominate the door. Some things never change. Kudos, LG you got that right. Now you might as well pry out your smug little screen and put in a more fridge-friendly piece of equipment – a cork board perhaps? I sure could do without antimagnetic magnets...

Is your world faceless?

As happens every once a while, the New York Times corroborates my views about a year after I air them (they should just give me a job and save themselves further embarrassment).

A couple years ago at a Matrix theme party (aka dressed in black) my friends were appalled at my inability to distinguish between two supposedly distinct characters that appear in the series. On the face of it, it doesn’t seem ridiculous, but couple it with the fact that I call myself a die-hard Matrix enthusiast, have watched the original movie (like any bonafide Matrix-phile, I abhor the sequels vehemently) a few dozen times and could quite rightly name the many Renaissance philosophers that set the stage for the Nebuchadnezzar. So, in the battle of names vs. faces, for me, the name inevitably wins. Apparently, I am not alone -- there is a whole group of people in the world that can be characterized as “facially blind” (not surprisingly, the same people that cannot identify a face also tend to get lost on the street – it’s all about contours, people!)

Stopping just short of excruciating biological detail, this function comes from a region of the brain called the fusiform gyrus which sparks in normal human beings but remains surprisingly inactive in the visage-blind. Simply put, the latter make up for this deficit by kicking another portion of the brain into overdrive – one that records characteristics consciously -- ‘mild goatee, large nose, striped shirt blah blah’ – as opposed to those that intuitively remember.

So, if I spend my TV watching hours sticking to sitcoms with an upper limit of six recurring characters or talk-shows where names come stapled to the bottom of every face, there’s a freaking good reason for that. Law and Order with its multitude of faces, places and scenarios throws my fusiform gyrus completely out of whack.... I also have to note that I’m not just literally face-blind. Appearances rarely, if ever, matter to me (and that’s saying a lot, cos just about everything matters to me!) Maybe I don’t see because I don’t care or I don’t care because I don’t see?
I speak for my kind, of course.

Finally, the Pete you’ve always wanted...

In his return to tennis, Sampras puts the focus on grinning, writes Karen Crouse of the New York Times. And the world sighs in relief.

If people didn’t like Pete Sampras before, they should certainly do now – cos finally, he’s doing the two things he failed to do during his glorious ATP career – smile, and lose.

I watched Sampras lose two matches at the WTT Tournament on TV last weekend and decided to ignore the ticket I had safely tucked in my cabinet a month ago, my maiden opportunity to see the tennis sensation on the other side of a celluloid screen forgotten without much ado. If my first flesh and blood sighting of Pete has got to be one where his backhand is rusty, his frame stiff and his second serve not nearly as good as everyone’s first, I decided to forgo it and stick with the memories.

Meanwhile, Pete seems to have learned something from his more popular and less talented counterparts – that an endearing shake of the head and an amused smile go a long way when you miss that easy volley. Unfortunately, I don’t watch Pete Sampras for amusement or endearment – that’s what Hugh Grant is for, or Andy Roddick, for that matter.

But while Pete’s return to tennis has been a tad disappointing for me (I’m being unrealistic of course – this is his first real tournament after four years of retirement, but hell, nothing’s realistic about Pete), I’m guessing it should be vindicating for the Pete-bashing section of the world.

They must be stopping short, taking notice, and saying – aaahh, a Sampras that flexes his facial muscles, a Sampras that loses – finally, a Sampras we can all get on board with...

So, good samaritan that I am, I think they should savor it while it lasts, cos knowing Pete, his losing streak does not have long to run...Once the warm-up’s done, he’ll be too busy making his way to silver to find the time to grin.

Cos there are two kinds of tennis players in this world – those that grin and those that win.

Keeping the eye on the ball – Part 4 of ∞

What an unbelievable match – and so fitting for a Wimbledon championship.

Many, many things to savor – first, with due credit to Rafa, he wasn’t supposed to be in the picture, but he doggedly and determinedly made his way to championship Sunday, only to receive a bagel, so convincingly dispatched by Federer playing the flawless, unanswerable tennis only he can.

And then, quite unexpectedly, after Roger began cruising along, Nadal turned it around in the way only he can – the 7-6, 6-7 to follow speaks volumes – and finally, Federer, to prove that he is still king as long as the grass is green, won the deciding set so decisively – not so much because of Rafa’s shortcomings, as for the fact that he is unbeatable – at his game, in temperament, in style.



[Ok, a rare picture on my verbose weblog! But this is rare, especially the way Rog initiated this -- as if to say, 'Ok, now that I can beat you, you're welcome to my club'! (Photo courtesy of usta.com)]

Call me crazy but I think people don’t give Roger enough credit. Everybody keeps wondering at Nadal’s fast learning curve, but what about Fed’s? He got to the French Open semi-final and followed it up with a trip to the final just a couple years after getting into the majors ballgame while ruling on grass, and losing only to the eventual champion on both occasions. The other thing is his excellent return game, which loses its thunder to his phenomenal serve and all-court aggression. He dismisses big servers like Ancic and Roddick with little effort and much as Rafa is not a great server by any stretch of the imagination, he broke him 6 times in this match, though Nadal had lost serve just twice so far in the entire championship.

Now for some credits to Rafael --- Rafa is more aggressive than most baseliners and more adaptable than most clay-courters. He hardly lets a point go by, and much as his game lacks finesse, his relentlessness is laudable. His serve has become a very reliable shot and he’s even comfortable attacking at the net. And the fact that Wimbledon has lost some of its speed and the other slams have even less pace wont hurt. Not to mention his mettle - he certainly looked like he might come back in the third and fourth sets today, but we didn’t see that kind of grit from Roger after he lost the second set at the French last month. Granted, Fed had more at stake at the one major that has eluded him against the one man that gets the better of him, than Rafa has at Roger’s undeniable house. And we cannot ignore the fact that the Swiss sensation has set his own bar so high. Hell, we are flabbergasted if a near impossible crosscourt from Rog so much as nicks the net, instead of sailing over it.

Nevertheless, unconditional tennis greats are supposed to get out of those situations and come out on top. And I have no doubt in my mind that Roger will. Roger has been on the wrong side of a lopsided head-to-head one too many times – against Henman, Hewitt and Nalbandian to mention just a few. And he turned them all around, with unquestionable finality. The difference with Nadal is probably that he’s going to try just as hard to get better – and isn’t that what tennis fans want – the two top players, testing each other, facing challenges, getting better, bringing out the best? If all goes well, September should be delicious.

The most endearing scene (in picture above) was of Roger giving Rafael a low five as they passed each other in their lap around the court, Rog with his champion’s trophy and Rafa with his runner’s-up plate - a sure sign of mutual respect, Nadal’s open awe of Federer, though slightly incomprehensible considering his record against him, and Roger’s mixed feelings, that started off with dubious appraisal, soon turned to reluctant acceptance and now, a willing welcome of a worthy rival. He’s been up there all alone, too long. This was only reinforced by the two Tonies, Roach and Nadal shaking hands on the promise of their proteges’ beautiful rivalry, who might, at some point in the near future exchange silverware both at Rolland Garros and at the big W.

And Federer doesn't just get better at his tennis with time. Somewhere between losing his very eloquent so-called rival and becoming the unofficial ambassador of the sport, Roger’s acquired a sense of humor! On a suggestion that he was probably not enjoying this rivalry as much as the rest of the world, he smiled, "Now I like it again." I’m a sucker for arrogance but some self-deprecatory acknowledgement of a deserving opponent is always endearing. Another point to be noted – there was no “you know” in Fed’s acceptance speech!!! How great is that!!!!

Talking of improvement, it sure would be delightful to see development in reverse for a change – a clay-courter trying to move fast and forward, instead of the other way around. And talking of fast, Nadal’s got to learn to get his serve going – he drives me nuts every time he contemplates over the ball. If this guy becomes a consistent star at the majors, that’s about 5500 hours of my life (yeah, I did the math).

And again, while I love to hear Johnny Mac talk, I’m sure glad Roger doesn’t have to. Will he get over his fascination for the net, already? We all know Federer is a great serve-volleyer, when he wants to be, want being the operative word. He knows enough to know what works for him. McEnroe almost willed him to volley a couple times in the third set and Rog promptly lost the subsequent points, giving due credit to Rafa’s ability to pass. While Federer is predominantly an attacker, going after every opportunity at a winner, his style looks even more beautiful when he uses the entire court for his attack. Pete won at the net, Lendl won from the baseline, Fed is gifted with the unique ability of unfurling winners from every corner of the court using every shot imaginable. That’s what makes his playing style look so effortless – he rarely has to scramble to get to a winning position. And he keeps you riveted between winners.


If you didn’t look at the scoreboard, you’d think Rafa was winning – pumping his fists, yelling approval, kicking and screaming, likening his racket to a vicious dagger - a dagger that unfortunately for him, is less lethal than Roger’s seemingly innocuous Wilson.

Roger Federer sure wins championships, but while he's at it – he’s also strumming a quiet melody. Perk up your ears – in the deafening silence, you might actually hear it.

What a day for Women’s tennis...

First, Justine Henin-Hardenne and now Amelie Mauresmo are double-handedly responsible for my decision to start focusing a little more on the women, at least since the Seles-Graf crowd left the stage.

Can’t blame me for giving the women little clout. You only get so much time in a day and you have to get your facts right for the next day’s match – styles, match-ups, surfaces, odds, head-to-heads, quotes, records, numbers and what have you. They’d still be on in the background though, cos the sound of a racket hitting a ball is always pleasing to the ear - especially when it’s not accompanied by Enberg’s “Oh My” or Sharapova’s blood-curdling scream. After all, I could always lift my head to look up when the commentator ooh-ed and aah-ed about something and believe me, for a long time, there wasn’t much lifting to do.

And then came Justine, armed with her -- well – arm, that refuses to let anything go by – angles, balls, nerves. It was time to set the computer down and give the lone woman a 100% -- especially when the diminutive fighter was outwitting her giants of opponents. I hate to make this a size issue, but hell, sport is a size issue. We saw it today, when li’l Justine would go after every shot, trying to be even more aggressive than the natural serve-volleyer at the net and miss a perfectly caressed volley cos she couldn’t reach it at the right moment. And we know that the nerves factor is almost non-existent for her. The woman’s made of steel. She sometimes seems like Sampras’ mettle and Federer’s game rolled into one tiny person – and believe me, coming from me, that is golden.

As for Amelie Mauresmo – she may be a late bloomer, but boy, have I waited for her to bloom. I remember loving her serve-volley style, and wondering why she couldn’t do more with it. Having schooled my tennis-watching prowess under the greatest serve-volleyer that ever lived (boy, must Pete be glad that Roger doesn’t volley enough!), and continuing to judge the sport by grass-court acumen, I could want nothing more than to have a bonafide woman serve-volleyer win at the big W.

If the tennis gods had watched her play (and for once, I don’t mean Fed here), they would have bestowed upon her a talisman to win on the fast-eroding grass. Unfortunately, she spent a decade waiting for nerves. And today, finally she found them.

It's pleasurable enough for tennis fans to watch a well-fought championship match, where each contender is equally capable of walking away with the trophy, but with so much history between both players and the promise of it being followed by a delightful men's final (one that has been denied us the past three years), makes it even more rewarding.

Mauresmo unequivocally proved that there is nothing to beat serve-volleying on grass, to the eyes, the ears, the Venus Rosewater Dish and the sport of tennis.

Yo men, are you listening?

More Odds – yeah, I’m addicted

Don’t they say that the more you lose at a casino, the more you keep going back. This is akin to that – only I’m not putting my money on the line here, just pride.

But in my defense, I might have been way off in the men’s predictions (except Roger Federer who still stands at a solid 99:100) but I was pretty darn close with the womens’. So, Amelie Mauresmo and Justine Henin-Hardenne are going into the final!!! (Only Venus got in the way of my odds, but then she’s so unpredictable she doesn’t count).

Women's Final:

Amelie Mauresmo 2:9

She’s got the game to win on grass – both brain and brawn, and an oh-so-wonderful style. Now if only she went and bought herself some mental strength. A tight 3 sets.

Justine Henin-Hardenne 8:10

Well, unless a virus or advil gets in her way (that's what the -2 is for)... This woman’s on a roll. 2-3 sets.

Ok, I’m throwing caution to the wind and doing the men’s predictions as well.

Men's Semi-Finals:

Rafael Nadal vs. Marcos Baghdatis

Nadal 1:4

If Nadal continues his grinding relentlessness (which he will) and if Marcos loses interest fleetingly (which he might), Nadal might jump ahead and then there’ll be no stopping him. 4 sets.

Baghdatis 1:3

Baghdatis has often showed us (including yesterday) that he can topple a relentless, feisty go-getter and if he wins this one, his amazingly well-placed passing shots and oh-so-delightful drops will have something to do with it. This guy plays dangerous, he plays like he has nothing to lose and everything to win and he’s been on top gear through these championships. If he finds his form early, he’ll have answers to all of Rafa’s --- uhmmm, what does he do again -- scrambling. 4 sets, possibly a tiebreak, which the Cypriot will win closely.

Roger Federer vs. ‘whatever-his-name-is’ Bjorkman

Bjorkman 100:1

If Roger doesn’t show up. 0 sets

Federer 100:100

Now, that doesn’t need explaining, does it? 3 sets, possibly a bagel.

I have some interest in watching Rog and Baghs in the final, cos Marcos comes closest to matching Fed’s shot making prowess. Uhmm, a repeat of the Oz Open Final in the men’s draw as well wouldn’t hurt.

Temporal taunts

‘Where are you, Pete Sampras?’ cried out Mary Carrillo, as Roger Federer stared down at the fourth likely ‘vanquisher’ on his road to the championships, after steamrolling through the first couple sets and most of the third, Wednesday afternoon. The score: 6-4, 6-4, 5-4, 40-0 triple matchpoint.

If that was the fate of the towering, big-serving Croat, cut from the same block as his countryman Goran, his disposal of the preceding potential ousters in an apparent tough draw was even more convincing.

The Swissman put away the up-and-coming, talented young gun, Richard Gasquet, the grass-bred, serve-volleying veteran, Tim Henman and one of the biggest hitters on the tour, Tomas Berdych, without conceding a set and having been out on court for a shorter period of time than anyone else. What is more, he was broken only for the second time in this championship so far by the unrelenting Croat – unfortunately too little too late for Ancic, who came into the quarter finals with the prestigious label of ‘the last man to beat Roger on grass’ – a feat for which you’d have to go back four years. Today, however, the court unequivocally belonged to Federer. At one point, Mario actually stopped to applaud a beautiful backhand crosscourt from his opponent. I sometimes wonder how players keep their focus when playing Roger. The only apt thing to do is to stand aside and watch the maestro at his art. Nobody else has any business on a tennis court when the Swissman is at his best. Except, perhaps a certain Pete Sampras who knows something about hitting a ball with a tennis racket.

Little wonder that Carrillo’s statement was the third mention of the 14-time grand slam champion through the duration of the match, John McEnroe and Ted Robinson echoing her yearning for the great man’s presence as well. If Roger Federer’s amazingly shot-enriched and smoothly artistic brand of tennis is pleasing to the eye, the one thing that could make it better would be an equally beautiful artist on the other side of the court, countering the Swissman's flair with the one thing Federer doesn’t do enough on a grass court – serve and volley. And who better to take that spot on the other side of the net – a little too close to it, perhaps – than the sportsman who ruled tennis’ biggest stage, when Federer was only dreaming of it?

We often look to sport to celebrate the victories we cannot ourselves achieve, to be one with the kind of infallibility we could not otherwise experience and to savor the taste of the unstoppable adrenalin rush that amateur battles rarely provide. And thank God there are these paranormal beings that fill those lofty shoes and furnish us with that kind of magic time after time, year after year, undaunted, relentless and almost always victorious in their pursuits.

If Sampras and Federer had indeed met in the same era, it could quite possibly have been the most amazing saga in tennis history.

But maybe destiny punctuates each period with such finality so we could write the stories ourselves. So we could decide if Sampras’ mental toughness would overcome Federer’s exotic shot making. So we could wonder if Roger’s excellent returns would surmount the indomitable Pete forearm. Maybe she stopped short after rendering us these sublime personalities, so lesser mortals could feud over their heroes and partake in true tennis divinity.

But at times like this, when the aftertaste of a Federer classic still lingers in my mouth and the many Sampras memories come flooding back between my ears, I can’t help(lessly) but wonder why time would taunt us so....

A little Rafa 'round the edges

What is it about Nadal that sets off such ambitious expectations from the rest of humankind? He beats Roger in the least important of majors and has people talking about a rivalry. He puts away an ageing and injury-plagued Agassi on the brink of retirement and sets off a story about the “passing of the baton”.

Are tennis fans merely hungry for a good contest or do human beings revel in the success story of a relentless youngster from a small island-town, who plays with little regard for established norms of the sport? Or are they thirsting to see the toppling of possibly the game’s greatest ever?

I’ve made no secret of the fact that I dislike Nadal, mainly because his game is not unlike the proverbial monkey that would end up with the collected works of William Shakespeare by randomly hitting keys on a typewriter keyboard for an infinite period of time. Similarly, while Rafa might doggedly go after every ball and end up with a chance winner every so often, his game-plan is non-existent, his finesse is wanting and his style is little more than a grinding relentlessness. Such lack of acumen defies appreciation at any time, but seems especially inadequate in the era of Federeresque artisanship.

But since I often call myself an objective Federer fan (which could just as easily mean that I have one objective – seeing Roger lift the trophy at every major), I decided to give Rafael Nadal his due.

Let’s face it, I didn’t in my wildest dreams, think that Rafael would get to the round of 16 at a Wimbledon championship, ever, and here he is, already. He must be doing something right. (Actually he doesn’t do it right, he just does it, and therein lies my problem).

I’ve been watching him play the last couple of matches, and here’s a few good things I have to say about him: his movement on court is phenomenal, and he doesn't slide to get around. There is no questioning Rafa’s fitness of course, so once he gets there, he will hit the ball - hard - and power never hurt anyone on a grass court (except the occasional unfortunate ball-boy). His serve has improved admirably so I can’t pick on him for that anymore. Needless to say, his reputation is helping him de-settle players – who wouldn’t worry about the number two player in the world “that can beat Federer”?

And what is more -- considering Center Court is a nascent green at the net and a solid brown at the baseline (it plays a lot like clay; what did you think was beneath the magic grass anyway?), I have to give Nadal his chances should he face Federer in the finals. Not to ignore the fact that Rafa is in Rog’s head more than on the other side of the net.

Do I want him to be Roger’s big rival (he’s not there yet)? Ideally, I’d like a player that’s a little less rough around the edges, but Rafa’s all we have. Moreover, who better to show off the Swissman’s flawless artistry than a grinding, grunting, scrambling Nadal? After all, individual sport is all about contrasts. Besides, the emergence of Nadal along with Federer’s continued domination would leave no questions about the Federer game, which only seems to leave us mortals more bewildered with time. “What was that – a squash shot?” fumbled Brad Gilbert a couple days ago, “A baseline half-volley?” And I can safely say that it wasn’t so much because of Gilbert’s lack of eloquence, as Roger’s innumerable angles of contact with a tennis ball.

So, Agassi is handing his baton to Nadal? By all means, Andre, hand it over. Because Roger is still holding his from the most indomitable player in recent memory. Your wand may give you that edge on dirt, this wand works magic everywhere else that matters, including the hallowed grounds of a place called Wimbledon. Rafa could stand around the edges all he wants. The center belongs to the World number one.

Now, to the rest of the Championships:

The women’s draw is looking pretty good. The top four seeds are in and I’m rooting for a repeat of the Australian Open final – not entirely of course, cos I want Amelie and Justine to actually play this time. A beautiful serve-volleyer vs. a player that can do anything possible with a tennis racket – that could likely be the women’s equivalent of a Sampras-Federer exhibition on grass. I’m forced to resort to such a gross analogy, considering the men’s draw has nothing to write home about.

It won't stop me writing though -- whoever thought Bjorkman or Stepanek would meet Federer in the semi-finals (even my way off course predictions steered clear of them!)? And then there’s Hewitt, predictably looking at another straight-sets defeat at the hands of the maestro, unless Baghdatis pulls off his second miraculous journey of the year, which is an outcome I’d look forward to. The other possibility, of course, which I am trying hard not to think of and understandably have mixed feelings about, would be a Federer-Nadal final, which, while delicious for the sport of tennis, would send my heart cart-wheeling every few minutes. But then what is sport without a few cartwheels? Vamos Rafa, bring it on. Our man can take you.

Big W Part III – Pleasures and Peeves

What not to like at the rest of the championships:

The remaining draw
Something weird happened in that hat - that’s for sure. First, Federer gets a tough draw which is always good, and what is more, the other bracket harbors such names as Nadal, Agassi, Hewitt, Roddick, Ljubicic and Safin. So, just when you’re beginning to anticipate a delicious final, you realize that only two of those top contenders are left standing. Straight-sets demolition? I think so!
End of the Rod?
However little Roddick may have brought to the sport of tennis (amazing first serve excepted), you gotta admit he’s one of the most endearing players on the tour – the quick wit, that easy compliment, the self-deprecatory humor, stopping to applaud an artful shot on the court, that shrug of resignation to Federer domination and over-ruling line judges in opponents’ favors. But it looks like we’re not going to have him around as much. Even his serve failed him today. The good news, however, is that his wit didn’t in the press conference after. So, whatever happens in between, Andy, we’ll see you in the ESPN box a decade from now!
More of Rafa
I was almost certain that we won’t have to see more than a week of Nadal, but Andre didn’t do his job and here we are. As much as Federer is making the dirt watchable (employing as he is, his amazing array of shots while rushing to the net whenever possible), Nadal is making the so far unadulterated game of grass court tennis unwatchable. His only plan seems to be to get to the ball and hit it, hard – no strategy, no artistry, not to mention, no sense of time.

There’s still a lot left to like - it’s tennis, after all:
Marathon Monday
What better way to spend the July fourth weekend than to sit glued to the television on a day featuring all the men and women in the draw? Among others, Federer will take on the Czech youngster who also happens to sport an ominous forehand and all-court game; Berdych can take pleasure in the fact that he beat Roger at the Olympics and gave him a hard time at the warm-up in Halle. It’s looking like too much of a good thing though, so don’t be surprised at a bunch of straight set demolitions.
Andy Murray – could he be the one?
Now that the English have lost at the World Cup and Henman is unambiguously out (yeah, they have to actually witness it to believe it, even if all of history and common sense dictate otherwise; relentless people, the Brits), the task of keeping the English sport above water falls to a 19-year old Scot. And if his win against Andy Roddick is anything to go by, he seems like a natural on grass (and he doesn’t moo!). He hits amazingly well on the run and his passing shots almost have a Federer-esque quality (and I use that adjective sparingly).
Andremania I can do without
Don’t get me wrong – for once, I was actualy rooting for Agassi – so he could get rid of Nadal before he had a chance to get into Roger’s head, and so he’d get rid of Nadal, period. Also, felt a tad compassionate for him considering his retirement and all – since that’s all I heard the entire first week. I get it. Everyone loves Andre and everyone is sad that he’s leaving. But does that mean you show every wheezing breath he takes? The ESPN2 American bias is bad enough when you are forced to watch a hard-hitting Sharapova when Justine is outclassing her opponent on another court, or put up with a powering Roddick when Nalbandian is giving someone grief elsewhere. Eulogies, quotes, clips – the Agassi saga went on and on. Jeezuz! The guy aint dead! He’s just retiring, something he probably should have done a while ago, also known as post US Open final against the game’s current best, considering he might not have a shot at that kind of glory this year. And I don’t recall this brand of weighted farewell during the departure of the greatest this country has ever produced – one that gave the sport of tennis the kind of meaning Agassi never could. Maybe they’d have given him his due if he had lost the championship and limped out of court?
Bill Maher is online!
Ok, this has nothing to do with tennis, but if Roger Federer weren’t around, Amazon Fishbowl would single-handedly be responsible for my home entertainment this summer. For those of you who have been living under a rock (aka not on my mailing list) Bill Maher is online live every Thursday night (many thanks to my Maher-loathing pal for bringing this to my attention). Archives of all shows are available and what is more, you can pause and play and see it on your own terms (Gippers, you don’t get to delete the Bush-whacking tho’). Now, what could be a better thing to do during lackluster portions of a tennis match? Doesn’t that beat flipping channels and missing that all-important shot? Now, there’s your tennis connection. And what is more -- you get to mute the annoying Dick Enberg! Like Maher himself says, television is so 20th century. I wish I would get over grabbing the remote to crank up the volume though.
Roger Federer
You knew he’d always be the last word in any tennis piece I wrote, didn’t you? If you thought Federer’s tennis couldn’t get any more beautiful, check out the new Rolex commercial – the smart people from his home country captured everything Roger does on a tennis court, added some music in synchrony and slowed it down a tad (so the rest of the world could catch up). His impending championship win won’t need doctoring though – that’ll be all Roger.

The odds

The Women
2:17 Martina Hingis
Hingis can outwit anyone, except those that can overpower her wit. If Martina can conquer her fears of her arch nemesis aka the active Williams (or better still, employ someone else to do it for her – Vaidisova, perhaps?), she’ll be well on her way to winning the crown. It’s about time someone joined little Justine in the battle of brain over brawn! This is surely one player I’d be rooting for; that’s assuming her compatriot in the men's draw doesn't monopolize my respiratory oxygen -- he does so takes the breath away!
1:7 Maria Sharapova
Not to wink at the other side of the coin – there’s a good chance Sharapova will power her way to another trophy, assuming someone takes down the brainiacs for her.
1:4 Kim Clijsters
If Clijsters keeps her eye on the ball instead of on her retirement, she’d probably have a shot at lifting the trophy this year. She has better grass stats than anyone, but numbers wont help her tackle her fellow countrywoman, who’ll potentially meet her in the semi-finals (unless anti-inflammatory drugs get in the way).
1:3 Amelie Mauresmo
Now that Mauresmo has put the title of “Always a bridesmaid, never a bride” behind her, she can put her stunning slice backhands and artful volleys to good use. And what better place to do it than on the slick grass of the All England Club – there is no better winner at Wimbledon than one with a genuine love affair with the net and noone currently on the tour can lay claim to that title than the Frenchwoman (she may not shun the red clay in her home country, but her game sure does).
4:11 Just about anyone
If the men’s champion could literally be carved in stone (or silver as the case may be) the past few years, the women’s tour is as unpredictable as it has ever been. Let’s face it – the last eight slams have been bagged by seven different women, so it’s only fair to predict a “Who in the world is that?”
3:8 Venus Williams
There’s no ruling out Venus Williams at any major in any year, but certainly not at Wimbledon when she is defending her title.
2:5 Justine Henin-Hardenne
Henin-Hardenne is clearly the best player on the women’s tour (numbers don’t tell the whole truth) and any question that the diminutive Belgian does not have the power to tackle the slick turf was erased when she won the warm-up grass tournament just two weeks after defending her title on the grueling clay of Paris. Plus, this is the one slam she does not have – Justine is hard enough to beat when she is not thirsting for a win. On second thoughts, is she ever not?

The Men
Just for the record, it’s hard to imagine anyone but Roger lifting the trophy this year, but I try to be politically correct – gender is but a touchy subject. Just ask Larry Summers.
1:10 Andy Roddick
I’d never rule out A-Rod’s chances on grass. Moreover, since Roger has now lost that halo around his head of being unbeaten and plausibly unbeatable in grand slam finals, if Andy does get that far, he might start believing he could win. What’s more, he’s seeded third and picked to play in the draw opposite Federer - yeah, folks, I’m reading the hat.
1:4 Lleyton Hewitt
If fighter instinct was all one needed to win a slam, I’d have to go with Lleyton, quite literally, cos he’s fought with almost everyone on the tour. Granted, his performance has been less than stellar this season but then, who has exactly shined in the presence of the brilliance that is Roger Federer? In Hewitt’s favor, he did win the warm-up tournament in Queens and was the last player to sprint his way to the coveted trophy before the Roger reign began.
2:7 Marat Safin*
If there is one thing that can make grass more unpredictable than it is, it is an unpredictable player. And no one fits that bill better than Marat -- he’s capable of beating Federer in 5 grueling sets and being beaten by a qualifier in straights. Besides, there’s the wishful thought a tennis fan has to harbor -- one of watching a temperamental big server pitted against an unruffled all-courter with pure tennis artistry on display from both sides of the court, and hopefully, with at least one sighting of a racket gone awry.
*The reason Safin - who is unseeded this Wimbledon largely due to absenteeism and who's last major appearance was at the '05 Oz Open - is given a higher odd than the second and sixth seeds, who appear a lot more in-form is because should he get there, Marat has a better shot at beating Federer, who seems to stop both Andy and Lleyton dead in their tracks.
3:10 Andre Agassi
It’s true that Andre’s been sidelined by injury and age, but let’s face it, the last player to have given Roger a run for his money at a major (other than the Spaniard that ran away with his money) is the veteran. And, of course, he has a very real reason to be in a hurry to up his 8-time grand slam record, while trying to delay the Swissman’s quest to equal his own.
3:8 David Nalbandian
‘Is it my turn now?’ The world number three’s record against Federer is second only to Nadal. So, if anyone can beat the Swissman on a surface other than clay, it’d have to be the Argentine. Let’s not forget his brilliant performance against Roger in the semis at Rolland Garros and if not for Nalbandian bowing out, Federer may have been saved the embarrassment of literally donating the championship to Rafa.
99:100 Roger Federer
Every time you even begin to question the Swiss maestro’s abilities (a bit unfairly, considering his loss at the French Open final that has gotten even avid Roger fans - including this one - analyzing weaknesses in his sublime game was only his first loss in a major in an entire calendar year) he comes back to dazzle, if his flourish in the W opener against Gasquet is anything to go by – perfectly orchestrated shots to every inch of the court, from every inconceivable corner – in other words, a vintage Federer classic on grass, and certainly one worth waking up on the wrong side of 7 am for. The magic of Federer’s game is that it can never cease to amaze – he has enough variety for one player and then some – so whether you’re watching him effortlessly put away a Hewitt or battle it out with an Agassi (or practice with a tennis machine, for that matter), there’s one word to describe it -- beautiful. Expect to see plenty of it for the next two weeks as he artfully strums his way to another trophy at the cathedral of tennis.

A skirmish does not a rivalry make

The next time someone calls what goes on between Federer and Nadal a rivalry, I’m going to scream. Since the blogosphere equivalent of a scream is a few hundred words of ranting, I’ll just content myself with it for now.

Federer has 7 major titles, Nadal has 1. Federer has demolished almost everything seen holding a racket anywhere in the world the past three years, Nadal rules only that roost called clay which most normal human beings haven’t figured out how to walk on, much less glide around and hit a ball on. Federer plays tennis like a jazz musician -- artfully elegant, smoothly competent, effortlessly classic and casually composed. Nadal’s only semblance to music is the grunt that grows louder by the minute and reaches a crescendo at matchpoint, his serve is truly awkward, he scrambles clumsily for every ball, and takes about a painstaking year between points [it’s hard enough to sit through a clay-court match waiting for someone to voluntarily drop the ball (pun intended), cos that seems the only respectable way to earn a point in Paris].

Even the very one-sided Sampras-Agassi “match-up” entailed a more convincing contest -- a series of meetings on a variety of surfaces, albeit resulting in the consistently ruthless demolition of one by the other.

Consider this: Nadal’s career head-to-head against Federer is 5-1, only two of those wins coming on hard courts, and in Miami in ’04, Federer was clearly not at his physical best. His record against Roger on surfaces other than clay, is hard to comprehend, cos he has never gotten far enough for us to find out. And the reason he hasn’t met Roger in early rounds is cos he’s riding on his world #2 ranking, winning as he did last year, everything there is to win on clay, except two losses (even there, he was 50-2 -- one behind Roger, whose record on hard courts was a remarkable 50-1).

Noone says it better than the eloquent Andy Roddick did about his Wimbledon clashes with the Swiss phenomenon – "I am going to have to start winning some of these matches if we are going to call it a rivalry." By the same token, Nadal will have to start playing some matches with Federer to call this a rivalry.

So, while I concede that the bicep-flaunting, long-mane sporting, fist-pumping Raffa (who would fit right into a Manga comic strip), has perfected the art of sliding and slithering on clay, and probably deserves the gold in an Olympic skating contest, he’d be better off leaving the sport of tennis to the pros.

There is little doubt that Nadal will win the French Open this year, mainly on account of his sliding talent, but hitting a tennis ball with a racket remains the Swissman’s area of expertise. And let’s not forget that Hewitt’s record against Federer was 7-0 and that of Nalbandian was 5-0 before he figured them both out and neither of them has been able to beat him since, at least in the matches that matter. And if his classic display against Nadal in Rome last month is anything to go by, it’s only a matter of time before Federer starts building his castles on clay…

I’m sorry folks, I know individual sport dwells on the idea of contrasting styles and conflicting personalities, and I know you’re hungry for a well-fought tennis match against the obviously peerless Federer, but let’s face it -- till someone comes along that can figure out a way to break the world number one on his favorite turfs, which include, the green grass at Center court, the hard courts at Melbourne and Flushing and every clay-less surface on earth, the post of a worthy rival will remain up for grabs.

Setting sigh(!!)ts on Pete...

Some things in life just don’t change.

While in tenth grade I hopped on a stage and screeched at the top of my lungs, trying to personify Eliza Doolittle, I now join the throngs of fancily clad people on Broadway and 45th to watch someone do the screeching. While it was the perfect fermentation of Indian rice-bread I insisted on as a devout vegetarian at age ten, it is the grilling of religiously-incorrect filet mignon to medium rare perfection that now holds my fancy. And while I contentedly slipped into the shoes of a tomboyish George Kirrin time after time in fifth grade, I now find a Vittoria Vetra or Dagny Taggart – a lot harder to fit my firmly entrenched feet now, but satisfying nonetheless.

And just like all else, those three weeks that stretch from the last couple in June to the first in July continue to be my favorite time of year, thanks to the green grass of Center Court and the promise of the greatest tennis player at any given time wielding his racket to create the kind of magic only the supernatural can.

So, while I await that time of year with some anticipation, the USTA drops a friendly mail in my mailbox. I have long since learned to treat a USTA notification with as much interest as I would a supermarket brochure (50 cents off a bag of chips that costs $3.99? Some good that does to my wallet). Similarly, a godforsaken tournament to be played between two unknowns in a forgotten part of the world doesn’t come anywhere close to captivating my tennis senses, even if my membership affords me a ten percent discount (a hundred wouldn’t matter when the match is between a Koukalova and a Safarova – in case you’re wondering, they exist).

So, I slid out the leaflet with practiced dispassion, only to discover that the picture was neither that of an unknown nor the place sited unfamiliar to me. The former belonged to the sportsman that could easily be the reason I watch the sport with so much passion and the latter, the city I have happily inhabited for the past year. And so the twain shall meet!

Yeah, folks, Pete Sampras is playing at the World Team Tennis Tournament in Philadelphia in July and my first order of business last morning was to book my date with destiny.

My long-uncherished dream, of course, was to watch Pistol Pete in action at Wimbledon (I have that on record in every slam-book I’ve touched since seventh grade) and this is as close as it gets.

Granted, this is no Wimbledon, but let’s wink at geography in the face of peerless genius. My due apologies to the strawberries-and-cream folk at the All England Lawn Tennis Club, but leopards don’t change their spots depending on the land they walk on (as long as that land isn’t clay!)

I can hardly wait….

The People Patent

I had to smile, when a few weeks ago, my friend answered his phone with a very professional-sounding inquiry into my starting point and intended destination. After furnishing the required information and while waiting for his www-acquired expertise to come through the phone, I got to wondering about how lost I’d be without my little network of people on earth, and I don’t just mean on the meandering streets of Philadelphia. The only reason I’d call him at an ungodly hour on a Sunday afternoon would be if I were clueless as to where in the world I was, literally (‘figuratively’ would have entailed a different story and a different counselor, depending upon situation, time at disposal and required levels of damage control).

This is not to say that I don’t value my relationship with my mapquest-accessing pal for anything other than matters of direction, but merely, that he is one of the few people in the world that can be counted upon to always be within arm’s length of a computer and a click away from the internet (much as the latter pervades my own life, I haven’t been able to figure out access to it while driving – I’m dangerous enough with one hand on the wheel and one on the phone).

Like most human beings, I characterize human relationships among the top on my list of priorities in life and like most human beings – though most wont admit it – I also tend to categorize my relationships. By this, I don’t mean the seventh-grade, slam-book ranking that goes -- forever, best, good, fair, which IMO doesn’t hold water beyond the age of 12 – if I call them friends, they sure as hell be good, the rest are acquaintances, whom I either associate with a name or a face; occasionally, the person that spent eons at the supermarket check-out counter creeps in, but that’s only cos my brain seems to have too many niches in which to store random pieces of information (an ideal mind is a human workshop).

So, while my aforesaid pal holds exclusive rights to helping me map my co-ordinates in times of dire need, another can be sure to receive a shrill, rambling voicemail on the night of the 14th of April, which when perceptible, breaks down to an SOS tax question. Then there’s the one that will be called upon to satisfy my argumentative urges post midnight on a sleepless weekend, another that doesn’t fail to satiate my sense of humor when Bill Maher is off vacationing and my Friends DVDs begin to get redundant, a pal with a slightly more poignant bent of mind painstakingly discusses matters of the heart during vulnerable moments, and when the goings-on in my own life become too painful to discuss, there’d be the friend that can philosophize on matters of less import. Another manages to keep a straight face while I earnestly draw parallels between my life and those of the lofty women of Sex & the City, there's the poltically-inclined pal that will be party to that stimulating discussion in the event of such bafflements as Dubya (and I don’t mean that in the “nucular” sort of way), another laughs away your many worries when you’re too tired to cry and then there's the shoulder to cry on when you do garner the strength to do so…

Regardless of where they stand on my little human map, it goes without saying that each of them is indispensable. Another one of the million things I cannot understand about those coupled up souls that spend all their time between them – as far as I know, you can’t spout Friends wisdom and sing praises of John McCain unless you are me – so you gotta have at least two people to direct those penchants to. And I bet every human being is blessed with his or her own idiosyncratic combination.

And what better time to ruminate on relationships than in the aftermath of re-discovering my oldest one ever – this past weekend I made a three thousand mile trip to meet my first ever friend after sixteen long years – the girl I got seated next to in kindergarten cos I would not open my mouth and she wouldn’t shut hers. Needless to say, it worked like a charm cos now I cant seem to shut mine as well. We’re still poles apart – she decided to stay back in the home country, do what she loves for a living, fell in love in her teens and married the same man a decade later. I decided to leave the motherland in the quest for a “better” life, am still flailing about in a career that could only ever be second best and haven’t yet found that elusive someone to spend the rest of my life with. But the four hours we spent discussing our second grade teacher, her first pet, my first limerick and the banner that greeted us everyday at our alma mater, we could have been but two peas in a pod. I’ve come a long way since then, but I could bet you anything that at age ten, I would have been quite lost without those fantasy walks through the ‘magic’ palace and shared box lunches....

It’s that one chord you strike with a person that sometimes makes all the difference and without it, your life seems so out of tune.

Oh, for the love of God! - the Sequel

Every time I reel from the after-effects of a Dubya mishap and wonder what prompted me to make the trip halfway round the globe to this country, India answers with an episode – usually one that makes me shake my head and sigh in resignation and say, "oh, that's why". That's not necessarily a good thing, but it goes a long way in explaining why I'm not a stone's throw away from a home-cooked meal of lentils and rice (which can be surprisingly delicious when done right).

The exceptionally gifted policy-makers in my home country can always be counted upon to do something jaw-droppingly stupid, like impose curfews in night-clubs or decide which cable service you can or cannot buy. I might not necessarily care one way or other, but I'd like it to be my choice, is all. My other beef with them is their sheer inability to get priorities straight – I’d rather they insist you pick up your trash, for instance, than regulate physical affec(ta)tion in public places (both are known to cause irrepressible nausea, but at least in one case, it’s not cos of the pinworms in your intestines).

The latest furor is over the release of – surprise, surprise - The Da Vinci Code. Apparently, the information and broadcasting minister decided to first watch it to figure out if the rest of India should be allowed to do so. To a reasonable human being like myself, this begs the question: are we talking about a country or a third grade class? They might as well set parental filters on the control panel that India’s government is fast becoming.

The head of the Catholic Secular Forum has begun a “hunger strike until death” so the film can be banned. It’s not really my place but this forum doesn’t sound ‘secular’ to me. And if this could get any more ridiculous, Christians account for less than two percent of the country’s population. I know what you’re thinking – if two percent can threaten to ban a film what could eighty percent do? Simple -- they could shut it down altogether - a fate that Deepa Mehta’s thought-provoking and extremely relevant Water met with a few years ago, prompting her to flee to another country, shoot it under a pseudonym and simulate the irreproducible Ganges, before finally being released last month.

So, even while the technology hub in Bangalore manufactures the fastest processor to open us to the world of information, the morally conscious thought police decides to shield us from it. And boy, do I feel safe and secure under its (s)mothering. Now, if only it would drop some change in my pocket as well, so I can quit thinking altogether…

Not that Americans are that much saner. If the likes of Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson could have their way, I’d probably be denied the liberty to watch Hanks make a mess of Robert Langdon myself. But the difference in this country is that, there is bound to be a sardonic Trey Parker to shut up a screaming Falwell. And for every incredibly close-minded, religiously blinded, kool-aid drinking cult, you can count on a pragmatic and relevant ACLU.

Last I checked, India was a democracy. I wish we’d treat it like one and allow the Mehtas to reveal horrifying truths about practiced Hinduism even while the Narendra Modis are practicing them....Cos that's what a democracy is about...It isn’t always popular or homogenous, it isn’t intended to be. But it’s functional -- as functional as a billion people with a billion different viewpoints can get…..

Sometimes it’s hard to get the words out
That’s when the pictures will have to do...


Recently, while trying to articulate the Sampras brilliance in a discussion with FSN and Dream Sporting, one of whom needs no convincing of the great man’s genius and one who refuses to acknowledge it in lieu of the bells and whistles of the sport, I wound up with something as astoundingly incoherent as this:

I cannot explain to you why Sampras is the greatest player the world has ever seen. I don’t have proof of it other than the record books and what’s in my head....[and it only gets worse, hence the censor].

Little wonder that while I’ve unfurled essay after essay on Roger Federer in the past couple years alone, I’ve never attempted to write about Sampras in close to a decade and a half. Simply because I don’t think the Pete phenomenon can be captured in words. So, for the sake of saving myself further embarrassment and with the welfare of my readers at heart, I have more or less resigned myself to the fact that my awe of the Sampras magic will have to remain upstairs. There’s also that recurring fantasy about knocking on Pete’s door and foisting my writing abilities on a biography he doesn’t want written, but let me not go into that, for reasons aforesaid.

The pain of depriving my weblog of more than a cursory mention of one of my greatest heroes of all time, however, has been somewhat alleviated by my chance discovery whilst attempting to clean my apartment this afternoon (a task put on indefinite hold since). When the signed picture of Mickey Mouse I’ve had since age 7 slipped out of an electric blue folder, it could only mean one thing -- my treasure trove of irreplaceable gems! I tore through high school certificates and holiday postcards alike to get to the clipping I knew was buried beneath all of it – an attempt to comprehend the sheer paucity of acceptance of the Sampras sublimity by a befuddled and helplessly word-deprived Nirmal Shekar prior to Wimbledon'01 in The Hindu, my most reliable source of tennis eloquence during the decade I spent being infatuated with the game’s greatest.

The second clip is from after Sampras’ defeat just two weeks hence, a very different scenario, albeit, one that inspired even more awe of a sporting hero that had so far stopped his contemporaries dead in their tracks. I remember, in the days following Pete’s loss to Roger, that article was almost an earworm in my head. I know, I know, earworms were meant for the Backstreet Boys back then, but I was dangerously apathetic to the boy band in the '90s, or after (uhmmm, maybe, if I’d taken my eyes off Pete for jus a little bit!)

I am not too happy about showcasing another writer on my weblog, but I need to have Pete on here, even if it means letting someone else do the talking. And Nirmal Shekar is one of the few people in the world I would entrust with matching my fascination for the king of Wimbledon (notice that he starts with an account of Sampras’ artful mastery over his opponents on the hallowed grass at Center Court and then goes off on an emotional and sentimental tangent, which in the case of Pete at least, is better suited to describe his game).

Note to The Hindu: I didn’t see any copyright protection notice, but if this is a violation, please address all correspondence to a certain Pete Sampras in Los Angeles, California, USA. I'd sure like to get his attention...

Petty peeves

Now that Spring is here and the celestial bodies are behaving themselves, I decided to leave them alone and worry about the smaller things in life...

Would you please hit the freakin’ button!

You’d think in this fast-paced world, where bills get paid in minutes and google gives answers in seconds, the most obvious and fruitful thing to do when you got on an elevator would be to hit the door-close button. But no, some think the most fruitful thing to do is to remark on the lovely weather or worry about a lab mouse with cardiac arrest. That’s all well and good, but if you stand there any longer without shutting the door, Spring might just pass you by and your beloved mouse might not have a chance at resuscitation.

Don’t you start your car when you get into it? Don’t you turn on the light when you enter a room? Wouldn’t shutting the darn door be the natural thing to do in a 6-foot wide car that moves on a vertical shaft? On an elevator, people somehow seem to lose their earthly instincts. It’s either the screwed up gravity or the lack of oxygen. I couldn’t tell you, cos I happen to be in the minority – the I-hit-the-door-close-button minority (we have an affirmative action case going). And this is my official call to that small group of individuals that believes ‘the button’ serves a purpose and begs to be used. Some dismiss it as a placebo cos apparently it doesn’t do anything; I don’t care, I happen to be a pro-active human being and I need to hit it! Why? Bcos it is there, and the elevator door is open 5 freaking seconds after it needs to be shut.

If you’re a fairly observant human being, you would have noticed our kind – we are the ones that cling to the control panel, index finger on the mark and ready to go as soon as the last person is in; if we have the misfortune of being more than an arm’s length away we’d be gritting our teeth and clenching our fists, till someone finally reads our mind and does the needful. Boy, am I glad for my little clique! Quite like the glee that accompanies my chancing upon a fellow Maher-obsessor or die-hard steak-fanatic, my eyes light up when I see one of them enter an elevator. I heave a sigh of immense relief, resign to the rear, shut my eyes and lean against the wall, knowing full well that the job will be done...

To go cups have got to go!

One of the prerequisites of the northeastern American lifestyle is the ability to, at some point in time, use a torso and two pairs of limbs to balance your bag, an umbrella and a coffee cup for miles on end to nowhere in particular. It helps the process (and your posture) to have your bag zipped, your umbrella folded and your coffee cup securely shut. Unfortunately, much as Starbucks and the other capitalistic coffee makers out there are inherently gifted in the art of grinding beans to give just the right flavor to that caffeinated stimulant (sweet mother of all things good and pure!) they happen to be surprisingly unqualified to make a paper cup with a lid that fastens just right. Reason why, I've never had coffee from a to-go cup without it streaming down my hand or my choicest white shirt (the inherent klutz in me accepts a fraction of the blame). So, my point is (yeah, I do have one) that Starbucks should collaborate with Nissan and start offering coffee in plastic mugs with screw caps [yeah, two capitalist pigs might as well get together and screw us (pun unintended)]. Apparently Nissan’s mug can be tossed at any angle to any distance without spillage. I personally think anyone that treats coffee with such insult should be appropriately penalized, but often times it’s not really in your hands (but in the air). Here’s how: you’re juggling your keys, your cell phone and your wallet while stepping into a puddle of microbe-enriched water (another exclusive of the Northeastern lifestyle) and your coffee mug just happens to be the one that takes the plunge -- quite possibly your pride does too -- but then you could jus swoop down and pick it right back. I meant the mug, of course, your pride’s pretty much a lost cause after that.

Spring – not cool?

I mean figuratively of course. Literally, it isn’t supposed to be cool, that’s what we like about it...
So, yesterday was a fabulous 70 degree day and I was more than excited to finally go on a run that did not involve fleece or insulated nylon or mittens or headbands, or the process of adjusting, yanking or removing half or all of them midway through the trail.
But I’d forgotten that with Spring and Summer come the rest of life’s troubles -- three quarters through my usual 4-mile lope, my lungs wanted more air, my gut wanted water and my legs wanted a break. Only that wonderful thing called mindless and irrational will power saw me to the end, and the extra rush of adrenalin was oh-so-exhilarating, but I must say, my body wasn’t exactly pleased. It is all good when the 70% water your body is made of is as frozen as the river you’re running by, but when the sun’s vaporizing every ounce of liquid you drank the past week, you could inhale the river and it wouldn’t matter. So, in winter, I had to desensitize to the low temperatures – let’s face it, I had barely breathed in 0°F until then, much less run. And now, I gotta acclimatize to the heat - the tropical inhabitant of two decades of 90°F has to now acclimatize to the heat! In this energy-starved world, that just seems like an awful lot to waste. You’d think evolution would have thought of that and just made us all cold-blooded...

The Da Vinci Code hanked

Considering I think The Da Vinci Code is literally the best book ever written (this could be attributed as much to my current reading slump as to the peerless Dan Brown), I’m obviously excited about the upcoming movie, though I know from past experience that a movie adaptation is almost never nearly as good as a book. Someone got that adage all wrong -- a picture is worth a thousand words -- no amount of pictures could equal an eloquently written piece, IM-writer’s-O. In any case, I was still looking forward to this movie and hoping it would be the exception that was Jurassic Park, and wondering who could convincingly play the elite and suave (and in woman-speak, oh-so-delectable) Robert Langdon. And what did I hear? Tom Hanks! *Groan* No offense to ol’ Tom – I have loved him in almost every movie he’s ever been in, but this is clearly not a Hanks-job! The Harvard historian in his crisp white shirt and tweed jacket, who rattles off a million connotations at the mere sight of an innocuous piece of art, who couldn’t drive a stick if you put a gun to his head but could logically work his way out of a deathtrap using only his mind and who still manages to beat his peers at water polo.

After all this rambling you’re wondering if I have any suggestions. ‘Course I do. Johnny Depp!!! IMO, he’d fit the role to a tee. At least I could have sworn he could play Langdon in The Secret Window. With Hanks, we’d all just be Sleepless in Paris.

Afterthought
I've thought about it and I now think Tim Robbins will be perfect for the role (yeah, Sony Pictures is holding off release till I make up my mind). And he doesn't even have to change anything -- he just has to be Andy Dufresne (The Shawshank Redemption) or Dave Boyle (Mystic River), as is -- smart, sexy, tranquil, elite and oh-so-endearing...

When dates get convoluted

While watching the Burlington commercial for the weekend Easter sale, I happened to glance at an e-greeting from my folks back home. Wondering if they had now begun wishing me for the traditional American holidays (my mom is my most reliable source of info on Daylight saving time and long weekends), I clicked on it. The card proved to be an exercise in my native language -- mustering all of my unseasoned tamil from the forgotten recesses of my brain I unveiled a wish for New Year’s Day, celebrated around the start of the financial year all over India, albeit called differently and observed by a wide variety of creative rituals in different parts of the motherland...
When April 14th has come to largely represent DO YOUR TAXES for the past four years, it isn’t entirely my fault that the New Year needs reminding. To make up for it, I did go and pull out some sticks of unbelievably crispy cod from the freezer – a far cry from the manga pachadi of yesteryears, but till Bush delivers on his promise of delivering the mango, the fish will have to do....

Trials and tribulations of the long-haired mane

I’m in a hair-segue right now – that’s right, other than the emotional, mental and intellectual ones that happen every week, this one boggles my upstairs in very different ways.

The last time I sported hair anywhere longer than the nape of my neck was when I was 18 and foolish and didn’t have my priorities quite in order. In other words, back then, it was okay to have to spend 10 minutes of my precious morning running a comb through my untameable, chaotic cap of hair.

All that is well and good, except that the task usually followed barely waking up at 9 am (my roommate was the only one that successfully testified to it, on account of my eyes being open), rushing to the dorm bathrooms and finding them devoid of water, hurtling down to the cookhouse and draining the last drops from the tank, both only made possible by that thing called gravity, carrying my well-earned reward up two flights of stairs, engaging in a really quick cleansing ritual and donning the only pieces of clothing that seemed to vaguely match each other and that could be lugged out of the pile of washed garments with minimum effort.

So, it’s bad enough that I now gotta remember to brush my hair, straighten it on a bad day, pin it up on a worse one and even use an annoying butterfly clip sometimes (which looks uncannily Pebbles-like). And the constant 25 mph winds in Philly certainly don’t help (though I must admit there’s a certain sail-like quality -- I seem to be flowing easier with the wind, not necessarily in the direction I am headed, but pleasurable nonetheless ;)).

As it happens in a variety of these experiments, when you change one thing, you gotta change a whole lot of others to avoid the “cartoon effect”, if you will. So, the past year I have added more than just some length to that mane: clips and hair accessories pervade an area once restricted to a couple of hair brushes, which didn’t get used a lot (running of the fingers is all the grooming a short coiffure really needs – the close-cropped men of the world will vouch for that). Now, to describe them as ‘accessories’ is actually a misnomer, cos when the jumbled mass on your head is growing in all possible directions at uneven lengths and skewed angles, waving where it isn’t supposed to, curling where it strictly shouldn’t, and sticking up in bristles when it should bend down and grow with its cousins, a half dozen hair slides, a wrap and an elastic band become essential.

The costume jewelry that follows, however, could be classified as accessorizing. Your ear lobe now feels insecure with just a little stud earring to keep it company. It was all good when your hair was minding its boundaries, but not when it’s flailing all over your face and stifling your essential senses. Same reason why you go and get your nose pierced. And flaunt it till you finally realize that it defies all of humankind’s most innate reflexes – picking, sneezing, scratching, breathing, to mention just a few.

Sometimes you gotta do things in life that make it a little more complicated than it is...It gets boring when it’s too easy...When Destiny starts doing her job herself, that’s when you cut back :)

Seein' Spots...

In all fairness, I think the spots were more cos of my relentless rambling than the spots themselves, but I decided I couldn’t take the risk. Besides, it’s always good to change your look – so, now it’s new, classy and intellectual – ok, one out of three ain’t bad ;)

But don’t worry, I am not changing my spots anytime soon – still the incorrigible, opinionated, condescending libertoid the world so loves ;)

As for the blog, a little sprucing and pruning is in order -- will get around to it, mostly to add some color. For now, the black and white should be tolerated -- just like my opinions :)

Oh, while I’m at it, I happened to glance at my blog on the IE browser a couple days back, and I realized it’s horrendous --- the font’s all awry, the layout is skewed and the caricature’s twisted (probably closer to the real me, but why ruin my awesome image in the blogosphere?)

In any case, my apologies to all IE/Safari users. The Mac/Firefox transition to PC/IE ain’t the greatest, or maybe I just don’t know how to work around it – both equally likely, though I’d give the people at Mozilla the slight edge, cos I do think they’re slightly more tech-savvy than I am.