A truly out of the world experience...

It was July 2001. I sat glued to the end of the coffee table in clench-fisted, white-knuckled panic. The indomitable god of tennis was about to be toppled by this cocky, pony-tailed teenager who had no business in the sanctum sanctorum of the sport. Two years later that very teenager had grown to be an adult, one that could swing his racket with some flourish of his own. It was then that Roger Federer reached that point in his career where tennis fans began to wonder if he would indeed take away the mantle of greatest ever from Pete Sampras. By then we had let go of our Pete nostalgia, just enough to contemplate the two greatest players, in their prime, at their best on the very same tennis court.

If Roger Federer’s amazingly shot-enriched and smoothly artistic brand of tennis is pleasing to the eye, the one thing that would 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 tennis 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?

While time wouldn't allow such a meeting, Pete's resilience certainly would. Six years after a glorious retirement from pro-level tennis, he can still jump up and smash an overhead, he can still befuddle the sportsman who has so distanced himself from the rest of the field, he can still fire an ace to save himself from the jaws of defeat. And last week, I got to witness it. Amid a sold out crowd of crazy tennis fans in the grandest stage set under the thriving hub of the most exciting city on earth, we watched the two greatest players battle it out. Screams of “Let’s go Pete” and “Go Roger” rang out across the arena, because the mere thought of contributing decibels makes us lesser mortals feel a part of invincibility in some inexplicable way.



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....