The Next Point

Rome Masters, Third Round

Seppi d. Wawrinka, 6/7 7/6 7/6

The question of why Rome is my favourite Masters tournament was addressed with devastating intensity by Andreas Seppi and Stanislas Wawrinka on Court Nicola Pietrangeli today, ably supported by a lone umpire and an extras cast of thousands, each of whom had been extensively coached in the finer points of screaming one’s head off. The go-to cliché for any tennis match serviced by a rambunctious and partisan crowd is that it had a ‘Davis Cup atmosphere’. Although this can leave journalists grasping for meaningful comparisons in actual Davis Cup matches, today it seemed appropriate enough. For Wawrinka, it must have felt like an away tie. He has long since proven his capacity to stuff those up.

In December’s final reckoning, it’s doubtful whether this match will feature among the Best of the Year – the personnel and scheduling will certainly count against it – but if it fails to make the top five in the Drama category then we can assume there is no justice, or that Fabio Fognini has gone on a sustained rampage. Seppi saved six match points in total, five of them in the final set, four of them on Wawrinka’s serve, and three of them in a row from 3-6 down in the last tiebreaker. Wawrinka didn’t save any match points, and the ones he lost were testaments to an arm that had grown leaden with tension, directed by a mind crippled by doubt. Seppi, to be fair, hardly looked in better shape. Neither man boasts a particularly accomplished backhand slice, and yet by the end we were treated to the kind of exchanges that Federer and Youzhny make entertaining, and that Dolgopolov and Tomic make interminable. In the hands of Seppi and Wawrinka, however, they were just dreadful, literally: each junky shot bespoke a dread of losing that was almost complete.

Of course, neither player could keep it up indefinitely. Eventually someone would try to force the play, and produce an error. Wawrinka produced the last of these, halfway up the net. The crowd, which had already been whipped to a rich patriotic froth by Flavia Pannetta’s emphatic win, went right off its collective nut. Seppi joined them. The statues ringing the court, the very furniture of macho smugness, gazed down with satisfaction. There are few better places in the world to watch tennis. I really wish I’d been there.

(2) Federer d. Ferrero, 6/2 5/7 6/1

If Seppi and Wawrinka produced today’s most dramatic match of the day – and I’ve just spent four hundred words insisting on nothing else – it was the day’s final match between Roger Federer and Juan Carlos Ferrero that featured the best actual tennis. This was shot-making of the highest order.

Watching, I was transported back eleven years, to the magnificent Rome final of 2001, in which Ferrero overcame Gustavo Kuerten in five sets (another fittingly gladiatorial epic on the old Centrale). I remember marvelling during that match at how Ferrero and Kuerten had seemingly taken clay court tennis to another level, their speed, footwork and accuracy making it look like a hardcourt you could slide about on. Kuerten’s decline would come later that year, when as world No.1 he attempted to play through a seemingly innocuous hip injury at the US Open, and despite subsequent surgery was never the same again. The remainder of his career was a long twilight. Ferrero’s decline commenced later – after the Australian Open in 2004 – and, for me, has always been trickier to explain. There was chicken pox, and a wrist injury, but upon recovering from those he didn’t seem noticeably worse than before. He just couldn’t win any more. The temptation isn’t inconsiderable to suggest that in those short months the sport had moved on, and Federer’s concurrent ascension at that very moment makes it a hard theory to refute. Perhaps appropriately, Federer achieved the No.1 ranking for the first time by thrashing Ferrero in the semifinal of that 2004 Australian Open. Indeed, my chief reason for resisting this theory is a distrust of any idea that is feels so simple.

On the other hand, tonight’s match provided compelling evidence that it may well be the case. Ferrero played well, dictating from the forehand, and for the life of me I can’t remember anything he used to do much better, although he was spryer about the court in his youth. It’s difficult to believe he was 0-6 for the season (coming in to Rome), although injury and age have played their part. Federer was clearly better, with superior weight on all his shots, more clarity in his approach, and greater audacity when pressed. Ferrero’s clay court tennis, which once represented a quantum leap forward, now looked somewhat old school. Nevertheless, the Spaniard’s effort to take that second set was mighty, and if there’s a match today that’s worth finding the highlights of, this is it. Federer will play Seppi in the quarterfinals, meaning the Italian will need to see off Switzerland’s entire Davis Cup squad if he is to progress to the semifinals (where I think he’ll face Severin Luthi). At least the crowd will be up for it.

Elsewhere

In other matches, Juan Martin del Potro was sadly unable to overcome a dodgy knee, general fatigue, an absent crowd, or Jo-Wilfried Tsonga’s strangely imposing backhand, either singly or, fatally, in combination. Rafael Nadal produced a pair of bread-sticks, and then proceeded to beat Marcel Granollers about the head with them. Novak Djokovic attacked the allegedly paradisaical surface of Court Centrale with special vehemence, disqualifying his tennis racquet from further use as anything but a memento. Later on he proffered the hope that no kids had seen him behaving thus. Presumably there are plenty of kids without television sets or any interest in tennis who missed it, who were therefore spared the horrifying vision of a grown man breaking a piece of sporting equipment. For the other unlucky souls, the ATP runs a counselling service. Juan Monaco was excellent, but not quite excellent enough.

Andy Murray was quite good early, then a little bit bad, and then good again in the first set tiebreaker. After that it was all bad, all the way to the end, and especially on break points. Richard Gasquet, normally so empathetic in this respect, somehow didn’t allow himself to be dragged down. Murray, as is his way, swore at everyone for a while about the shadows and the dirt. There was no escaping either, since this is Rome. And since it is, it seems apposite to quote Horace: Pulvis et umbra sumus. We are dust and shadow. Something for the Scot to consider, as he departs for The City of Light.

Rome Masters, Second Round

Of the nine Masters Series events that liberally pepper each tennis season, Rome’s Internazionali BNL d’Italia is my favourite. I was recently asked to explain this preference, and came up with, in no particular order: the crowd, the setting, the pacing, the courts, the standard of play, the light, the history, and the vibe. What can one hope to take from that?

The kitsch, grand Foro Italico is a decent place to start, if only for a laugh, and to register the cosmic irony by which fascism’s determination to legitimate itself architecturally is so rapidly undone when these empires fail to last the distance. There are several ways this can come about. Hitler’s brief to Albert Speer was that the grandest Nazi structures – Nuremburg’s Zeppelinfeld is the exemplar – should achieve a rich afterlife as ruins once the Tausendjähriges Reich had run its course. A millennium proved to be a trifle ambitious, even for Hitler, and the short years since have demonstrated that whatever Speer’s gifts, guaranteeing eternal grandeur wasn’t among them. (Arguably his greatest gift was to escape prosecution. He didn’t get away with murder, but he did get away with hanging out with a lot of murderers, and his primary defence consisted of disingenuousness, and later, doddering.) His structures have not passed time’s test, and I suppose the writing was on the virtual wall, etched with shadow, when his most inspired creation – the haunting Lichtdom – only lasted a night.

Mussolini’s Foro Italico isn’t like that. Firstly, rather than seeking to connect itself to an imaginary and vehemently advertised future, it sought legitimacy through an alignment with Eternal Rome. However, thanks largely the presiding ego of Il Duce, the alignment feels skewed. It doesn’t feel like you’re in ancient Rome. It feels, again ironically, more like a movie set. Secondly, it was always conceived as a sports complex, and has, to my knowledge, never stopped being one. Irreversible traducement occurs when a structure is repurposed into irrelevancy – again, look to Speer – but the Foro Italico escaped this fate. It hosted the 1960 Summer Olympics. It now houses the Rome Masters. Yet the irony remains. For all that it apes antiquity, the fact is that there are ‘Roman’ villas in Los Angeles that are older than the Foro Italico, and crafted with greater attention to period detail. Just because it’s in Rome doesn’t mean it isn’t ridiculous. But just because it’s ridiculous doesn’t mean it’s not fantastic.

There is also the danger – or, let’s be honest, the certainty – that this irony will evaporate. Already the process is under way, as all historical epochs beyond living memory collapse in on each other. Borges reminds us that the structural discord underlying Don Quixote is now lost to us, pointing out that the allegedly dull world of Cervantes’ Spain has since grown as poetic as the romances that once scrambled the Don’s brain. The book derived its force from an irony we can no longer feel. The Foro Italico, for all that it is barely 80 years old, now evokes a mighty Roman past, especially in the crucible of sporting combat, when the essential distinction readily melts away. I’ve stood and laughed at the absurd statues ringing the grounds, but the 2006 Rome final ranks among my favourite matches, and it only gained from the setting. It was viciously gladiatorial – as was the 2005 final – and the venue was marvellously conducive to this, for all that it has hosted as many real gladiators as the Caja Magica. Sport, like all good drama, requires the suspension of disbelief, and set-dressing as lavish as the Foro Italico permits tennis to transcend itself.

Of course, the new Court Centrale – which I have never visited – doesn’t boast the same cachet, although it looks quite good on my television screen. The old centre court had already been renamed in honour of two-time Italian Open champion Nicola Pietrangeli, and now serves as the third court. It will no longer witness great finals, although today it inspired former champion Juan Carlos Ferrero to stage multiple comebacks in defeating Gael Monfils. This reminds me that whatever the benefits of the venue, the main reason I love the Rome Masters is the tennis. It just has a habit of staging excellent matches.

(10) Del Potro d. Llodra, 7/5 3/6 6/4

There was never much chance that Michael Llodra could beat Juan Martin del Potro today. He grabbed a set off the Argentine back in Rotterdam, but that is a fast indoor court. Rome is bona fide clay, Llodra is authentically 31, and del Potro really is much better at tennis. Unsurprisingly, I can barely recall the Frenchman winning a point from the baseline, until the last games. Until that moment, it was a classic contrast in styles, with Llodra hurtling towards the net, and del Potro either belting a passing shot or grudgingly admiring his opponent’s volleying prowess. Llodra had the first set point in the first set, but del Potro had the last one. Llodra, with almost no backhand, took the second, still galloping forward. There appeared to be something wrong with Del Potro’s knee. He broke in the third, and moved to 30-0 at 5/3. Llodra produced four great points from nowhere to break back.

Having momentarily averted defeat, Llodra commenced a tirade at the umpire at the changeover, which wasn’t precisely what the situation called for, although it was an improvement over hurling racial epithets into the crowd. ‘Apologies for the colourful language, folks’ offered Robbie Koenig. Jason Goodall isn’t in Rome this week, and his absence was suddenly apparent. You just know he would have rejoined with some variation on ‘Pardon my French, or not’. Chris Wilkinson wasn’t quite up to it. You know you’re fan when you begin idly composing routines for them during a highly entertaining tennis match. Del Potro, desperate, was tumbling all over the court by this stage. Caked in clay, he sealed the match with a pair of enormous returns past the incoming Llodra.

In other fine matches, Andy Murray and David Nalbandian gradually got around to producing a classic backhand duel, one that ultimately hinged on a dead net-cord deep in the third, while Lukasz Kubot played with typical flair and aggression to finally beat Potito Starace. The latter was lucky to get a set, although it was worth it since it delayed Murray’s appearance on court, thereby sending the British pundits spare.

Madrid Masters, Final

(3) Federer d. (6) Berdych, 3/6 7/5 7/5

Roger Federer today defeated Tomas Berdych in the final of the Madrid Masters, thereby cementing his place as the premiere blue clay player of our time. It was his twentieth Masters title – drawing him abreast with Rafael Nadal on the all-time leader board – his tenth career title on clay, and it guarantees that 2012 will be the tenth consecutive year in which he claims at least four titles. He also becomes the first man to win three titles in Madrid, and the first to win it twice on clay in its illustrious four year history. For those who find simple delight in just savouring Federer’s numbers, his recent results have been nothing short of, well, delightful.

The score line generally shouldn’t be relied upon to properly reflect the actual contours of a given tennis match, since it so often obscures as much as it reveals. But occasionally it tells you enough, inspiring that strange fuzzy glow we feel when life imitates art, or when Will Smith enters the building (more on this later). Today’s score is unusual (I can barely recall seeing it before), yet gratifying in that it perfectly evokes a match in which Berdych was astonishingly strong early – his version of unplayable recalls Marat Safin for me – yet ultimately failed to stay with Federer when the going got tightest.

The opening set featured twelve winners from Berdych, to just two unforced errors, and saw Federer stage a mighty fight just to make it as close as it was. Federer was broken in his opening service game, courtesy of that sophisticated double-bluff fake-dropshot forehand slice thing he occasionally does, the one that sees him summarily canonised when it comes off, and ridiculed when it doesn’t. It didn’t come off, and brought up a break point, which Berdych took by blasting a backhand return across court, his third winner of the game. Normally on clay a single break would not prove decisive, but the phrase ‘normally on clay’ is a wishful one to utter in Tiriac’s Enchanted Cube, especially against a guy holding as firmly as the Czech. That he was doing this while serving at 42% tells you plenty about his ground game, which was ferocious. Federer played fine, and was frequently left watching winners streak by, an even more interested spectator than the rest of us.

For whatever reason, Federer had tremendous trouble holding serve from the far end today – in all he was broken three times from that end, and never from the other – so it seemed like a dicey prospect when he stepped up to serve for the second set, having ridden an early break, and blown a few set points on return the game before. Sure enough, he was broken, with Berdych saving the only set point with consummate, scrambling defence, and then sealing the break with more of the same. Federer, with it all to worry about, hardly looked concerned at all, although his legion fans went bananas all over the internet. At 5/6, Federer lifted, and brought up another pair of set points on Berdych’s serve, with his favoured short slice pass combo – recall how he broke open the Indian Wells final with that play? – and a stretching forehand return winner onto the sideline. Berdych double faulted, neither his first of the day, nor his last. Set Federer. Music began to rock through the Box, and the camera picked out Will Smith, seated with his wife. ‘Is he getting jiggy with it?’ asked Jason Goodall. ‘He is!’ exclaimed Robbie Koenig. He was.

With his second serve success rate soaring into the forties – it had been mired in the twenties in the opening set – Federer fell behind 0-30 on each of his first three services in the deciding set, but each time contrived to eke out a hold, saving three break points. Berdych was holding more comfortably, until suddenly, serving at 3/4, he wasn’t. Federer lifted again, and moved to 0-40 with three excellent points, the best of them a clean backhand return winner up the line. The Swiss thereupon returned to spectator mode, although he wasn’t to blame for this. Three vast and assured aces from Berdych, all directed past Federer’s forehand wing, mocked the very idea of break point, before a pair of double faults reminded us that pressure has an internal logic of its own, which too often cannot be gainsaid. 5/3, with Federer to serve for the championship. Fatefully, he was again serving from the bad end. Again he was broken, this time without even gaining a match point. Again it was Berdych not merely seizing his opportunity, but extraordinarily rendering back to Ostrava, whereupon it was tormented, and confessed.

Still Federer looked unfazed, while many of his fans proved that whatever platform eventually replaces Twitter will need a better way of expressing a collective aneurysm than incoherent strings of text, produced by forehands repeatedly striking keyboards. The tension was, to be fair, immense. It only mounted by the time Berdych stepped up to serve at 5/6. As in the second set, he fell behind quickly. Federer had three championship points. Then suddenly he had none. They’d both won 101 points each. It could not have been tighter. Some desperate defence from Federer earned another match point, and a Berdych forehand error off a tricky short return sealed the match. Federer turned to his player’s box, his arms aloft, satisfaction and relief suddenly scrawled clearly across his face.

Berdych was gracious in his runner up speech – praising Roger – as was Federer immediately afterwards, praising Nadal. Tiriac’s short speech drew boos and whistles. Then it got weird. For some unfathomable reason Will Smith was also loitering on the hastily erected podium, although the reason became clear when he was called upon to present Federer with his suit from the new Men In Black film, framed behind glass. ‘Roger likes his suits,’ remarked Goodall, ‘Might be a bit of breaking and entering there.’ Smith and Federer appear to be of a size, which was fortunate. Had Berdych won, it would have been a snug fit. Perhaps they had another suit ready. Still, baffling as it was, it somehow resulted in a nice moment, and a new addition for Roger’s pool room, to go with the flotilla of Dubai ships, and another Madrid trophy, which looks, as ever, like the world’s cruellest sex toy.

Madrid’s narrative this week has inevitably centred on the blue clay, although as we progressed through the final weekend I was interested to note how the tide of public sympathy appeared to turn, flowing against Nadal and Djokovic, and swirling around Billy Jean King’s remark that ‘champions adapt’. Federer and Berdych certainly did that. The Rome Masters is already underway, so they’ll now need to adapt to that pretty quickly. For myself, I would have no problem with seeing more blue clay (providing the footing is more secure), but I’ll be happy to be rid of the complaining about it. It turned out to be a dangerous surface upon which no one was hurt, an unpredictable surface in which only seeded players reached the quarterfinals, that produced the first great Masters final in over a year, capping a memorable event where Roger Federer once again reigns supreme.

Madrid Masters, Semifinals

(3) Federer d. (7) Tipsarevic, 6/2 6/3

To the extravagant array of trying conditions already prevailing at the Madrid Masters, today’s second semifinal added a fitful and swirling breeze. Roger Federer was already favoured to win, and, while he surely doesn’t like playing in the wind, he has demonstrated time and again his ability to cope with it better than anyone else. The most recent example of this was of course the Indian Wells semifinal, but another match worth recalling is the US Open quarterfinal in 2010, in which he served as though unruffled by the merest zephyr, while Robin Soderling was blown away.

Returning to today, Janko Tipsarevic didn’t cope especially well, either, especially in the early going, when Federer was utterly dominant. Tipsarevic found just two points on Federer’s serve in the opening set, and both of those were double faults. The Serb picked it up in the second, although not sufficiently to deny Federer an early break, sealed with a screaming forehand return winner. There was a lone break-back point, though Tipsarevic’s gallant backhand up the line was just long. It’s possible that the result might have been different had it landed in, but not terribly likely.

(6) Berdych d. (10) Del Potro, 7/6 7/6

Some hours earlier, Tomas Berdych and Juan Martin del Potro fought out a terrific match, in which the former’s serve and the latter’s forehand combined to send the winner count into the heavens, hardly weighed down by a modest ballast of unforced errors. This was attacking, uncompromising tennis at its best. And yet, there was tremendous variety here, too. Del Potro several times demonstrated a feathery touch –  via drop shots and some slices cunningly dipped at the feet of the approaching Berdych – in addition to excellent defence. Berdych landed numerous blows with his crosscourt forehand, and, as expected, his determination to move forward was generally decisive. Ultimately, the outcome was decided by a few points, and these, unfortunately, were decided by del Potro’s mental state, which at key moments grew fissured.

There have been several moments recently when the famously unflappable del Potro has flapped, a tendency that I have failed to reconcile metaphorically with his commonly-applied sobriquet, which is the Tower of Tandil. (Indeed, all nicknames based on buildings run into serious problems when applied to anyone excelling in a sport more vigorous than golf.) Cast your mind back to the Indian Wells quarterfinal, when his early challenge was disallowed due to a Hawkeye glitch, initiating a frustrated slump that endured for the entire fist set. Today he allowed two calls to get to him. The more crucial of these came late in the match, at 6-6 in the second set tiebreak, and thus didn’t affect him for long. A wide del Potro serve to the deuce court was signalled in, Berdych indicated that it was wide, and the umpire Mohamed el Jennati confirmed it, even if it was only by an inch. The Argentine was deeply unimpressed at this, and lost the subsequent point with a soft backhand error, which brought up another match point for Berdych. He took this, via one of those seemingly unremarkable rallies that nonetheless reveal the Czech’s mastery of the surface: every shot was made to count, and allowed him to move further up into the court, until he finished it off with an overhead. He thrust his arms aloft, then clenched his fist. This one meant a lot.

Del Potro declined to shake the umpire’s hand, instead waving a forefinger in his face. For millions of viewers around the world, Hawkeye had already confirmed that the umpire had been correct on both overrules. Given how incensed he was upon losing, it isn’t unlikely that del Potro has confirmed this for himself afterwards. Certainly he shouldn’t have allowed himself to grow so disaffected at the time, but, really, having Hawkeye available on the court would have cleared it up immediately. There are those that insist that it isn’t necessary on a clay court, since there is already a traditional mechanism by which close calls can be checked. The inexactitude of the mechanism – the umpire lumbers down from his or her chair, scurries across the court, and then debates the player over the correct mark – is naturally part of its old world charm. Traditions should not be frivolously cast aside, and I suppose it would be regrettable if such an amazing spectacle was lost. But if we cannot discard tradition in the Caja Magica, where it has been long-decreed that anything is possible (aside from guaranteed footing for the players), then where? The Box is a virtual abattoir for sacred cows.

Ironically, given its postmodern presumptions, Madrid also has history in this area. Exactly one year ago, in the semifinals of this very event, Federer sparred at embarrassing length with Mohamed Lahyani about a disputed mark on the court, well beyond the moment when the global audience had seen the umpire’s decision proved correct. Of course, being Federer, there’s no reason to believe he would have accepted a Hawkeye ruling either, but I think the point stands. Clay courts need Hawkeye less than other surfaces, but it would still help. It would have helped del Potro today – if only to be more sanguine in his loss – unless, as in California, it proved faulty. Then he really would have blown his top. The Tower would prove to be an ICBM silo. The only thing more aggravating than a lack of technology is when it doesn’t work, thereby betraying the hallowed covenant between machine and man.

Which brings me neatly back to Berdych. Tomorrow he will contest only his third Masters Series final, hoping to capture his second title at this level. The first came in Bercy, back in 2005, a year in which he was the only man other than Federer or Rafael Nadal to win one. 2005 is in some ways an instructive season to look at, and offers a useful reminder to those who gripe that the top four now win nearly everything. Back then, the top two won nearly everything, with only Safin (Australian Open) and Nalbandian (Masters Cup) willing or able to spoil the party. Anyway, Berdych will be attempting to become just the second man outside the top four to win a Masters event in over two years. By reaching the final Berdych has already overtaken David Ferrer in the rankings. If he wins it, he will close on Jo-Wilfried Tsonga at No.5.

Of course, if Federer wins he will move to No.2 ahead of Nadal, which could have profound ramifications for the draw at Roland Garros, although there is no point going into this unless it comes to pass. Even if he loses, there are a number of entirely possible scenarios whereby the move could occur in Rome next week. He will also be seeking to claim his 20^th Masters title, putting him back level with Nadal atop the leader board.

Madrid Masters, Quarterfinals

David Ferrer was tonight defeated in clinical fashion by Roger Federer at the Madrid Masters, whereupon he shocked the attendant media by failing to threaten a boycott of the event next year. Unspoken words, reflecting unthought thoughts, though the words he did speak were unerringly and characteristically gracious. When asked whether top quality tennis was even possible in the Caja Magica, he simply replied that it was.

Novak Djokovic earlier fell to countryman Janko Tipsarevic, and then conducted a press conference defined mostly by its spirited rancour. Before blithely accusing Adam Helfant of negligence, the world No.1 echoed Nadal by summarily declaring that it was the blue clay or him, further eliding the crucial distinction between the court’s preparation (which was inadequate) and its colour (which is blue). It’s an important distinction to retain, although this is no reason to believe it will be. There are many factors at play here, and the colour of the surface is the least of them, but the media is not at its best when dealing with ‘many factors’. It’s all or nothing, and the ‘all’ in this case is that blue clay is too slippery, and the top two won’t play on it. This was further inflected by Ion Tiriac’s announcement that he was stepping down. He insisted his decision had nothing whatsoever to do with the current controversy, but he’s optimistic if he believes that will fly. The ‘all’ is now that the slippery blue clay has seen the end of Tiriac. Being Tiriac, one doubts whether he cares much.

(3) Federer d. (5) Ferrer, 6/4 6/4

(7) Tipsarevic d. (1) Djokovic, 7/6 6/3

Thankfully, there was still tennis being played in the midst of all this depressing shit. Mostly it was pretty good tennis, suggesting that Ferrer’s blunt response was reasonably astute. His comment should be further qualified, however. It is possible to play a certain kind of tennis well. That kind of tennis is aggressive, first-strike tennis. To a man, the surviving semifinals – Federer, Tipsarevic, Berdych and del Potro – are adepts at this. Indeed, most of the losing quarterfinalists were as well, apart from Fernando Verdasco, who’d frankly run his race yesterday against Nadal. It was to Ferrer’s credit that he numbered among them, although he is generally a far more assertive player than most pundits give him credit for. Today, faced with the sport’s greatest player, against whom he boasted a dismal 0-12 record, Ferrer read the situation perfectly, and realised he needed to go all in. Only forceful red-lining tennis was going to get it done.

Of course, it still didn’t get it done, not by a long way. For all that Federer’s results have grown mixed in other settings, he remains the world’s premiere indoor player, and he has approached Madrid as a fast indoor event. Ferrer belted more winners, laudably, but collected more errors as well. Mostly these two statistics were generated from the Spaniard’s own service games. In Federer’s service games, the definitive categories were first serve percentage (78%), second serve points won (90%) and break points faced (0). With his serve thus impenetrable, a single break each set was sufficient. I am reminded of the old word on Sampras, the way a set could end 6/4 or 7/5, and yet, due to his vice-like hold-game, the opponent would feel it was never close. Yesterday’s victory over Richard Gasquet was sealed with three consecutive aces. Today, it ended with two.

Federer will face Tipsarevic next, who like Ferrer seemed to have no trouble with his movement. Djokovic, admittedly, seemed to have plenty of problems in this area, which he made clear via a series of elaborate pantomimes for the crowd’s benefit, only occasionally pausing to play tennis. The defending champion has been peevish and distracted all week, in a situation that required greater focus, not less. Tonight it proved telling, against a hitherto overshadowed compatriot determined to seize his chance. Tipsarevic was excellent, especially in the first set tiebreaker, and in saving multiple break-back points to serve out the match. He remained positive and committed, when so often in the past he hasn’t. It is a court that rewards risk-taking and forcefulness, and today it rewarded Tipsarevic. Even if he progresses no further, he deserved this victory.

(6) Berdych d. (15) Verdasco, 6/1 6/2

(10 Del Potro d. (16) Dolgopolov, 6/3 6/4

The other semifinal will boast all the nuance of a prolonged artillery duel, conducted between Tomas Berdych (whose ordnance is cybernetically embedded in his shoulders) and Juan Martin del Potro, a howitzer atop a tower. Berdych has moved almost unnoticed through his section of the draw, his inexorable progress overshadowed by Nadal’s stumble and departure. Yet, he has only dropped five games in his last two matches, against reasonably strong clay court proponents in Gael Monfils and, today, Verdasco. I didn’t see the Monfils match, but today’s victory was complete, and unrelenting. He simply never stopped coming with those booming deep drives and serves. Verdasco could seemingly only win points with extravagant forehands, which proved to be unsustainable even in the short-term. I was put in mind of Andy Roddick’s rather pathetic capitulation to Juan Monaco the day after seeing off Federer in Miami.

The mood of del Potro’s victory over Alex Dolgopolov was more restrained. Dolgopolov gambolled about with expected panache and struck plenty of flashy winners – the racquet-head speed he generates is freakish for his size and build – but there was an unshakeable sense that del Potro had at least one more gear to go to if he was pressed. He wasn’t, and even the commentators often went silent for great stretches of time, succumbing to the overly torpid late-afternoon vibe.

It will be fascinating to see how del Potro rises for the semifinal tomorrow. I have a suspicion that he and Berdych will be evenly matched from the baseline, but that the Czech’s willingness to move forward could prove telling. The other decisive factor will be each man’s second serve, and how willing the opponent is to return aggressively. While Tipsarevic might conceivably challenge Federer, it is the day’s first semifinal that should provide the greater interest, and prove that there is subtle variation to be savoured even when two large men fight with cannons.

Madrid Masters, Second Round

(3) Federer d. Raonic, 4/6 7/5 7/6

‘I entered the court believing I could win. I left the court knowing I can win,’ declared Milos Raonic after tonight’s pulsating three set loss to Roger Federer at the Madrid Masters. It’s the kind of grand statement that waits for applause. Behind the placid, solemn intensity of his expression lurks the elegant mind of the aphorist. Just minutes after coming within a few points of a famous victory, he came within a syllable of a balanced phrase. He’s young, and there’s still time.

For all that it was the last match to finish, it proved to be the centrepiece of the day, and inspired the first full-house of the event. The crowd was raucous, and predictably inclined towards Federer. The blue clay, which I’ve decided looks like laundry powder, has rarely looked so striking, although this isn’t saying much. Eager eyes had noted this match’s potential the moment the draw escaped last week, but it’s rare that the yearned-for encounter lives up to its billing, even when it eventuates. Federer was returning from a six week sojourn. Raonic, the most accomplished of the new guard, was coming off a strong showing in Barcelona, and had already bludgeoned his way through David Nalbandian, a match that’d turned out to be tough only on paper. Aside from those who were puzzlingly concerned that Davydenko might constitute a threat for Nadal, the belief was unanimous that of all the top players, Federer’s opening match was the least civilised. The result wasn’t precisely a classic, and it certainly wasn’t a clay court classic, but it did successfully evoke the best of those serve-centric indoor blitzkriegs of the 1990s, which is presumably what fans really expect from a clay court Masters event in Spain. As Federer remarked afterwards: ‘Fast court tennis like the old days of Becker, Edberg and Sampras. A point here or there.’ Who said it’s not ideal preparation for Roland Garros?

A point here or there was all he was permitted to win on the Raonic serve. The key stat from Raonic’s first round win over Nalbandian was that he hadn’t dropped a single point on 27 first serves. By the beginning of the second set tonight, he had added another 17 to that total. On the slickest clay in the sport, his first ball was utterly unmanageable. The flat bombs detonated off the tee; the sliders faded halfway up the service box; the kickers leapt like bastards. I don’t recall any body serves, which thankfully meant that we didn’t have to see Federer lying wounded on the court.

Safe in their commentary booth, the inimitable Messrs Koenig and Goodall began to lay bets as to how many consecutive first serve points Raonic might eventually amass. Flak-happy viewers and opponents were by now inclined to believe that the Canadian could last the entire tournament, but the commentators proved more circumspect. Goodall had faith that Federer could find a return before that tally cleared 50. Koenig wasn’t so sure. He was just explaining the parameters of the discussion to the viewers, when Federer, with considerable aplomb – a Koenig catchphrase – found a point on the Raonic first delivery. ‘Would you believe it?!’ exclaimed Koenig with typical gusto. The commentator’s curse had struck again. The final count stood at 44.

Over on Sky Sports, Mark Petchey cautioned Raonic against becoming too distracted or despondent at this turn of events, which suggests he has a pretty low opinion of Raonic’s powers of concentration. Surely even the Canadian hadn’t realistically believed he would never drop a point, even if the rest of us had. He quickly recovered from this crippling set-back, and didn’t drop any more points for a while.

To be fair, Federer had been almost equally impressive on serve, until, at 4/4 in the first set, he wasn’t. A woeful game saw him broken to love, and Raonic served it out peremptorily. Federer opened the second set with a booming ace up the middle, followed by a comprehensive selection of errors, thereby achieving break points for Raonic. The evening looked like it could be over very quickly, and Federer’s fans began to prepare their excuses, in which the phrase ‘six-week lay-off’ featured heavily. However, from this moment on, Federer began to exhibit the mental fortitude he was once known for. For the remainder of a match that had a long way to go, he played the big points better than his opponent. Another of these came at 5/5, when he saved another break point. He had won precisely one point on Raonic’s serve to this moment, and the belief had now ossified into a certainty that the only way to break would be if Milos started missing his first balls. Confounding this new orthodoxy, Federer returned three first serves in the next game, winning each point, and gaining a pair of set points. The first of these was saved with an outrageous one-handed backhand lunge pass from Raonic. Federer took the second with a drop shot winner. From nowhere, it was a set all.

The Sky Sports commentators began to wander off-topic, always a sure sign that they feel their man has it in the bag. Federer was clearly destined to run away with it. We arrived at 3/3, and Raonic, defying this prevailing wisdom, was holding easier. At 3/3 Petchey airily declared that a tiebreaker was inevitable, just as he had at 4/4 in the first, right before Federer was broken. This time he was right. Federer won the first point of the tiebreak with a forehand, which was to prove fitting, if not downright lyrical. He was quickly up a mini-break, although he failed to extend it after Raonic impressively out-rallied him on consecutive points, as he had done for most of the night. The mini-break vanished. Then, at 4-5, and after two hours and ten minutes, Raonic played his first truly poor shot of the match, mishitting a forehand approach. Match point Federer. The first served missed, and Federer smashed the second crosscourt for a winner. The Caja Magica erupted. A tournament that has thus far known only controversy had now enjoyed its first truly memorable tennis match.

Despite losing, Raonic was superior in every statistical department, aside from the net points won. Unconvinced by the surface, and momentarily doubting his capacity to stay with the Canadian from the baseline, Federer had ensconced himself in the forecourt throughout the second set. Notwithstanding a few minor miracles – especially a few half volleys – he had done barely enough even there. But he had done enough, enough to survive long enough for those big points to come round. When they came around, he proved that there are few better at seizing them, enabling him to claim the stat that really mattered. He won two sets to Raonic’s one.

Federer lives to face Richard Gasquet in the next round, an ostensibly more manageable proposition. Raonic will leave for Rome, and the traditional clay of the Foro Italico. He played Federer very close tonight, and is entirely justified in believing he should have won. To think otherwise would be self-defeating, if not delusional. The time is fast approaching when Raonic won’t need to insist. He’ll soon be winning the stat that matters most.

Madrid Masters, First Round

(12) Monfils d. Kohlschreiber, 7/5 6/7 6/3

Gael Monfils this afternoon defeated Philipp Kohlschreiber in a fine match in the first round of the Madrid Masters, and afterwards failed to label the court the worst in the universe. It might not have been the best match played today, but this feature alone renders it unique.

Madrid’s blue court controversy has proved, to my satisfaction if no one else’s, that the vast majority of pundits prefer to talk about anything other than actual tennis given half a chance. Even last week, with three tour level events conducted on red dirt, Madrid dominated the headlines (exceeding even the requisite quota of articles about Nadal, Federer and Djokovic, none of whom were actually playing). Thankfully, Madrid has started. Admittedly, all the chatter is still about the courts, but at least there are now people playing on them.

Upon completing their matches, few of those players showed restraint in criticising the surface. Winners and losers were united in this. Novak Djokovic was particularly incensed after his scrappy three set win over Daniel Gimeno-Traver. Stan Wawrinka declared it to be the worst court he’d ever played on. Sergei Stakhovsky got in early with his complaints, and then got out immediately by folding to Ryan Harrison, who’d earlier risked serious harm by declaring the blue clay ‘awesome’, although the fatwa was later called off on appeal. He was still a teenager, after all.

I’m past trying to conceal my bafflement that so many people care this much about the colour of a tennis court. Perhaps I’m biased in this area: I don’t care at all. But the sorry state of the surface is a different matter entirely, although the tendency, inevitably, has been to conflate the colour change with the inadequacy of the court’s preparation. There was presumably no way this could be avoided.

The word is that Madrid is playing fast, and from my vantage on the far side of the planet this seems to be the case. But Madrid always plays fast, although Nadal and Djokovic proved three years ago that no court is quick enough when two guys are determined to spend all day on it. The balls are light, and the air is thin. It is usually quite slippery, too, but this year the slipperiness has seemingly gone beyond inconvenience, and become distracting, if not downright perilous. No one has hurt themselves yet, but you may rest assured that the first injury will sound the death knell for blue clay, in much the same way that pot hole in Monte Carlo didn’t prove how lethal the red stuff is.

Anyway, back to Monfils and Kohlschreiber. The German, fresh from his BMW acquisition in Bavaria, shot out to an early lead, hustling Monfils all over the court for the first seven games. For a small guy, he can generate tremendous pace. Monfils can generate even more, but all too often, and for entirely private reasons, he prefers not to. The Frenchman seemed distracted, and ended that seventh game by marching through the return and perfunctorily swatting the ball away. Something was up, clearly. Whatever it was – an issue with his shoes was suggested – he apparently fixed it at the changeover.  He came out flaying the ball the way a succession of coaches have insisted he should. A quick hold to love, and it fell to Kohlschreiber to serve for the set. A pair of set points turned up, begging, but were mercilessly shooed away. Monfils broke, held, and broke again for the set. From 2/5, he’d won five straight games. Most of the rallies ended with a Monfils winner, and no two were alike. Kohlschreiber, forlorn, barely had time to wonder what he’d done wrong. The answer was nothing.

For Monfils it was reminiscent of Doha, where he belted Rafael Nadal from the court. The issue is that he then stops playing like this, for no reason, and certainly not because his form wanes. An effective game plan is abandoned whimsically, and the fact that it allows him to win tennis matches appears to be insufficient incentive to stick with it. Having taken the set, Monfils set about retreating back into his shell. Once again, he was broken to open the set. Outrageous winners gave way to nip and tuck. Somehow, the second set reprised the first perfectly. Kohlschreiber moved to 5/2, and Monfils held. The German served for the set, and was again broken. It was quite eerie. He looked mesmerised. With a mighty effort, he shook himself free, and limped to a tiebreak. Monfils retreated from passivity into ineptitude at this point, and Kohlschreiber stepped in and took control, although Monfils produced the highlight of the day with an outrageous tweener volley off a ripped return.

The third set was cagier still. Until 3/3 all was finely balanced, and a tight finish appeared inevitable. The tension mounted. Then Monfils won twelve straight points and the match was over. Sometimes, you just don’t know what you’re going to get.

Raonic d. Nalbandian, 6/4 6/4

Milos Raonic was already proving this on an adjacent court, as he quickly set about transfiguring the day’s most anticipated match into a largely foregone conclusion. David Nalbandian was by no means at his best, but he would have needed to be pretty close for it to have mattered much. Raonic served 16 aces, and lost zero points on his first serve. But he also won 62% of points against Nalbandian’s second serve, due to an eagerness to spank any forehand he could lay his racquet on, and a calm assurance once rallies got under way. As with Monfils, there was just no way of knowing what was coming. One point might steam along steadily, while on the next Raonic might belt a backhand winner at the outset. Nalbandian, already frazzled by the impenetrability of the Canadian’s service games, grew desperate and ornery. He tossed his racquet about a bit, but it didn’t help.

Raonic will play Federer tomorrow night, in the latter’s first match on the popularly-reviled blue clay, and on court Manolo Santana, which Djokovic insists is frustratingly unlike the outer practice courts. We’ve been hearing all week how dangerous the opening match is for a top player, although this was mostly applied to Nikolay Davydenko and Nadal, which I cannot see being close. There is no conceivable mechanism by which Federer’s opener could be more difficult. If this was sufficiently clear when the draw was set free last week, the calmness and completeness with which Raonic today saw off Nalbandian has made it crystalline.

Munich, Final

(4) Kohlschreiber d. (3) Cilic, 7/6 6/4

The theme of the week in Munich was flashy one-handed backhands launching winners up the line – there’s an opportunity for a logo redesign – counterpointed by Marin Cilic’s inexorable progress to the final. It is unfair to say that Cilic is one-dimensional, since no player truly is, but he certainly has fewer dimensions than the players he’d seen off so far. But when your primary dimension is hitting the ball flat and hard to parts of court where your opponent isn’t, variety is a mere vanity, and wholly superfluous. The real problems come when your flat, hard balls stop landing in the court.

Perhaps it is my age – which is not excessive, though sufficient that I came to tennis in the 1980s – but I have always been drawn to the single-handed backhand. I regard it as the most human of all tennis strokes, not least in the way its near-endless fallibility gives way, in the hands of its mightiest proponents, to a majestic if fleeting perfection. To watch Gustavo Kuerten’s sustained backhand assault in the 2000 Masters Cup final is to be vouchsafed a glimpse of the best the sport can offer. It is surely no coincidence that most of my favourite players are streaky, and that most of them have a single-handed backhand. Thinking on it, I’d say their streakiness is inextricably tied up with their backhands. When they’re on, they’re close to unplayable, and the flaws inherent in the one-handed grip seem to melt away, or even to become strengths. One of them – Jo-Wilfried Tsonga – has a merely pedestrian double-fister, but has lately incorporated a wholly gratuitous single-handed passing shot into his repertoire, the only purpose of which is apparently to heighten the spectacle. This reveals the stroke’s essence. A flashing backhand pass is a sight to behold. Federer’s flicked passing shots are prodigies of wrist and timing, eliciting roars from crowds and hysteria from Robbie Koenig, yet when Hewitt or Djokovic do it we barely cock an eyebrow. Everybody knows the double-fister is a more solid shot, that the extra hand yields greater forgiveness on timing, more consistency on returns and when changing direction, and superior strength above the shoulders. Functionally, it’s just a better shot.

And yet it seems to me that what beauty is inherent in even the greatest double-hander is inseparable from the perfection of its engineering. Meanwhile, the one-hander has a built-in flourish via the follow-through, coiled menace in the preparation, and even the ugliest of them aspires towards stylishness, even when it descends into uselessness. Tied in with this is the endless variation: hardly any two are alike, and the differences seem utterly intrinsic to the men wielding them. Like the serve, each is as personal as a signature. It is, admittedly, a subjective area.

Philipp Kohlschreiber has one of the prettiest backhands going around, and a way of launching into it that is wholly his own, but that was no reason to believe it would withstand Cilic’s probing drives. After all, Mikhail Youzhny and Tommy Haas have attractive backhands and both had lost. I realise Cilic has his supporters, and that I’m not endearing myself to them, but I find that his tennis makes Tomas Berdych’s seem almost human. All the same, Cilic today proved himself all too human where it matters: between the ears (and behind the forehead). Yesterday he dropped five points on serve against Haas, for the entire match. Today he served at 37%, and only 29% in the first set, which nonetheless limped to a tiebreak only after Kohlschreiber saved a pair of set points.

Cilic later admitted that he’d felt like he was ‘trying to catch’ the German the whole time. In the heavy conditions, it did seem as though Kohlschreiber’s greater endeavour and variety was setting the pace. He moved to 6-4 in the breaker, and unleashed his second double fault. That’s variety. Set points were then traded for a while, before Cilic celebrated an 8-7 lead with a trio of errors. Kohlschreiber broke for 4/2 in the second set, the backhand up the line as ever enabling him to prise open the court. Cilic had multiple chances to break back in the following game, but each time discovered a backhand error when he needed it least, or was aced. Kohlschreiber, generally fearless all the time, tightened perceptibly when serving for the title. He’d saved break points with big serves all day, but now began to roll them in. A more assured player than Cilic might have taken advantage, but it wasn’t to be. Cilic is Cilic. Kohlschreiber served out his second Munich title.

A native Bavarian, Kohlschreiber afterwards addressed the crowd with immense warmth, charmingly conveying his satisfaction at winning his ‘home’ title again. He also appeared reasonably chuffed to receive a new BMW Z4, although he stopped short of hugging it, the way Nikolay Davydenko did last year. He did take it for a spin around the court, gouging out part of the surface. For his fans, the good news is that he will move up nine places in the rankings, to No.25, and will now be seeded for Roland Garros. He has also overtaken Florian Mayer to become the top-ranked German.

Belgrade, Final

(2) Seppi d. Paire, 6/3 6/2

I must confess that the first point I watched in Belgrade this week was also the last one played. Festivities had concluded in Munich with a farewell burnout from Kohlschreiber, and I glanced back at the live score for the Serbian Open final. Contesting his first final, the giftedly French Benoit Paire had moved to an early lead. Andreas Seppi then moved to a middle lead, which included taking the first set, and to a late one, which brought him to championship point. Idly I wondered whether Paire, with an impish sense of irony, might now retire from the match, thereby extending Tipsarevic’s notorious gesture in the Eastbourne final into a unique tradition. I could envisage the trivia question in later years: ‘Which Italian tennis player won five career titles without ever once winning championship point?’

Then the live score updates stopped updating, which was disappointing, since this is really the only thing they have to get right. Every time I glanced back it was 2/5, advantage Seppi. Had some disaster befallen proceedings? Had Paire actually retired? A court-invasion? Muttering darkly, I opened a stream, just in time to be informed that this was Seppi’s sixth match point. He took it, exultantly. Paire took it like a man. The commentator – perhaps the most laconic I have ever heard – sounded incapable of being excited by anything. He sounded quite a lot like Novak Djokovic impersonating a lounge-singer, an image that is surprisingly easy to conjure up. With time to kill, he slowly worked his way down the stat board, explaining bluntly how each number demonstrated that Paire hadn’t been good enough.

Congratulations are in order for Seppi, who is a friendly guy. The stats proved that he was good enough, as did the trophy in his hand.

Andy Murray has withdrawn from the Madrid Masters, citing a back strain. My vague surprise at reading this news was quickly superseded by the stunned realisation that the report had somehow failed to mention that the event is to be conducted on blue clay, and that Rafael Nadal doesn’t much care for it. This report is thus sufficiently unique that it’s collector’s items, treasured for its rare flaw, like that early Spiderman comic in which the hero develops Tourette syndrome. This oversight was soon corrected by the almost impossibly interesting news that Nadal has now had a hit on the court, and still doesn’t like it. Indeed, his litany of gripes has only grown. Novak Djokovic said the court plays lower on slices.

I was already tired of hearing about the blue courts some time ago. I’ve now progressed to a place beyond exhaustion, since everyone wants to joke about them, which would be fine if nearly everyone wasn’t considerably less funny than they realise. One player’s putatively wry query as to whether she was looking at tennis courts or swimming pools might have amused even slightly if a) they didn’t look exactly like tennis courts, and b) there weren’t already several higher profile tournaments to show us what blue tennis courts look like. The elementary passing comment that the courts are ‘smurf-coloured’ was not allowed to pass without being detained indefinitely, and then molested. It has now spawned a hash-tag, and, dully rehashed the world over, has failed to develop at all. The dead horse was removed some time ago, and now people are just thrashing the ground where it lay.

The only upside to this deafening blue noise is that, unlike last year, we don’t have to hear about Madrid’s allegedly excessive altitude (since the Casa Magija is apparently in low orbit over La Paz). Somehow, the same pair who contested last year’s Madrid final fought out the Rome final a week later, at sea level, on ‘traditional’ clay. If these changes have no discernible impact on the results, then what exactly is the issue? Roland Garros is weeks away. Chennai doesn’t play much like Melbourne, Tokyo is quicker than Shanghai, and Basel and Valencia, in addition to being blue are utterly different speeds from each other, and from Bercy the week after, which itself varies wildly from year to year. Player’s adapt. Nadal will probably still win the French Open, and if he doesn’t, it won’t have anything to do with the Madrid Masters.

Nadal is frankly a pretty good chance to win Madrid, anyway. He will almost certainly reach the final. The immediate upshot of Murray’s withdrawal is that world No.5 Jo-Wilfried Tsonga assumes the fourth seeding. On grass or even a hardcourt this wouldn’t raise any eyebrows. But the Frenchman has spent weeks laboriously demonstrating his shortcomings on clay, to my satisfaction if no one else’s. As top seed in Munich this week he lost his opening match to a resurgent Tommy Haas. In Monte Carlo he fell dismally to Gilles Simon. Before that he lost to John Isner in the Davis Cup. None of these losses are shameful, since they were all to capable players, but in none of them did Tsonga look like the fifth best player in the world. The primary reason for this is that, on clay, he isn’t, by a long way. As a potential semifinal opponent, drawing Tsonga is certainly more desirable than drawing Federer, even for Nadal, who has proven himself against both.

As in Monte Carlo, where Federer was absent, Nadal is drawn to face Tsonga in the last four. As in Monte Carlo, there is no good reason to think that match will occur, since on this surface the Frenchman is no better than a handful of others in his quarter, and might struggle to beat John Isner in the quarters, even assuming either gets that far. Novak Djokovic thus shares a half with Federer, who frankly has a bastard of a draw. Federer, who hasn’t played in over a month, must first face the winner of Nalbandian and Raonic, which could only be more unsavoury if he had to face both consecutively, or simultaneously. Bellucci or Gasquet in the next round should be interesting, followed by a likely quarterfinal with David Ferrer. Ferrer’s path to the quarterfinal appears straightforward, with only Almagro providing much to worry about, and then only for Almagro himself.

Djokovic opens against the winner of an intriguing first round tussle between Qualifier and Qualifier. I’m pencilling Qualifier in for that one, although I don’t see him (or her) troubling the world No.1 after that. No one else in Djokovic’s quarter should provide too stern a challenge, with the next highest seed being Janko Tipsarevic, who makes Tsonga look like Gustavo Kuerten on terre battue, even when it is cripplingly bleu. Gilles Simon will arguably, and ironically, constitute Djokovic’s biggest hurdle. Simon, incidentally, faces Fabio Fognini in the first round, a repeat of last week’s Bucharest final, which The Fog followed up on by losing in the first round in Belgrade.

Which brings us to the question of who will win. The cynical answer is Ion Tiriac.

The full Madrid draw can be found here.

I was hoping to have something up on the Munich quarterfinals, in which Youzhny sadly lost, but Haas and Kohlschreiber merrily didn’t. I probably won’t have time, but I’ll say that the match between Youzhny and Cilic was highly entertaining, and that if you watch nothing else, the second set tiebreak is worth a few minutes, if only for the Russian’s backhand to save match point, and for his mighty beard.

Edit – Nadal’s comments about the court favouring guys who don’t rely on footwork (Federer!), were apparently a mistranslation. I have consequently removed this reference.

Munich, First Round

(Q) Farah d. (7) Davydenko, 6/3 6/2

Defending champion Nikolay Davydenko yesterday lost to Robert Farah, the Columbian qualifier who last week tore lustily into the Barcelona main draw, and now looks capable of doing the same in Munich. The score, the stat that matters most, here ably tells the tale of a match that wasn’t even close. By losing so early, Davydenko has jettisoned enough points that he floats beyond the top fifty. Those faithful fans on earth still waiting for Davydenko would do better to search for him in orbit.

He has just become a father for the first time, and so there’s a good chance he is floating ecstatically, although it will be the haggard ecstasy that nothing before parenthood quite prepares you for.  Thus distracted and encumbered, the chances of Davydenko returning to the truly elite levels of the sport are fading by the week. Soon he will be compelled to qualify for Masters events, a situation I doubt he will be enamoured by. A little over two years ago there was a widespread belief that he was destined to win a major. Then a second set implosion against Federer at the 2010 Australian Open – it’s rare to be able to isolate the precise moment when an elite career ostensibly ends, but it’s at 6:50 in those highlights – followed by a seemingly innocuous wrist injury sent him into a slump that, somehow, he never recovered from. Once he had returned to the tour, the long wait began for him to return to his previous level. Over the last year that has given way to the hope that he would achieve one last impressive run at a major event. Now even this looks unlikely. For a very fine player who never received his due, this is a crying shame.

Courtesy of his heroics in Barcelona last week, David Ferrer has been much discussed of late, thereby inspiring interested parties to grow profligate with the term ‘dogged’, and to celebrate endlessly just how exhaustively he has maximised his talents. I realise I’m courting rancour by saying so, but I’d hazard that Davydenko eclipses even Ferrer in this latter quality. The Spaniard isn’t tall, but he is solidly built for all of that, and yet we’re quick to excuse his lack of power, for all that he’s two barely inches shorter than Andre Agassi, who was never accused of being underpowered, and the same height as Sebastien Grosjean, whose slapped forehand up the line was rightly feared. Ferrer is also only an inch shorter than the ultra-aggressive Davydenko, who is built like a whippet.

Agassi’s name is not an inappropriate one to invoke. Not since the Las Vegan retired have we witnessed a player so adroit at taking every ball on the rise, when it is still replete with energy, and then redirecting it at will and at pace. His hands, feet, and endeavour are the foundations of his game. A truly attacking player can hit him off the court – his record against Federer is abysmal – but he refuses to be intimidated by anyone. He boasts a 6-4 head-to-head with Nadal, and three of those losses came on clay. Along with Agassi, Davydenko ranks with the most finely calibrated ball-strikers I have ever seen, and amongst the most fearless.

If everyone with a heart dearly hopes that Ferrer wins a Masters title before he retires, it is worth remembering that Davydenko has won three of them (Paris, Miami and Shanghai), and that he overcame Nadal in the final twice. His crowning achievement came at the World Tour Finals in 2009, when he defeated Federer, Nadal, Soderling and del Potro to take the title, driving the giant Argentinean halfway to despair in the final.*

It all seems like a distant memory now. Over the last 52 weeks, Davydenko has compiled a record of 20-23. They aren’t numbers to be proud of, but exceeding even the volume of those losses is their manner. Six of those losses have come to qualifiers, two to wildcards, and one to Viktor Troicki.

A key issue here is the first serve. Despite his modest stature, Davydenko at his best boasted an insidiously tricky first ball, courtesy of a strange torque in his action. I can find no useful stats on his service speed lately, but the perception is widespread that he is going after it less. The numbers that are available back this up. In his best years, which were 2005 – 2009, his first serve percentage was a respectable 67-69%. This is has actually risen in recent years (to over 70% last year). Yet, his ace rate has more than halved. In his glory years, on average 5.5% of his first serves were aces, which is not amazing in the scheme of things – Isner comes in at 16.7% – but is okay for his type of game. In the last year that has been reduced to just 2.3%. The implication is either that Davydenko has only played guys who are harder to ace, or, more likely, that he has indeed reduced the heat on his first serve. This helps explain why he’s winning so many fewer points behind it (about 6-7% lower than his peak years).

Without his serve to set up points, the widening cracks in Davydenko’s ground game have grown broad enough to swallow him up. I was courtside for his squalid loss to Flavio Cipolla in the first round of the Australian Open this year, and a painful experience it was, savagely hot, windy and depressing. Cipolla’s game is built around reasonable foot-speed and a slice backhand, carefully placed atop a large mound of nothing else. He is the kind of player that Davydenko would once beat left-handed, for a lark. Time and again the Russian would attack, achieve the ball he wanted, and then miss the putaway. He wasn’t pleased about it, but he mostly just looked nonplussed, gesturing away at his brother Eduardo with an expansiveness and regularity befitting the WTA. For a game that was based around such delicate calibration, it doesn’t have to go off much before it doesn’t work at all. The last two sets weren’t even competitive.

Today in Munich Tommy Haas was immaculate in seeing off the top seed Jo-Wilfried Tsonga. Haas insists that he has no great designs on a late career miracle, and it’s easy enough to believe him. He plays on because he loves the sport, and for moments like these, in the full awareness that when it’s finally over it will be over for ever. Even as an admirer of Davydenko’s game, and his sly, wry attitude, I would never suggest that the Russian loves the sport that much, or enough to continue on once it becomes perpetually frustrating, once he glances around, and finally remarks, ‘No, it’s not worthwhile now.’

*Perhaps most shockingly, he defeated Monfils, Soderling and Verdasco on his way to the Kuala Lumpur title earlier that year. The draw also included Ferrer, Gasquet, Gonzalez and Berdych. It was only two and half years ago, but the Malaysian Open’s glory days feel as distant as Davydenko’s.