The Next Point

Bucharest and Barcelona, Finals

Rosol d. Garcia-Lopez, 6/3 6/2

(2) Nadal d. (4) Almagro, 6/4 6/3

Lukas Rosol today won his first tour title within hours of Rafael Nadal claiming his fifty-fourth. It feels like there’s a compelling point to be made there, as though something profound has occurred; as though the juxtaposition of these two momentous events is more than just a coincidence. Perhaps, through the warped prism of professional men’s tennis, we’d been vouchsafed a fleeting glimpse of the world’s fearsome underlying symmetry. Last year Rosol inflicted the season’s least likely loss on Nadal at Wimbledon, ensuring that their names would remain forever entwined, like Isner and Mahut, or Marks and Spencer, or Tango and Cash. And now here there were, in Bucharest and Barcelona. When two men do something that matters at about the same time, it feels like it should really mean something.

Further significance arrived in the form of Rosol’s opponent, the great magic-realist novelist Guillermo Garcia-Lopez, whose last tour title came three years ago in Thailand. If Rosol’s Wimbledon victory constituted the most audacious upset of 2012, then Garcia-Lopez’ upset of Nadal in the Bangkok semifinals was the standout example of 2010. (So far in 2013 the palme has gone to Horatio Zeballos in Vina del Mar, again against Nadal. It’s a fine compliment to Nadal that his most absurd losses endure in the collective memory, even as we wonder at his practice of making them an annual ritual.)

Rosol’s victory over Nadal was more significant, since it occurred over five sets on Wimbledon’s Centre Court, and was the Spaniard’s last match of the year, but Garcia-Lopez’ was undoubtedly stranger. Nadal was playing in his first tournament since claiming his first US Open title a few weeks earlier, and took the first set easily, 6/2. He almost took the second set easily, but, despite gaining dozens of chances, managed to blow every single one: one hundred breakpoints of ineptitude. Garcia-Lopez somehow engineered a baffling and impossible turn-around, took the tiebreak, broke flashily in the third, and grimly held for the match. For Garcia-Lopez and Rosol to be contesting the Bucharest final mere hours before Nadal was due to defend Barcelona seemed like a dire omen. Of course, Nadal was playing Nicolas Almagro, whom destiny has long since given up on.

Introducing the match, Sky Sports put in a desultory attempt to pretend that it wouldn’t be a sorry mismatch. Marcus Buckland put it to the assembled luminaries whether Almagro had much chance at victory. In all cases the answer was unequivocally negative: Almagro had no chance. Buckland seemed disappointed at this, although he conceivably had a producer in his ear beseeching him to drum up any interest in the final at all. Sadly the graphics department hadn’t received similar instructions. They flashed up a handy graphic to illustrate the hopelessness of Almagro’s cause, by breaking it down into smaller yet equally dismal categories: not only has he never beaten Nadal at all, he hasn’t beaten him on clay, in 2013, or at a Major! Such lists can be expanded endlessly, and I really wish they’d tried. How many times has Almagro defeated Nadal in April, or while it was raining, or in Spain, or while sponsored by Lotto?

To these useful categories we can now add the number of times that Almagro has defeated Nadal while leading by a double-break in the first set. (The tally remains at zero.) Still, for a moment hope must have flared in Buckland’s heart that the elder player would go on with it. He had begun superbly, displaying the kind of aggressive and stylish shot-making that he famously cannot, or will not, sustain. Nadal lifted his level in the fourth game, and broke back, twice. Almagro reverted to the kind of suavely measured claycourt tennis that sees him dominate lesser opponents – he thrashed poor Philipp Kohlschreiber yesterday – but which never detains Nadal for very long. The weather undoubtedly played its part. Reckless endeavour grows dicier in sluggish, damp conditions: ‘With the rain, the ball got heavier and it wasn’t the same for me anymore.’

There were a few brief moments of tension at 4/4: Almagro played a few excellent deuce points to gain break points, whereupon Nadal played excellent points to save them. Otherwise the match played out more or less exactly as everyone assumed it would, even Marcus Buckland. It is the Mallorcan’s eighth Barcelona title – since 2003 he has won 80 of 82 sets played at this venue – and will surely re-instil whatever confidence he lost in Monte Carlo last week. If he’s going to lose to anyone this clay season, it won’t be to the calibre of player populating the Barcelona draw this week. Beyond that, it’s hard to say what it all means.

It’s debatable to what extent winning tennis tournaments means much at all. That said, whatever its significance, writing about it certainly matters far less, and so I’m obliged to attach some meaning to it all, or else what am I doing here? These are existential musings best left for the small hours – as Martin Amis said, it’s the information and it comes for you at night – when they proliferate in the fertile widening space between thoughts. For now let’s assume it all matters a great deal.

It certainly matters to Rosol, though its significance had nothing to do with Nadal, and everything to do with his father, who suffered a heart attack three weeks ago while watching his son play Davis Cup, fell into a coma, and died a week later. The trophy was tearfully dedicated to him. It was a very touching moment.

Indeed, the entire finish was quite touching, which was lucky, since it wasn’t particularly exciting. Garcia-Lopez was emphatically outplayed, and unsurprisingly outhit. Once Rosol took the first set comfortably, he moved ahead 4/0, and it seemed clear even to him that he was likely to win. A fraught final set tiebreaker with multiple matchpoints either way would undoubtedly have better taken his mind off things. But with time to ply his trade and dream ahead, his cares were free to roam.  The full weight of the moment was obvious. It is to his credit that he hefted it so easily, when he had every reason to be brought low. He later said, once he’d dedicated the trophy, that he’d felt his father was watching down on him.

I wonder what his father thinks of the trophy. Bucharest had always been something of an anomaly in this area, by failing to uphold the rich European tradition of bestowing truly hideous objects on proud men who surely deserve better. Last year at this tournament Gilles Simon hefted a cut glass bowl that was almost tasteful. I’m please to say that the BRD Nastase Tiriac Trophy has now fallen into line. The new trophy is an unrelieved eyesore, guaranteeing that even those future champions not suffering recent bereavement will have a tear in their eye. I hope Rosol wins another tournament soon, so that his trophy shelf features something a little less garish. Perhaps Umag. Or Montpellier.

Actually, there are plenty of other reasons to hope Rosol goes on to win more tournaments, which have nothing to do with trophies or his father. Wimbledon demonstrated to the world how uncompromising and aggressive he can be, and that when he finds his range he can be virtually unplayable. However, too often in the week-to-week grind of the tour he proves that and aggressive unwillingness to compromise isn’t quite enough to guarantee a ranking commensurate with one’s abilities. By winning Bucharest, Rosol has now risen to No.35, and is therefore within striking distance of a seeding at Roland Garros, and at Wimbledon. This does not feel inappropriate, and ensures, at the very least, that he and Nadal cannot meet in the second round. Perhaps they’ll meet in the final. Maybe that’s what today’s results really mean.

Then again, perhaps it’s all just a coincidence.

Houston, Final

Murray / Peers d. (1) Bryan / Bryan, 1/6 7/6 12-10

(5) Isner d. (1) Almagro, 6/3 7/5

‘Jamie Murray, by far the less heralded of the Murray brothers, helps upset the most heralded brothers in the sport – the Bryans.’

It is entirely forgivable when lumpen phrases emerge half-formed in the heat of the play – spontaneity trumps sonority – but the delayed timing and measured delivery of this one suggested the commentator had been chiselling away at it for a while. Intoned after the Houston doubles final in that plodding myth-making metre favoured by American sports-callers, such lines grant easy ammunition to those who dismiss English as an ugly language. Certainly it’s a language that doesn’t yield up its music casually. The same phrase in Italian would no doubt sing, and by the time Verdi was through with it, it’d probably make you sing along. But coming from an ambitious yet tone-deaf English-speaker with no sense of cadence, it merely makes you sigh.

Still, I cannot fault its content. Jamie Murray, ably assisted by the even less heralded John Peers, had indeed defeated the resplendent Bryan brothers, recovering from a first set hiding and saving a championship point before triumphing 12-10 in the deciding match tiebreak. Their recovery in the second set tiebreak was particularly stirring, as they came back from 0-3 to win seven consecutive points.

It was certainly the most exciting tennis match I saw this week, although for sheer drama it was narrowly topped by the US Masters play-off at Augusta. Adam Scott – if anything, too heralded – has therefore eclipsed Peers as the Australian sporting story of the week. For his troubles Scott was hustled to an anachronistic log cabin and draped in a spiffy green crested blazer, whereas Peers and Murray were obliged to dive-bomb into a pool. Horses for courses, I suppose.

A day later John Isner was elegantly gliding into that same pool, having defeated Nicolas Almagro in the Houston singles final. It’s one of the nicer rituals at the US Men’s Claycourt Championships: having toiled away for a week on a court that looks like it has been sluiced with used dishwater, the victor is permitted to cleanse and cool his worn body. Although it wasn’t a long final, it had been a warm and sunny day in Houston, and the giant American was cramping such that he hadn’t been able to sit down during the press conference. A sudden plunge into cold water was surely just the thing. It always makes for a slightly awkward moment once the players are actually in the water, with the pool ringed around by tournament staff and media. Should one swim around for a bit? Perhaps crack some jokes? Or just get straight out? Isner got straight out.

Even if he’d wanted to dog-paddle about languorously, there wasn’t time. He and Almagro are even now slumbering miles above the Atlantic Ocean, en route to Monte Carlo. Their heralds have preceded them, trumpets a-blast. Isner belatedly requested a wildcard to the Masters, which was duly awarded. He was roundly criticised for skipping the event last year, with many pointing out that the undoubted glory of being named the US Men’s Claycourt Champion was worth less in the long term than maintaining crucial momentum in Europe. Some felt he might legitimately challenge the best players in Madrid, Rome and Paris, but that by returning to the United States so soon he would achieve little besides distracting himself. In the end Isner lost in the Houston final, pronounced himself exhausted, and didn’t return to Europe until Madrid, where he lost in the first round. His results hardly picked up from there, and by the time he crashed out of Wimbledon no one regarded him as a challenger anywhere. It’s probably a stretch to say skipping Monte Carlo brought about his terrible summer, but this season he’s taking no chances. The Monte Carlo tournament is already under way, and he’ll be compelled to hit the ground at a full loping run. But as he himself said, he might be tired, but he’s also coming in on a five match claycourt winning streak.

Interviewed after the final, Almagro was decidedly less upbeat about his prospects in Europe, and about his form in general. I wonder how much of that reflects disappointing results through the so-called Golden Swing, the part of the season in which he traditionally thrives. The Spaniard certainly wasn’t at his best in Houston; although he’d hardly been pressed after his tough opening match with Gael Monfils, he’d remained peevish and distracted through the week. Even today he appeared beset. (Meanwhile Isner ambled around with typical languor, at one point earning a time violation warning, whereupon he took the unprecedented step of not going bananas at the umpire.)

Almagro commenced impatiently, and grabbed the early lead by breaking in the third game, which is usually enough to guarantee the set against Isner. He made it to 3/1, yet from there lost five straight games, broken twice. The first of these was especially poor, and seemed to galvanise the American. It’s more or less a given that Isner will serve well and move badly, but this was the most assertively he has struck his groundstrokes in some time. The slowness of the surface enabled him gradually to manoeuvre his feet into position, whereupon he’d anchor them and lean into his forehand. Light balls and a hot day didn’t hurt, and nor did an Almagro too content with crosscourt patterns.

Like everyone else, I have no idea why Isner doesn’t play like this all the time, even when he’s short on form, especially because his form-slumps seem to affect his back-up game just as profoundly as his primary one. Even if nothing goes in, the result will be the same either way, and he won’t be tired. Despite being eight-foot-whatever and the boasting the capacity to kick serves into a second storey window, there seems to be a cautious soul trapped somewhere inside Isner. After he defeated Roger Federer in Fribourg last year, following Jim Courier’s insistence that he remain recklessly first-strike at all costs, Isner conceded that he is supposed to play like that all the time. This week he has said several times that he has finally turned a corner. Hopefully that means he’ll go back to playing like he should all the time, all the time.

Almagro was finally broken again in the eleventh game of the second set, in which he heroically saved four match points, before bringing up a fifth with a forehand error, and losing it with another off the backhand. He summarily dispatched a ball over the stands, and watched on with the rest of us as Isner served it out. The American fell down 0-30, but then recalled his fabled ability to smash serves very hard into the corners of the box. This wasn’t quite as impressive as sinking an eight metre putt in a Masters play-off, but it did the trick.

Rotterdam, Quarterfinals

Momentous events are unfolding, at least as the term ‘momentous’ is understood within the constricting parameters of men’s professional tennis in February. Of the three events being conducted this week, two managed to lose their defending champions within a couple of hours. Fortunately each man was located quickly; Roger Federer had wandered distractedly into a broom closet, curious to know what it was, while Nicolas Almagro had fallen into a yawning crevasse in the Brasil Open playing surface. Having been rescued, both men were immediately ushered onto their respective tennis court, whereupon both lost.

Meanwhile, at a secret US government facility in San Jose, there are reports that Milos Raonic remains on course to claim his third and final SAP Open title. These reports are unconfirmed, since, based on all available footage, this Gitmo-style facility is far too restricted to allow public access, and so far Amnesty International’s demands for entry have been rebuffed. I have requested my contact in the Bay Area to look into it. Expect her report within days. We demand the truth, whether or not we can handle it. At least President Obama is making good on his earlier promise to close the place down.

Benneteau d. (1) Federer, 6/3 7/5

Federer lost to Julien Benneteau. It isn’t the first time this has happened, even within the Western European theatre of operations, and even if we confine our terms of reference to fast indoor hardcourts. Benneteau also beat him at Bercy in 2008. He is now at serious risk of becoming the only man to defeat Federer twice without ever claiming a tour title. His place in later versions of Trivial Pursuit (Obscure Edition) would therefore be assured.

Which isn’t to say that Federer’s loss is a trivial matter, for either man. Benneteau played beautifully throughout the match. This proved a simple enough matter in the first set, given Federer, by Mark Petchey’s scathing assessment, had played the worst set of his career, or words to that effect. This is probably unfair, since he used to put together some pretty woeful sets before 2003, but the broad point can be conceded. He was unusually sluggish, both in his reactions and his footwork, while his serve lacked penetration and his forehand lacked endeavour. Perhaps he’d inhaled some ammonia in that broom closet.

The true wonder was that Benneteau continued to play well even into the second set, after his opponent had finally relocated his game, notwithstanding a weak effort to be broken back to love. The tightest moments came at the end, at 5/5, when the Frenchman fended off three break points with positive play, and by landing first serves. The Sky commentators essayed the confident prediction that if Federer stole the set – he later admitted he wouldn’t have deserved it – he’d go on to take the match. The more superstitiously inclined among Federer’s fan-base, who subscribe to the idea of ‘jinxing’, undoubtedly wished the commentators would just shut-up, especially when the defending champion’s subsequent service game was disastrous. After struggling to 30-30 he double-faulted. Benneteau took the match on first match point, again by playing assertively, and charging to the net behind some strong groundstrokes. Federer missed the backhand pass, challenged the clearly out-ball, and that was that. Benneteau afterwards revealed that he’d immediately apologised to Richard Krajicek for beating his star attraction. ‘That’s okay,’ Krajicek (apparently) replied. ‘It’s sport’.

Speaking of obscure trivia (and the pursuit thereof), this is the first time Federer has lost to a player outside the top twenty who isn’t an ex-No.1 since May 2010, when he fell to Albert Montañés in Estoril. He has now gone without winning a title since the Cincinnati Masters last August, in contrast to a year ago, when we was in the midst of his most lucrative title-spree in years. In this period he has failed to defend four events (Basel, Paris, London and now Rotterdam). Having ceded the No.1 ranking to Novak Djokovic in the last week of last season, he is now over 3,000 points adrift of the Serb at No.2 (and about 1,300 points clear of Andy Murray). Federer’s next event is Dubai, starting in ten days, and after that the Indian Wells Masters. He is the reigning champion at both. But that’s okay. It is just sport, and some fans would do well to remember it.

Benneteau will face Gilles Simon in the semifinals. Simon’s opponent Martin Klizan retired with cramps in the third set. It is hard to see that that these reflected any excess of physical toil, since it was an indoor hardcourt match played at night, although it is, as ever, easy to say that they were instead the corporeal manifestation of the soul-crushing ennui experienced by most of Simon’s opponents at one time or another. I confess I’m surprised Simon is playing in Rotterdam at all. I imagine the US military could have put his abilities to good use in San Jose.

Dimitrov d. Baghdatis, 6/7 7/6 6/3

The other semifinal will see Juan Martin del Potro take on Grigor Dimitrov, who earlier defeated Marcos Baghdatis in the finest match of the day, and arguably the best match so far this week. It was a bruising, exciting, high-quality, all-court encounter between two gifted shotmakers making shots, conducted in an excellent spirit. Dimitrov vaulted the net upon claiming the final point, and delivered a heartfelt embrace to his opponent.

This is the third time Dimitrov has defeated Baghdatis in four attempts (with the latter’s only win coming when Dimitrov retired early in their match at Wimbledon last year). One hesitates to call it a match-up issue. In all three losses the Cypriot came very close to winning. Today the moment came late in the second set. The first time they met, in Munich a couple of years ago, Baghdatis held two match points in the second set tiebreaker, and after blowing them gave up almost entirely. Earlier this year in the Brisbane semifinal their match was mainly notable for the putatively crucial moment in the final set tiebreak in which the older player had suffered a time violation, although this had less bearing on the outcome than many vehemently declared. They play tight, thrilling matches, and somehow the Bulgarian seems to win them.

Today’s match was decided by its least thrilling passage, a ten minute period in which Baghdatis was suddenly unable to hit the tennis ball onto those parts of the tennis court mandated by the rules. This unfortunately coincided with a patch of fine form from Dimitrov, and covered the second set tiebreaker (which Dimitrov won 7-0), and the start of the third set. Thereafter Baghdatis apparently eradicated whatever gremlins had tinkered with his range-finder, but the damage had largely been done. Dimitrov was pushed and stretched on serve throughout the third set – it was, as I say, sometimes thrilling – but held commendably firm, and his commitment to attack and probe never once faltered, even when Baghdatis saved a match point at 2/5, and forced the youngster to serve for it.

A semifinal at an ATP500 event is among the biggest results of Dimitrov’s career, and even if he loses he’ll move to a career-best ranking of No.33. There is therefore every chance he’ll be seeded at the upcoming Masters events in the US, which will grant him the (dubious) comfort of a first round bye. Those who take inordinate pleasure in admonishing Dimitrov for slow progress bear reminding that this time last year he was losing tight matches in shady US facilities, and his ranking was spiralling back out beyond the top hundred.

Australian Open, Quarterfinals

 (1) Djokovic d. (5) Berdych, 6/1 4/6 6/1 6/2

(2) Federer d. (7) Tsonga, 7/6 4/6 7/6 3/6 6/3

(3) Murray d. Chardy, 6/4 6/1 6/2

(4) Ferrer d. (10) Almagro, 4/6 4/6 7/5 7/6 6/2

Four men’s quarterfinals have been contested in the last two days. The upshot is that we now know who the four semifinalists will be. Fuzzy likelihood has sharpened into weary certainty. I doubt whether many are surprised that the semifinals will be contested by the top four seeds, who are at present the top four ranked players in the world.What might surprise you more is that this configuration is exceedingly rare in the Open Era. It hasn’t occurred at the Australian Open since 2012.

Rare or not, it certainly seems to happen a lot these days – relatively speaking I suppose it does – which can mean it feels inevitable. But given the extravagant lengths three of the men went to in order to progress, we shouldn’t assume that anyone’s presence in the last four was guaranteed, excepting perhaps Murray. It’s rather like watching someone navigate an exceptionally long tightrope. The longer they stay on, the more you may be lulled into believing it isn’t all that difficult, when in fact it only becomes harder. The top four seeds are through, but they certainly didn’t have to be.

Of the quarterfinals, two staggered in laden with baggage, and the other two didn’t. The two that did turned out to be perfunctory affairs, while the others were dramatic five-setters, although the shape of the drama was radically different for both.

The gossip before Andy Murray’s match was that his camp was furious that he hadn’t yet been granted a night session on Rod Laver Arena. Today’s match amply demonstrated why. It barely deserved a crowd. My prediction before the tournament began was that the Scot would face the most formidable quarterfinal opponent in Juan Martin del Potro; in fact I boldly asserted across several websites that the Argentine would win their match. Somehow I didn’t predict that he’d fall to Jeremy Chardy in the third round. I’m sorry about that. That’s my fault.

The quarterfinal is easily recapped: Chardy belted humongous and lavishly-prepared forehands, sliced a lot of backhands, and was completely outclassed. Murray wasn’t spectacular, but I don’t mean this as a criticism. A spectacle was hardly uncalled-for, and would have felt gratuitous, if not a waste of energy in the allegedly crippling Melbourne heat. He did what a true champion does, per Niki Lauda, which is to win going as slowly as he feasibly could. It was still fast enough to deliver a comfortable win. Now he’ll get that treasured night session.

Nicolas Almagro’s loss is an easy one to be ungenerous about, due both to the strained particularities of its unfolding, and because the capacity to deride extravagant choking has already been honed to a fine point by Sam Stosur. When it comes to poking fun, I’m in practice. The comprehensiveness with which Almagro failed repeatedly to close out victory could have only been rendered more excruciating had he actually held a match point. But he never did.

Almagro served for a spot in his first Major semifinal no fewer than three times in the first four sets. But he lost it in five, to his compatriot David Ferrer. Astute fans will recall last year’s Davis Cup final, and that Almagro lost the deciding fifth rubber, while Ferrer, whose heroics had so far kept Spain alive, watched on helplessly. I’d assumed that was the lowest moment of Almagro’s career, especially afterwards as he sat alone and for too long none of his teammates sought to console him. If Ferrer was that kind of guy, today would have constituted some kind of revenge. For the record, I don’t think he is that kind of guy, and I doubt whether it crossed either man’s mind at the end. But it crossed mine, if only as a reminder that two of the lowest moments of Almagro’s career have occurred in rapid succession, and that a tumble into the crevasse was prefigured by a glimpse of the heights.

In fact, I’m not quite sure what did cross Almagro’s mind. Afterwards he appeared too little chagrined by his fall, seemingly subscribing to the view that what’s past is past. Naturally there were plenty of positive aspects to his performance. He did, after all, lead the world No.4 by two sets and a break, and recovered well from the disappointment of losing the third set. But the careening flair that repeatedly brought him to the precipice of victory entirely stalled when he needed it most, and instead of leaping desperately he tried to edge his way forward. It behooves him to think on why this might be so. Anyway, Ferrer is through to another Australian Open semifinal, to face Novak Djokovic.

Based on the on-court interview conducted immediately after the second quarterfinal, and the presser staged slightly later still, the main item of interest in Novak Djokovic’s match was how he’d recovered from his titanic struggle with Stan Wawrinka two nights earlier. ‘Very well’ was the obvious answer, but the assembled press clearly wanted more, and wouldn’t be satisfied until they got it. It wasn’t enough to know that he’d partaken of ice baths. They had to know how many, and precisely who was present (turns out it was Lleyton Hewitt at least once).

There was, sadly, little to speak of about the match itself. Aside from some stiffer resistance from Tomas Berdych in the second set, there wasn’t much to differentiate this encounter from the one between the same men at the same stage of the same event two years ago. That previous match was so unmemorable that I can barely remember it, for all that I spent its duration seated cheek-by-jowl with the Berdych Army. For those who’ve forgotten, the Berdych Army was an allegedly lovable coterie of larrikins whose entire act consisted of painting the letters of the Czech player’s name on their torsos, and yodelling shoddily arranged pop medleys in ragged unison. I can remember the incessant chanting – on television they term it ‘atmosphere’ – but little of the actual match beyond the score, which as I think had a six in it.

What had seemed clear that night, and has since come to define what we may generously term their ‘rivalry’ is that Berdych’s defensive capabilities are limited, while Djokovic’s are not. Furthermore, although Berdych’s firepower is immense, his arsenal is relatively small. For example, his mighty forehand is considerably mightier when directed cross-court than up the line, and his ability to create angles is questionable. His second serve neither kicks nor bites, and slots neatly into the returner’s strike zone. Djokovic’s defensive skills are already unworldly anyway, but he reads Berdych’s game so well that he remains impregnable even when earthbound. In other words, the top seed’s B-game is generally good enough to deal with Berdych’s best, and last night the Serb brought his A-game, which meant that as well as defending desperately he was pummelling his opponent without mercy. As in Shanghai, when Berdych confessed he simply could find no way through Djokovic, it felt like a mismatch at a fundamental mechanical level.

Jo Wilfried Tsonga, on the other hand, is more creative than Berdych on attack, and, being a superior athlete, also defends with considerable virtuosity. I am inclined to agree with Jim Courier, who repeatedly stressed that Tsonga is the only player around his ranking who combines these attributes. This isn’t to say he lacks shortcomings. His middling results over the last year or so aren’t entirely contingent upon bad luck (he is 1-16 against top ten opponents since the start of last season), and nor was his loss tonight, for all that he was the superior player for large parts of the match.

For longer stretches than I would have believed possible Tsonga reprised his performance in the 2011 Wimbledon semifinal, when he recovered to inflict Roger Federer’s first ever defeat from two sets up at a Major. As he had that day, Tsonga’s considerable presence tonight caused his half of the court to shrink alarmingly. There were times when Federer could find no avenue of attack that wasn’t already blocked off, usually by artillery. Meanwhile Tsonga was lethal whenever he could get his feet set, off both forehand and backhand, while his returns – generally the weakest part of his game – landed not only miraculously in, but searchingly deep. Federer admittedly did not serve well, both by percentage and placement, and ended up with few aces, especially compared to his opponent.

Federer was compelled to fight, and to take what few chances he could get. Even then the chances were often yielded back. Several times in the first four sets his grip on service breaks proved rather too relaxed, especially in the face of a fearless and bold opponent. The second seed held four match points on Tsonga’s serve at 2/5 in the fifth, but failed to take any. The sighs of Federer’s legion fans could be heard across the globe, a vast pained exhalation that accelerated the melting of Greenland’s permafrost. Normally so secure in closing out victory, the prospect of Federer serving out the match seemed like the diciest enterprise since, well, Almagro the day before. It had just been that kind of night. From anywhere, at any point, Tsonga remained dangerous until the very end.

As it happened Federer did serve it out, and interviewed by Courier immediately afterwards was even more ebullient than usual, undoubtedly owing to a profound upwelling of relief. He’d known, as we all had, that this match hadn’t been over until the last overhead landed in and Jake Garner finally called it. He moves through to his tenth consecutive Australian Open semifinal, where he will play Murray for the fourth time at a Major, but for the first time before the final.

Davis Cup Final, Day Three

Ferrer d. Berdych, 6/2 6/3 7/5

Stepanek d. Almagro, 6/4 7/6 3/6 6/3

The Czech Republic has defeated Spain in the one hundredth final of the Davis Cup. Astute historical observers might note that the event actually began in 1900, while those with a particular gift for arithmetic will hopefully spot the numerical discrepancy. The answer is that, as in so many fields of human endeavour, two world wars proved terribly inconvenient.† The Cold War, on the other hand, provided almost no hindrance at all. Indeed, the last time the Czechs tasted Davis Cup glory was in 1980, and they were obliged to share it with any interested Slovakians. This time, for the first time, they have it all to themselves. Meanwhile, this is only the second time Spain has lost a Davis Cup final since the Soviet tanks rolled into Prague. Their latest squad included a world No.5 in career-best form, and a doubles team that had just claimed the World Tour Finals. It was almost enough to guarantee victory. But, as any engineer will tell you, a chain is only ever as strong as its Nicolas Almagro.

In the end, but only in the end, Tomas Berdych was proved right. Despite his many accomplishments, Almagro was indeed the fatally weak point through which the Czech Republic funnelled its assault, and thereby achieved a famous victory. They had to try something.  When you’re faced with the most impregnable tennis nation of the era, which has claimed more Davis Cups in recent years than nearly every other country combined, you take what you can get, even if it is the assertion that the world No.11 is somehow a liability. The Czechs took what they could get.

Presumably no one was more relieved to see Berdych’s astute prediction come to pass than the man himself, for all that such comments are intended to be partly self-fulfilling. Berdych’s aim was certainly to seed doubt in any existing cracks in Almagro’s mind, and consequently widen them. The belief, which is widely subscribed to even by the Spaniard’s admirers, is that Almagro’s ranking around the edge of the top ten represents the upper limit of his abilities, which is restricted not by raw ability but by the near-certainly of his mental collapse in important matches.

Of course, this tactic nearly backfired when the Spaniard acquitted himself superbly on the opening day, and almost force-fed Berdych the healthiest slice of humble pie since Yevgeny Kafelnikov promised Lleyton Hewitt a stern tennis lesson, and then promptly lost. In a hostile environment, on an indoor hardcourt, Almagro pushed Berdych to the limit for four hours, leaving the Czech with a victory that might well turn out to be Pyrrhic given the heroic quantity of tennis still ahead of him. Suddenly the doubts were all Czech. What would this Almagro do to a tired Stepanek in a live fifth rubber, if it came to it? These abstract musings took on a practical urgency after Berdych’s consummate flogging at the hands of David Ferrer in this morning’s fourth rubber.

The loss to Ferrer was Berdych’s first loss in Davis Cup in 2012, which ensured that one of the most successful such years in history ended on a slightly down note, at least personally. He had become just the second player to win at least ten live rubbers in a season, but he might have lost the one that mattered most, and badly. Meanwhile, it was Ferrer’s eighteenth singles win in a live rubber, for only three losses, and he has been unbeaten this year, winning six matches for the loss of two sets. This was the rubber that many had expected to be pivotal.

Desperate to resuscitate Spain’s chances, Ferrer emerged as though unbowed by the slightest concern in the world. He was, from the opening point (an ace), operating on a stratospherically higher plane than Berdych. Ferrer’s defence was predictably impeccable, and Berdych completed few trips to the net that weren’t laced with peril. All too often the Czech barely attained the service line before spinning to watch Ferrer’s passing winner streak by. But mostly it was Ferrer darting forward and compelling his larger opponent to yield up the baseline, and to run, subjecting Berdych to an unending selection of vicious high-speed geometric puzzle that he proved ill-equipped to deal with. It was the most accomplished match I have seen from Ferrer since he so surgically dismembered Juan Martin del Potro at Wimbledon.

But would it all be for nothing? Just last week Ferrer managed to win two matches in the round robin phase in London’s O2 Arena but was cruelly denied a place in the semifinals. Now in Prague’s O2 he had flogged both Czech singles players, but was faced with the possibility that he might still lose the Davis Cup final. It had all come down to Almagro and Stepanek.

Either represented a vanishingly slender thread from which to suspend national hopes. Stepanek was in Prague on his preferred surface, but was also playing his third best-of-five match in three days, and he was almost thirty-four years old. Indeed, no man over thirty had won a decisive fifth rubber in a final exactly one hundred years. Meanwhile Almagro’s capacity to under-perform in crucial matches had been the endlessly-iterated theme of the weak. The fifth rubber of a Davis Cup final is a crucible and the man who wins is invariably the man who can retain his shape the longest. Could he somehow replicate Viktor Troicki’s unlikely feat from 2010, and stand firm in the face of an experienced opponent who wouldn’t stop coming at him?

Visually, neither man could realistically claim the honours. Almagro’s pink shirt had long since shed its España patch, which only the congenitally unpoetic failed to read as symbolic, while his shoes looked like he’d forded a shallow stream of salmon dip. Meanwhile Stepanek’s blue shirt sustained the rich Czech tradition of producing history’s most hideous tennis wear, a tradition that stretches back at least to Ivan Lendl. (Lendl was there, incidentally, and looked on approvingly.) With its extravagant leonine heraldry, it scored highly for patriotism even as it uneasily reminded us that sanity is only ever contingent.

The match got off to a shaky start, but before too long settled into a steady pattern of Stepanek attacking and Almagro barely holding on. It is hard to think that, as predicted, the occasion hadn’t gotten to Almagro. Character is indeed destiny. He was unusually passive, but then part of his make-up is that despite being a gifted shotmaker he can stop going for his shots when the going grows tight, unlike, say, Marcos Baghdatis, who keeps going for them but misses. Given the wave of support that Stepanek was bodysurfing – he was relentless – it was in a way admirable that Almagro held on as long as he did, until, at crucial times, he didn’t. The second set provides a particularly good example. After they’d traded early breaks, Almagro finally forced his way a tiebreaker with his best tennis of the match so far. From there he disappeared almost entirely, and failed to trouble the scorer, although the stats guy in charge of unforced errors was kept busy.

The third set was certainly Almagro’s boldest passage of play, and hope or dread kindled at the prospect of an audacious comeback from two sets down, depending on your proclivities. Surely Stepanek was now tiring. It was hard to tell. He was certainly endeavouring to shorten the points, but he’s been doing that for years on nearly every point. His work around the net remained consistently excellent, and this consistency began to wear his opponent down to nothing in the fourth, although Almagro, with feathery irony, did save one match point with an angled backhand volley of his own. He couldn’t save the second. The Davis Cup was sealed with one last Almagro error, his 56th of the afternoon, and Stepanek collapsed to the court. The captain Jaroslav Navrotil arrived to crush him shortly after, followed immediately by the mullet he has cultivated since the Czechs last won the Davis Cup. Before long the rest of the squad were there, and piled atop each other in the approved manner.

Speaking of irony, it was a quite delicious moment when Berdych of all people, amidst the team celebrations that were gaining a fearsome internal momentum, interrupted Stepanek – who’d taken to vaulting the net – and reminded him to go and shake the hands of the assembled Spanish team. Both the Czech players have had a memorable year when it comes to handshakes. That will definitely be what they remember 2012 for. Stepanek then shredded his special lion shirt, providing an image fated to remain with the rest of us for some years to come.

I won’t pretend to have seen all hundred Davis Cup finals that have so far been contested, but I’ll submit that this one would not look out of place beside the best of them. It featured  just about everything one might have hoped for (unless you are Spanish, in which case you would feasibly have hoped for more Rafael Nadal, without whom the Spaniards are merely very good, as opposed to unbeatable). The heroic Ferrer did a lot, but he couldn’t do everything. He might have even done enough to stop pedestrian commentators telling us how underrated he is, despite the fact that they’re only ones saying it.

Nor should we forget the central doubles rubber, in which Stepanek and Berdych defeated the reigning Tour Finals champions in Marc Lopez and Marcel Granollers, proving once more that the top doubles players aren’t necessarily the best doubles players. This in turn reminds us that the Czech Republic won the 2012 Davis Cup with only two players. Berdych and Stepanek contested every live rubber in 2012, in singles and doubles. It also fittingly caps the most successful possible year for Czech team tennis. In 2012 they have won the Davis Cup, the Federation Cup, and the Hopman Cup. It’s a lot to bear in mind, and it’s conceivable that 2012 won’t be remembered for missed handshakes after all.

† I note with some interest that Australia defeated the USA in the Davis Cup finals of both 1914 and 1939, an outcome that might well have precipitated unprecedented global carnage. Of course, there’s a slim chance that it’s just a coincidence, but can we take that chance? It’s probably for the best that my country remains mired outside the World Group.

Davis Cup Final, Day One

Ferrer d. Stepanek, 6/3 6/4 6/4

Berdych d. Almagro, 6/3 3/6 6/3 6/7 6/3

The first day of the 2012 Davis Cup final has been completed, with the Czech Republic and the constitutional monarchy of Spain locked at one rubber all. If one was feeling overly wilful or mischievous this could be spun as a political tussle between the old world and the new, between tradition and progress. It’s something for Tomas Berdych to consider, lest he grows short on Spaniard-baiting material, which admittedly seems unlikely to happen. There’s also a chance he is too tired and wary, having narrowly avoided gagging on the heroic portion of humble pie he’d prepared earlier. Perhaps he’s learned a lesson. Part of me hopes not. Still, even if he hasn’t, the rest of us certainly have.

For example, we now know that the Prague crowd expresses its disapproval by whistling, and that what they lack in virtuosity they make up for in raw stamina. Expressing ire through whistling, you may be sure, is a distance event. This was eagerly illustrated when Carlos Ramos failed to correctly award a point to Berdych after the Czech player had successfully challenged a winner called out. Ramos was certainly wrong; the point should have gone to Berdych. For a good twenty minutes the locals pursed their lips and made their feelings known with undiminished gusto, which would swell ominously like the Sirens of Jericho whenever Nicolas Almagro commenced his service motion.

Despite sounding like the stadium was rapidly deflating, it ironically pumped Berdych up. Having appeared flat throughout the second set, he fair bounded through the third. Whistling clearly has its advantages, especially as it proved sufficiently loud to drown out the vuvuzela section. (I don’t know who invented the vuvuzela, but I do kind of wish it was me. I could make a fortune charging people $10 each to punch me in the face.) Before too long it subsided, leaving Berdych so diminished that he first surrendered his lead in the fourth, and then the set itself in a tiebreaker.

It went without saying that an Almagro victory would have put Spain in an overwhelming position, given that they’d already won the opening rubber. Or so I thought. Greg Rusedski did not agree: ‘If Almagro wins, then Spain is in the driver’s seat.’ In the end Berdych did eke out the fifth set, thus technically proving Almagro to be the weaker link, since it’s doubtful whether Berdych on this form would have troubled Ferrer for long. But even so, I’m sure it was a closer run thing than Berdych had envisaged, and it’s hard to think that this hadn’t contributed to the nerves that for a time threatened to paralyse him. Almagro acquitted himself well, in every sense, from his superior serving and aggressive ground game, up to and including his gracious handshake afterwards. It was a lesson in classy behaviour, or at least an example of how politeness can be weaponised. We learned that Reebok has nothing in its current range that comes closer to bandera roja than pink.

We also learned that there’s really not much to say about David Ferrer beating Radek Stepanek in straight sets, but that in the hands of a master analyst like Rusedski this little can be made to go a long way, or at least for a long time. The actual Eurosport commentary during the match had been provided by Frew McMillan and Chris Bradnam, and was thus quite good, although they only referred to Ferrer as ‘underrated’ a handful of times. This was well short of the crushing quota achieved over on the Tennis Channel, whose experts rate him so highly that they struggle to come up with much else to say. Almost everything about him, by their estimation, is not accorded the respect it merits from the broader public.

Keen to verify this for myself, I took to the streets. There weren’t many people around at that hour in Melbourne, but those seedy revellers I did corner eventually confessed that they didn’t rate Ferrer very highly at all, even when I showed them a photo and explained who he was. Some appeared shocked to learn that he has such competent volleys, and that he defends his second serve so well. (None of them hung around long after that, except for one charming transient who insisted he could smell my heartbeat.)

Notwithstanding the scientific validity of my vox pop survey, I still think Ferrer’s underratedness is mostly overrated. He was the clear favourite today, and played like it, despite a minor hitch in the second set when Stepanek came back hard at him. He won in quick time, serving, passing and running remarkably like you’d imagine a world No.5 would, regardless of rating.

Although the result itself clearly thrilled the Spanish team – even yielding them temporary control of that cherished driver’s seat – its brevity won’t have troubled the Czech team too much. Stepanek probably wasn’t going to win anyway, so it’s best he was spared unnecessary toil before the pivotal doubles tomorrow. Whether he’ll partner the weary Berdych could be a dicey question, though, and the Czech team has some thinking to do. I suspect he’ll play, if only to see his devious plan bear fruit. All this Almagro ‘weak link’ talk has been a red herring. It’s really Marcel Granollers they’re after.

French Open, Day Eleven

Tuesday’s French Open quarterfinals provided a pair of matches that were about as fascinating as discerning tennis fans could reasonably hope for, although those same fans might reasonably query the wisdom of scheduling both for precisely the same time. Aside from this continuing and daft experiment – the apparent goal of which is to neatly halve the number of potential viewers – Wednesday’s quarterfinal matches turned out nothing like that. No match points were saved, and neither of the eventual winners ever fell behind more than a game. Yesterday’s arrhythmic and barely tonal bloodbath gave way to a stately procession; a pair of sunny sarabandes whose intricate figurations initially delighted but ultimately failed to disguise the unyielding onward pulse below. I presume this won’t bother fans of Rafael Nadal or David Ferrer one bit, particularly as these fans are often (although not exclusively) one and the same. Perhaps it’s a Spanish thing. Perhaps it’s something else. I’m open to theories.

In any case, predictably or otherwise, the upshot is that the Roland Garros semifinal line-up is complete. Actually, I’ll concede that predictable is the appropriate term here, since, as usual, the last four includes the top three players in the world. Nadal will play Ferrer, and Djokovic will play Federer. For all that their journeys along these roads have not always been stately – Federer and Djokovic have seemingly clashed with bandits at every turn – there is an immutable sense that all of the roads have led here, even those snaking away from Rome. Indeed, it’s worth remembering that the Foro Italico witnessed precisely the same semifinalists, up to and including David Ferrer. Who can reasonably question Rome’s value as a form guide?

If today’s quarterfinals aren’t destined to abide in the collective memory, they still cleared up a few lingering questions. We now know that Andy Murray really did have the toughest draw out of the top four, although Juan Martin del Potro had the toughest draw out of anyone, excepting perhaps Simone Bolelli. We discovered that Murray plays better when the crowd hates him, which is something for the fanatics at Wimbledon to bear in mind. There is a rumour that Virginia Wade is organising a cheer squad. And we found out that Nicolas Almagro can time the ball really sweetly from both sides, even a sodden ball in dull conditions, although further viewing revealed that he cannot keep doing it for nearly long enough.

(2) Nadal d. (12) Almagro, 7/6 6/2 6/3

Indeed, today proved to my satisfaction that Almagro will probably never beat Nadal on clay. By his own admission he ‘played one of the best matches he can play against Rafa’, but he was never all that close to taking a set, and Rafa was hardly at his best. Post-match analysis has focussed on Almagro’s squandered break-point at 3/3 in the third set. But if your tightest moment comes in the middle of a set, when you have a two set lead, you’re not realistically in much trouble. I can’t recall thinking at the time that a break to Almagro at that moment would guarantee anything beyond the opportunity for Nadal to break him back, an opportunity so far denied him. For once I agreed with the otherwise pointless Slamtracker (think of the man-hours that went into that thing):  the momentum was all with the defending champion, who was defending as only he can. I was vaguely reminded of those who talked up Jurgen Melzer’s chances at last year’s event , based on the fact that he’d almost taken a set from Nadal the year before. Somehow, in spite of this immaculate pedigree, Melzer lost in the second round.

Nadal’s victory also gave us a useful example of the shortcomings of highlights packages, proving once again that trying to gauge the quality of a match from it best moments is about as worthwhile as settling down to read The Great Conversations from Middlemarch, or Proust’s Top Ten Recollections. Actually, that’s not quite correct. It is the conceit of mainstream tennis coverage that in order for a tennis match to be sufficiently dramatic, or ‘meaningful’ – here a meaningless term – it must therefore have a readily-defined narrative. The truth is that it mustn’t, and the drama, as I’ve suggested before, is essentially symphonic rather than literary. (Of course, not all matches provide great drama, but then not all symphonies are by Mahler or Beethoven. Most of them are crap, and mercifully forgotten.)

A highlights clip is more like a short medley of tunes than a symphony, which entirely misses the point, since a masterpiece cannot be distilled by just plucking out the catchy bits. Melody is only part the charm, and in rare cases none of it. Some of the most dramatic tennis matches are relatively highlight free. Even as ESPN conceives of tennis – as facile and programmatic – the highlights package heightens the spectacle but warps reality, and instills the false belief that a great match is merely the sum of its best parts, when all too often the opposite is true. Watching winners chained end on end can certainly be diverting, but without context they reveal little about how a given encounter actually unfolded. Here endeth the rant.

The metric has yet to be devised whereby today’s quarterfinal between Nadal and Almagro could be considered a great match. I watched it unfold in something like real-time, with only a brief delay to catch Almagro’s potential nipple-slips and for my stream periodically to insulate itself against the rigours of global travel. I’ve since watched a highlights package, which mostly showcased Almagro striking the ball with rare authority and Nadal retrieving desperately until his lower ranked compatriot buried a winner into the court he had lovingly prised apart. These points were very occasionally punctuated by Nadal contriving a scintillating winner from a hopeless position.

Nevertheless, the score-line informs us that Almagro actually lost the match, which therefore tells us that he missed the court rather too often, or that Nadal probably wasn’t in hopeless positions as frequently as one is led to believe. The score-line therefore says more than the highlights do, which really only reveal the astonishing information that when the world thirteenth best tennis player hits the ball as well as he can onto the lines, he is almost unbeatable. The real match took considerably longer, and was mostly decided by Almagro’s inability to return serve with any consistency – a fatal shortcoming in sluggish conditions – and the necessity for him to immediately exert control in every rally, and then maintain it almost indefinitely. If he didn’t, Nadal would, because he can.

The truth is that Nadal’s capacity to produce outrageous winners from impossible situations is no more fundamental to his perennial success than Djokovic’s ice-veined recklessness while match-point down is to his. Both are handy attributes, to be sure, and as I suggested yesterday, without it Djokovic’s continuing steeplechase towards history would have foundered at the second fence. But this is not how either man wins most matches. By my count, Nadal has now claimed 48 consecutive sets on red clay, dating back to last year’s Davis Cup final. He has done this by controlling the court, not through his undoubted virtuosity when forced off it. Most of the sets weren’t close, and this is by design. His design. He might not have been at his best today, but you can be sure that it went just how he wanted it to.

Nice, Final

(3) Almagro d. (Q) Baker, 6/3 6/2

Nicolas Almagro today defeated Brian Baker in the final of the Open de Nice Côte d’Azur, thereby defending his title, and ruining the best feel-good story the sport has known in years. He did it quite emphatically, with a magnificent display of serving, immense skills off the ground, and a complexion worthy of a skin-cream commercial. He was (groan-inducingly) without blemish. He was also a clear cut above his opponent today, and clearly superior to anyone Baker has faced en route to the final. Characteristically, Almagro has peaked at precisely the right time, the week before a Major.

The same might be said of Baker, but in his case there’s really so little data to go on that we’d be making an assumption. He has played eight matches in the last week and a bit, and many of them were close. Perhaps, for him, this is an ideal preparation. His physical history suggests otherwise, I suppose. It suggests that one tournament every seven years is about the sweet spot. At least today’s match wasn’t overly long, and, mercifully, the French Open has given him tomorrow off.

Still, if the final wasn’t long, it was closer than the scoreline suggests. Many of the game went to deuce. It’s true that most of those occurred when Baker was serving, but at least he didn’t go down easily. They were often followed by an Almagro service game lasting about a minute, Federer-style. The stream I was watching was the best I could find, but it still didn’t permit me to follow the ball on first serves. Perhaps if the court had been blue . . .  It turns out the Côte is azure everywhere but where it matters. As I say, Almagro served tremendously, and my stream was good enough to register him roll his arm over, the crowd volume to rise, and Baker to trudge to the other side a few times, and then to his chair. In lieu of a definitive first serve of his own, Baker’s game relies heavily on his capacity to break, and Almagro took that away from him. I am not alone in wondering what this will mean when the American encounters more fearsome servers on a faster court.

The upshot was the Almagro was hoisting the ‘trophy’ in a touch under seventy minutes. Unlike last year, I believe the points from this title – his twelfth – will actually count towards his ranking. In a few days he will face Paolo Lorenzi in the first round of the French Open. It’s hard to imagine how Almagro will blow a two set lead to the likeable Italian veteran, but luckily it’s not my job to organise it, merely to witness it unfold. The malign sprites that cursed Nice are not to be trifled with, and Almagro has thumbed his pimple-free nose at them twice too often. It will not stand.

World Team Cup, Final

Tipsarevic d. Berdych, 7/5 7/6

Troicki d. Stepanek, 2/6 6/4 6/3

To the vexing question of what the Davis Cup would look like if it was played in a single week – assuming that single week fell directly before Roland Garros, and it was contested at a modest venue in western Germany – the answer has always been Düsseldorf’s World Team Cup. For over 30 years, eight teams have fought valiantly for the right to be declared the most exhausted as they head to the French Open. Offsetting this slightly, the event is sponsored by Power Horse, who, it turns out, make some kind of equine-themed energy drink, and (disappointingly) do not manufacture outboard motors, at least according to their corporate literature. Serbia has now won the World Team Cup for the second time.

In the final they defeated the Czech Republic, granting the Czechs valuable experience in losing national team-based tennis events on clay, since they are travelling to Argentina for the Davis Cup in a few months. It is also revenge of sorts, since the Czechs saw off the Serbs in a spiteful Davis Cup tie in Prague a few months ago. We could therefore say there was a lot riding on this outcome. We would therefore be wrong.

Still, the Serbs were quite emphatic in their victory, which included glorious triumph in both singles rubbers. In the first, Janko Tipsarevic saw off Tomas Berdych in straight sets, although the effect was rather ruined when one of them wasn’t a tiebreak. These two have history in this area (again, see Prague). It was reasonably tight, but I don’t want to give the impression that its intensity was excessive. It felt like a hotly contested exhibition match, rather like Kooyong the week before the Australian Open. Berdych didn’t look too distraught afterwards, certainly less so than in Madrid a few weeks back.

The key difference between Düsseldorf and other warm-up-type events is that, for whatever ill-defined reason, the World Team Cup is sanctioned by the ATP, and therefore awards ranking points – at a rate unique to itself – and the match results count on the official record. Given this official imprimatur, I wonder if the results therefore carry more weight in the players’ minds. Does Tipsarevic feel more satisfaction at this win over Berdych than if it had occurred at, say Abu Dhabi back in January?

Actually, Tipsarevic is the wrong example. No one has been more fired up than him this week. His celebrations upon beating Philipp Kohlschreiber yesterday – from what I saw, the match of the week – were roughly commensurate with reaching a major semifinal. His celebrations upon beating Berdych were similar, but he topped this easily when Viktor Troicki clinched the title, leaping onto his team-mate’s back. It certainly felt like Davis Cup, especially when Radek Stepanek was left idling at the net without a hand to shake, evoking tense memories of that soulless barn in Prague. It was all innocent enough, though, under the complicated Rhineland sun.

Side note: Adidas have revamped their design and colour-schemes. Fernando Verdasco, typically, is incarnating the new look, to manful effect. I believe this means that no one has to wear toxic orange any more. Those still wearing it are therefore wearing it by choice.

Nice, Second Round

It is apparently the best kept secret in professional men’s tennis that the Open de Nice Côte d’Azur is cursed. This is the only reasonable explanation for why otherwise astute professional men’s tennis players keep turning up, despite knowing that victory here leads inexorably to incurable insanity and short-term tragedy. For all that this is just its third year, the event has an impeccable record.

Richard Gasquet claimed the inaugural title in 2010, thereby foolishly believing that he had gained valuable momentum heading to Paris. This momentum carried him through two sets in the opening round, but was then cruelly withdrawn. From two sets up, he fell to Andy Murray. Being Murray, we thought no more of it. It was just one of those things. We shook our heads (our own heads), shrugged with arch-Gallic offhandedness, and said, ‘That’s Reeshard for you.’

Nicolas Almagro – the premiere clay-courter at 250 level tournaments where no one better attends – won Nice last year, despite the fact that he gained no benefit from the points whatsoever, having already maximised that component of his rankings. One might argue that it was, again, all about securing momentum for Roland Garros, especially given his characteristically poor showing at the prior Masters events. Again, he galloped through a pair of sets in his opening round, but then capitulated with noisy industry to Lukasz Kubot in five. Now, Kubot has his qualities – Ivo Karlovic can attest to this – but he is no Murray. Alarm klaxons blared. Shrugging, and declaring ‘That’s Nico’, simply wasn’t going to cut it.

There is no way around it. Nice is cursed, and the dazzling splendour of the setting only renders its horror noirish. And yet, like that obviously haunted house on the hill that teenagers somehow cannot stay out of, players keep coming back. Even Almagro is back this year, suggesting that the curse also has a memory wiping component, or that the Spaniard simply cannot be taught. Perhaps he has a thing for blue. Literally everything about the event – except, amusingly, the court – occupies that part of the spectrum: the sky, the sea, the hoardings, the uniforms of the officials. It seems like an opportunity missed for Ion Tiriac, a legitimate shot at tout d’azur. Think of the visibility.

(Q) Baker d. (4) Monfils, 6/3 7/6

As I rule I’m wary of inspirational stories emanating from the United States, where a vast and lucrative flea market exists for the trading of such baubles. The market’s demand is sufficiently voracious that guaranteeing adequate supply has grown to become an industry unto itself, causing a profitable line in the manufacture of heroes, and a consequent dilution of the very concept of heroism. We call this industry ‘the media’. For the most part these inspirational stories inspire nothing beyond depression. Enough of them escape the US borders that we in the benighted parts of the globe can guess at the power of their source, and wonder: if this is the stuff they export, what do they keep for themselves? I’ve have undertaken two road trips across the breadth of the continental United States in order to experience this phenomenon from up close. It was hardly de Tocqeville, but by the end of each journey, there was a real danger of over-inspiration. Your heart can only soar so many times before it is grounded indefinitely. How do Americans get anything done? (It’s questionable whether Australia or Britain are really much better. If we are better, it is probably only because we lack the wherewithal to be worse. Australia could never produce a slags-to-riches story like Kim Kardashian, for all that my compatriots seem eager to consume her. Elsewhere in the world, she would, quite rightly, be manning a cash register, with hourly tutorials in its operation. In America she became a beacon of hope for millions around the world.)*

I hesitate to call Brian Baker a hero – especially not of Kardashian’s calibre – but I cannot deny that his story, by any reckoning, is inspirational. Even from half the world away, the qualitative difference is clear, especially from the way it has cut through. Scant weeks ago, no one was talking about this guy. Personally, I had forgotten he existed, despite the fact that I actually watched and enjoyed his victory over Gaston Gaudio at the 2005 US Open. (To balance the ledger, I don’t think Baker, if pressed, could tell you much about my achievements, such as they are.) His story was sad – another great talent crippled by injury – but it hardly seemed comparable to say, Mario Ancic or Joachim Johansson. But then he came back, basically from nowhere. I won’t go into the details here, since everyone probably knows them by now. If you don’t, here’s an excellent article from the Wall St Journal. As I say, it’s stirring stuff, and it has cut through.

Yesterday he defeated Sergei Stakhovsky in the opening round in Nice, his first victory at ATP level in approximately forever. Tonight he beat Gael Monfils in straight sets. It was a tremendous performance, and a quite magnificent advertisement for Baker’s game, which combines easy power with excellent court sense and a very solid return. Late in the piece, deep in the third set tiebreaker, he saved a set point with a gutsy second serve ace, suggesting that the entire package is anchored by an iron will, or balls of steel. To those who contend that Monfils wasn’t at his best – and he wasn’t – how do we know that Baker was? What does his best even look like?

If nothing else, it proves that the French Open wildcard he earned is totally deserved. He’ll play Mikhail Kukushkin tomorrow in the quarterfinals, which means that a semifinal is entirely possible. Even if he progresses no further, his ranking has leapt well inside the top 200, and he has, quite literally, nothing to defend. If his body maintains some structural integrity – and I can imagine no dicier ‘if’ – he is unquestionably bound for the top hundred. The main trick will be not to win the tournament this week, since there’s no telling what its capricious retribution will be.

Baker’s performance today contrasted tellingly with those of the lauded new guard. Bernard Tomic twice blew double match point in the deciding set against Kukushkin. The Australian will be seeded next week in Paris, and it’s hard to cavil at his results throughout the clay season, since they are a significant improvement over last year’s. Still, he should have won, and a quarterfinal against Baker would have been one to savour. Meanwhile Grigor Dimitrov went down barely fighting to Gilles Simon, without incident or endeavour. The Bulgarian, frankly, is languishing. He is far too young to be, but I can think of no better word.

* Kardashian’s Wikipedia entry declares her to be, among other things, a celebutante. I confess I had not heard this term before, for all that subsequent investigation yielded up a rich history spanning over 70 years. Microsoft Word, for the record, does not recognise it.

Monte Carlo Masters, Third Round

Haase d. Bellucci, 6/2 6/3

Last week in Casablanca, Robin Haase, not the latest great hope of Dutch tennis but still arguably the best, lost to Lamine Ouahab, ranked No.752. It was another low point in a career that too seldom ventures out of the basement. He has now climbed to the quarterfinals of the Monte Carlo Masters, the first time he has risen so high at so august a tournament. Philip Kohlschreiber did not write the book on streakiness (it’s written in French); he is merely its latest custodian. But there is good reason to think he permits Haase to borrow it from time to time. I picture the Dutchman poring over that oft-handled tome late into the night, studiously absorbing its nuances by furtive torchlight.

Haase’s form is typically defined by whether his lustily-produced groundstrokes find the court or not. As with, say, James Blake or Andrei Golubev, one assumed he knows no other way to play. Today was thus a surprise. It was decidedly cool in Monte Carlo this afternoon, and damp when it wasn’t flat out sodden. Soggy balls, a tin sky, and mud – it’s difficult to imagine conditions that suit Haase less. They demand patience, thoughtfulness, a willingness to run, and sufficient grunt to impart work onto a leaden ball. (For all that Rafael Nadal professes to prefer a faster, bouncier surface, he certainly has the skills to excel on a day like today, as poor Mikhail Kukushkin discovered). Haase has the grunt, but it was a wonder to see him unleash those other qualities – cerebral and aerobic – in seeing off Tomaz Bellucci.

Bellucci, it must be said, did not read the conditions well, maintaining a quixotic determination to hit through the court until the very end. Nor did he reproduce yesterday’s form, which allowed him to stretcher off a wounded David Ferrer. The result was 40 unforced errors, and several hundred wasted break points. Too often Bellucci would attempt an audacious winner while pushed wide or deep, but Haase was laudable in his commitment to shoving the Brazilian back and across. On a day when only two players truly excelled in bleak conditions, Haase’s sustained focus counts as a minor miracle. He’s back in the top fifty.

Wawrinka d. (8) Almagro, 6/3 6/3

Aside from Nadal, whose victory was so complete that even his hardcore fans must profess themselves satisfied – though some remain concerned his workout lacked sufficient intensity – the most imposing player today was Stan Wawrinka, who trounced Nicolas Almagro. Some had high hopes for Almagro this clay season, based on no clear evidence whatsoever. True, he performed well in South America, but he long ago proved that this hardly heralds success in Europe once the big boys show up. Some suggested that he would pose the greatest threat to Nadal’s inexorable progress to the final, an assertion based, again, on no evidence whatsoever, except perhaps an uneasy concern that a man who’d lost seven times in a row was due for a win.

They needn’t have worried. Wawrinka today looked like the more accomplished clay-courter, and while Almagro’s groundstrokes are very impressive, the superior weight the Swiss brings on both the forehand and backhand was obvious, and telling. Almagro looked blunted by the conditions, and Wawrinka did not – his backhand reared off the dull court. Wawrinka was also willing to close on the net, and finish points with touch. The only hiccough came at the end, with a flurry of wasted match points. He had a right to be nervous. He’ll face Nadal in the quarterfinals.

(4) Tsonga d. (13) Verdasco, 7/6 6/2

(6) Berdych d. (12) Nishikori, 2/6 6/2 6/4

Nerves might have explained Fernando Verdasco’s stricken capitulation to Jo-Wilfried Tsonga, if not for the fact that the Spaniard has been in that position so often before, and succumbed in basically the same way every time. He held two set points in the first set tiebreak, and grew timid. On both Tsonga justified his lofty ranking. The second, which the Frenchman took with an audacious dropshot-volley combo, brought down the house. From there he took the set, and soared to a double break in the second. Kei Nishikori and Tomas Berdych breezily split a couple of sets, before getting down to brass tacks in the third. Nishikori gained a break point at 4/4, constructed a fine point, but took his eye off the ball on the crucial inside-out forehand. Berdych held then broke then started shouting at the sky. Nishikori knew he’d blown it on that forehand.

(9) Simon d. (7) Tipsarevic, 6/0 4/6 6/1

(3) Murray d. Benneteau, 6/5 ret.

Janko Tipsarevic blew it on every stroke, especially in the first set, in which he served at an abysmal 37%, and won only 14% of those that went in. All six games went to deuce, and his opponent, Gilles Simon, won all of them. Both players took a break from this pattern in the second, but reprised it fairly succinctly in the third. We could, I suppose, concede that Tipsarevic isn’t a clay-courter. But nor is Simon. Julien Benneteau played out of his skin for ten games against Andy Murray, but was brought back to corporeality soon enough, crashing heavily to the court several times, and buggering first his ankle, then his elbow. Injury, as ever, proved a sure method of miring a soul threatening to take flight. Murray afterwards suggested there are issues with the courts. Juan Monaco, who is out for a month, doubtless concurs.