The Next Point

Madrid, Final

(5) Nadal d. (15) Wawrinka, 6/2 6/4

Rafael Nadal today defeated Stanislas Wawrinka in straight sets to reclaim the Madrid Masters title, winning a final whose almost complete lack of drama proved a fitting conclusion to a tournament whose outcome felt more or less foregone by the quarterfinals. There wasn’t even a Will Smith to enliven proceedings. Nor was there the usual dose of Ion Tiriac. Say what you like about him and his various ‘innovations’, but he at least allows tennis fans to indulge in their most cherished activity: vociferous moral outrage over highly trivial things. Alas, there was none of that.

Nonetheless, Nadal didn’t have it all his own way. He actually dropped a set this week, in total contrast to last week in Barcelona, where he dropped none. (That’s a worrying trend. He might conceivably drop two sets in Rome, and three in Paris.) Nadal’s key moment, we have been informed at soporific length, came when David Ferrer led him by a set and 6/5 in their quarterfinal, with the favourite serving to stay in the match. Ferrer achieved his desired short ball with Nadal hopelessly stranded on his backhand side. Ferrer, obeying his sly inner voices, opted against hitting the ball into the unoccupied acreage in Nadal’s ad court, and thereby gaining a few match points, which are the kind of points he should be interested in obtaining. Instead he hit it straight back to Nadal, who improvised an excellent reflex lob and subsequently won the point.

This point illustrated several things. Firstly, by so comprehensively stuffing it up, Ferrer lent further credence to the belief that he is destined always to blow it in such situations. Secondly, Nadal’s desperate shot to stay in the rally was a good example of what great hands he has under pressure, and showed why he is so difficult to beat: all he needs is half a chance. Thirdly, it usefully demonstrated that skill and luck are not mutually exclusive. Skill makes certain outcomes possible, or less unlikely, but it doesn’t necessarily guarantee them. Skill gave him half a chance.

The only thing less surprising than Ferrer wasting his half-chance at victory was that, even up a set against a curiously wayward Nadal, it would prove to be his only chance. However, one shouldn’t make more of this moment than it merits. There’s a reason we don’t maintain statistics on all those who win titles after nearly facing match point. As soon as Nadal won that point, the match was as good as over, and all the tension sluiced away. The third set was a bagel. So was the first set of his semifinal against the unlikely Pablo Andujar, who’d sustained his audacious run by upsetting Kei Nishikori in the quarterfinals. Andujar is probably the least likely Masters semifinalist in recent times, and Nadal quickly set about demonstrating how little his compatriot belonged in the last four at this level.

Wawrinka’s path the semifinal had been altogether more fraught, since he’d been obliged to overcome two top ten players, including last year’s finalist Tomas Berdych in the semifinals. This was probably the match of the tournament (although others had run it close, such as Grigor Dimitrov’s dramatic upset of Novak Djokovic, Ferrer’s over Tommy Haas, and Daniel Gimeno-Traver’s victory over Richard Gasquet). It ensured that Madrid’s final weekend at least had one match worth remembering, which is sadly about all we can hope for these days. Both of Wawrinka’s victories had taken three sets, as had the one against Dimitrov, and each had boasted its share of enervating drama. This probably wasn’t going to play in Wawrinka’s favour against Nadal.

Introducing today’s final, Sky Sports led enthusiastically with the statistic that Nadal had never lost to the Swiss in eight previous meetings, and that he hadn’t dropped a set in any of them. They then reiterated precisely how exhausted Wawrinka must be, given his heroic toils en route to the final, and how nervous, in just his second Masters final. His only hope, it was intimated, was the altitude, which Madrid has a lot of, and which Nadal, we were constantly told, doesn’t much care for. Regrettably, Wawrinka’s feelings on the matter weren’t canvassed, and no tactical advice was forthcoming on how he might turn this astonishing geographical phenomenon to his advantage.

Although Nadal had won seventeen consecutive sets against Wawrinka, none of them were bagels. At least Wawrinka can hold that over Ferrer, for the time being. Still, it was a close run thing when Nadal leapt out to a 4/0 lead. Wawrinka thankfully managed to hold, and then held again for 2/5. But holding was all he was doing and it wasn’t anything like enough. Nadal had yet to drop a point on first serve, and closed the set out easily. We were whisked back to the Sky studio, where the visual evidence was confirmed: Nadal was indeed playing exceptionally well, in spite of the altitude.

Wawrinka faced break points in the opening game of the second set, but made the key adjustment of saving them all, which produced the happy result of him holding serve. Nadal held more emphatically, but at least some kind of battle had been joined. It was still a hopelessly lopsided battle, but it was something. I think Nadal was taken to deuce on one of his services games, which was very exciting. (When you’re searching for narrative tension, you have to take what you can get.) Wawrinka threw in a truly appalling game at the set’s midpoint, sealing his own fate with a pair of double faults. I assumed it was the altitude, and that those serves would have found the service box at sea level, but the experts working for Sky offered no insight. Nadal held comfortably for the title. Clearly that earlier deuce game had weighed on his mind; as Wawrinka’s final shot landed long, the Spaniard collapsed onto his back, exultant at closing out a match he’d never once looked like losing. The stats told the tale. Nadal won ninety per cent of first serve points (as ever he landed the majority of them), while Wawrinka achieved a perfect return on break opportunities: 0/0.

Afterwards, while Nadal searched for a part of the Ion Tiriac trophy he could bite without sustaining injury, it was reiterated just what an achievement it was for him to win this week, in spite of Madrid’s allegedly trying conditions. It was all growing rather tiresome. The conceit, unquestionably, is that even when Nadal wins easily there’s a requirement that he must be struggling against something. The discourse of el guerrero imparable is too pervasive to be casually set aside, and thus most analysis is made subservient to it. Nadal’s incredible technical skills on a tennis court, buttressed by tens of thousands of hours training, are constantly glossed over in favour of the preferred narrative that he wins through sheer spirit despite the putatively crippling flaws in his game and atmospheric conditions designed to test only him. I think this does nothing but diminish Nadal as a player, in pursuit of a trite story.

According to this story, not only does Nadal battle the exterior elements – wind, rain, altitude and roofed-courts are his perennial adversaries – but his own inner demons as well. Thus we are treated to constant assessments of Nadal’s ‘confidence levels’. After today’s final we were reminded that this victory would give him a great deal of confidence heading to Rome, as though winning it six times already wouldn’t do that, and as though it matters much either way. No other player’s results are so closely tied in with this nebulous concept of ‘confidence’. Indeed, the current confidence-level can even be measured in real-time based on the depth on his groundstrokes: the shorter they fall, the less confident he is. I have never heard any other player’s shots discussed in this manner; mostly they hit balls short because striking a tennis ball is an imperfect art and no one can hit a perfect shot every time. Sometimes you have a bad day, and less of your shots go where you want them to. Once again, it comes down to the widespread eagerness to downplay Nadal’s technical mastery in favour of his capacity to overcome adversity. In fact he dropped a decent proportion of forehands short in today’s final: in the last few games alone there were plenty that didn’t clear the service line. The difference is that Wawrinka, unlike Djokovic, couldn’t attack them, and Nadal is a superb counter-puncher who deals severely with any assault less than perfect.

The apparently unfathomable truth is Nadal wins matches and tournaments because he is a great tennis player. He wins a vast number of clay court matches not because of some indomitable warrior spirit, but because his exceptional game is even more exceptionally suited to that surface. His forehand is ferocious, his movement is exceptional, his serve is effective and difficult to attack, and he is generally quite deft around the net. Part of this is also mental and instinctive: he reads the play well, and, like Djokovic, has an astonishing capacity to alter his patterns at crucial moments.

But most of his matches don’t have a crucial moment, because his level is almost invariably so high that he never gives the other guy a look-in. Confidence doesn’t enter into it. Since returning this season he has reached seven finals from seven events, and won five of them, including two at Masters level. Indeed, he has now won twenty-three Masters titles, which is two more than anyone else in history. I wonder when analysts will accept that he wins because he’s really, really good at tennis, and not despite the fact that he isn’t.

By winning Madrid, Nadal has closed to within twenty-five points of the number four ranking, and will assume it if he defends his Rome title next week and Ferrer fails to reach the semifinal. Wawrinka, meanwhile, returns to the top ten, an excellent return for his recent fine form.

 Miami Masters, Final

(2) Murray d. (3) Ferrer, 2/6 6/4 7/6

Andy Murray has won the Miami Masters 1000 title, in the process claiming his first trophy at this level in about eighteen months, reclaiming the number two spot from Roger Federer, and taking a hacksaw to David Ferrer’s enduring soul.The score tells us only that there was a third-set tiebreaker, which Murray won easily. It emphatically fails to mention that getting there required fifteen breaks of serve, wounded backs, cramped legs and crampier brains, almost five-score unforced errors, high drama and the most ill-advised challenge in the short history of Hawkeye. Murray happened to be the man standing at the end, although they’d both spent some time sprawled on the court earlier.

There’s a view that Ferrer, whatever his ranking, is clearly the fifth best player in the world. It’s an uncontroversial view, and heavily supported statistically and anecdotally. The iconoclast in me would love to say it’s nonetheless wrong, and that I have found irrefutable proof that Fabio Fognini is actually mankind’s great hope. But I can’t – the evidence for Ferrer keeps piling up. Consider this: at the last four Masters level events where only two of the Big Four turned up, Ferrer has reached the final at three of them (Shanghai 2011, Paris 2012, Miami 2013) while at the fourth one he himself didn’t play (Montreal 2012). Then again, he subsequently reached those finals after the higher ranked player was knocked out by someone besides himself: he has never defeated an elite player in a semifinal or a final, at any level. Today he at least came within an inch or two.

Shanghai 2011 is well-worth bringing up, since it marks the only other time Ferrer and Murray have contested a final, and because, over all, this edition of the Miami tournament has closely reproduced the contours of that earlier event. In both cases, as mentioned, only two of the sport’s four best players turned up: here Federer and Rafael Nadal are absent, whereas in Shanghai it was Federer and Novak Djokovic.  In both cases there were a pair of unlikely semifinalists: Richard Gasquet and Tommy Haas this week, Feliciano Lopez and Kei Nishikori in Shanghai. And in both events the top seed fell early to a plucky German (Haas now; Florian Mayer then).

Haas of course fell to Ferrer in the semifinals in Miami, thereby kicking off the theme of the day, which was for the mercurial stylish player to establish an early lead, and then to see it ground inexorably to nothing. Haas is doubtless kicking himself for not holding his nerve better in that semifinal, since he would have fancied his chances against Murray today. Haas winning a Masters event at his age and with his history of injury, knocking off Djokovic en route, would have been the story of the year. Alas, he didn’t, so it is merely the story of the week. He led by a break in the third set, but couldn’t maintain it for long, thereby establishing another fascinating theme, which Murray and Ferrer today developed to its fullest extent, consequently exhausting its possibilities for later generations.

Of the fifteen breaks in today’s final, fully eight of them came in the final set. Most of them were sealed with errors, although a few of these errors at least came quickly, sparing viewers another interminable three-quarter pace rally. Murray’s back, which had seemed tight to open the match, became more of a factor as the third set wore on, especially on his serve. Meanwhile Ferrer was succumbing to cramps, and began scheduling a massage for each change of ends. Robbie Koenig and Jason Goodall, excellent as ever on the world feed, joined Murray in questioning the strict legitimacy of this. Astute fans might recall Stan Wawrinka employing a similar tactic at the Australian Open against Djokovic, although that at least had the benefit of ensuring a superb match wasn’t decided by a fatal cramp. For today’s final to have ended that way might have been a mercy killing.

Murray served for the title at 5/4, but the added tension, unsurprisingly, did not inspire him to elevate his level. He was far too passive, nursing his serve – his vertebra had by now fused – and duffing a couple of makeable passes. He was broken to 30. It was the last break of the afternoon. ‘It’s a different kind of drama to spectacular shotmaking,’ exclaimed Koenig, securing this week’s understatement award. Ferrer then held, availed himself of another leg-rub, and almost won the match.

Much has and will be written about the next game. Murray moved to 40-15, but then lost three points to fall down championship point. Another rally ensued. Murray went after a rare forehand, which Ferrer got back. Ferrer then halted play to challenge, apparently believing the ball had gone long. Hawkeye showed the ball catching the line, Ferrer lost the point, and with it the game and the match. My immediately response was that Ferrer’s reply to Murray’s forehand had been so feeble and short that Murray was probably going to knock off the next ball anyway, and that Ferrer had challenged because why not? Of course, both guys had just spent two and a half hours demonstrating their inability to put anything away, so perhaps there’s no reason to believe Ferrer was entirely out of the point.

Two further moments from earlier in this game should be noted, since they probably had some influence over Ferrer’s split-second decision to yank at his ripcord. Firstly, he’d tried to challenge at 15-15, but was told he’d taken too long, whereupon he and Cedric Mourier altercated briefly. (The television replay showed that Murray’s shot landed flush on the line.) Secondly, at 40-30 Murray went after a forehand to almost precisely the same spot, hit it long, then challenged unsuccessfully (and also bought himself time to change his sweatbands). I do wonder to what extent these points pushed Ferrer to his crucial challenge, and even whether it mattered. Afterwards Ferrer made it clear how much it did matter, precisely by emphatically refusing to talk about it. Murray held.

At this point CBS, the American network holding the rights to the last weekend of the Miami event, cut away to the NCAA basketball. The Miami coverage switched to the Tennis Channel, who were relaying the world feed. This was great news for those who subscribe to the Tennis Channel, but bad news for those who didn’t but remained curious to watch this final play out. Those of us labouring away in the rest of the world were left to wonder again at the weird American obsession with university-level sports. (I’ve had it explained to me, and I still don’t really understand it. I’m not aware of many other countries where such interest occurs. Having represented one of Australia’s largest universities at sport, I can personally attest that no one here cares at all.)

Anyway, in order to ensure this situation doesn’t recur, the Miami Masters final will next year commence earlier in the day. To put it another way, the top tennis players in the world are obliged to play a morning final in order to accommodate a university-level event. I could understand if it was the NBA play-offs. I also understand that tennis is a marginal sport in the States. But given this status, why CBS is interested in the first place? Perhaps they just like to feel involved. After all, they’ve resourcefully fucked up the US Open schedule for years.

Truth be told, those who missed the end didn’t miss much. That botched challenge accomplished something even Ferrer’s near-complete evisceration in the Acapulco final hadn’t – it broke something deep within him. Whether it was physical, mental or spiritual, I won’t speculate, but he mustered no further resistance. He collapsed to the court heavily after the sixth point of the tiebreaker, and two points later looked about as despondent as I ever seen him.

Murray, having romped through the tiebreak 7-1, looked almost apologetic, though not very much and not for long. After all, it’s hardly every day you win a Masters title, and it’s rare indeed to win one playing like that. Praise be for small mercies.

There were three ATP tour events concluded at various points this weekend. Individually they demonstrated certain principles in their own right, while collectively they offered yet more unnecessary proof that not all tennis events are created equal. Yesterday Novak Djokovic won his 36th title on a slick outdoor hardcourt in Dubai. A few hours later Rafael Nadal won his 52nd title on an Acapulco clay court that was mainly remarkable for being littered with the remains of David Ferrer. Both of these finals were enhanced by rambunctious capacity crowds. Meanwhile Ernests Gulbis has just claimed his third career title in Delray Beach, which surpassed itself by taking the unusual measure of not allowing any spectators in.

Dubai, Final

(1) Djokovic d. (3) Berdych, 7/5 6/3

If I can be candid for a moment – always a clear admission that a writer is being evasive elsewhere – finding new and interesting things to say about Djokovic winning tennis tournaments is not getting any easier. One must search in ever-more obscure nooks for original insights. A disinclination to repeat oneself can be crippling (which is presumably why so few tennis writers bother with such a stricture). Already my search parties are roaming into remote districts, while a team of bright young interns scours the historical record, on the lookout for abstruse references I might appropriate. So far their toils have proved fruitless. What more is there to say?

The alternative, once it becomes apparent that nothing new can be said, is to append this latest victory to all the others, and subsequently churn out some numbers, and see where we go from there.

It was Djokovic’s fourth title at this event, meaning his armada of Dubai silverware almost rivals Federer’s, which opens up some interesting dramatic possibilities. At the present rate of accrual they’ll one day be able to recreate some of the more stirring encounters from the Hornblower novels, if not the Battle of Trafalgar. Indeed, after a weekend watching my daughter adroitly repurpose any object not nailed down into a Harry Potter prop, it occurs to me that the multifariousness of tennis trophies enables the more successful players to stage fairly elaborate recreations. Or, if not them, their offspring: I imagine Federer’s twins will one day invade his trophy room in search of useful props. Any of the World Tour Finals trophies would serve as a decent Goblet of Fire – they’ll need to remove those naff ribbons, and perhaps affix them to their bicycle handles – while Stockholm’s silverware would make a perfect doomsday device for Dr. No. The Dubai runner-up dagger would be excellent for The Golden Child. Mikhail Youzhny is your man if you want to borrow one of those.

But back to the numbers. It is also Djokovic’s eleventh straight victory over Tomas Berdych. Sadly, it was no more remarkable than the recent wins in Melbourne, London or Shanghai, all of which occurred on hardcourts, and none of which saw the world number one attain an unassailable peak. Berdych fought all his considerable worth, and repeatedly forced Djokovic to defend. Unfortunately Djokovic is the best defender in the sport, and that is the aspect of his game that seems immune to breaking down. You cannot allow Djokovic to attack, but obliging him to defend is merely to play into his hands. It seems an insoluble problem. It must seem that way to Berdych.

After the Shanghai semifinal loss Berdych had sounded resigned that even with his powerful (if limited) arsenal there was simply no way to break down or through the Serb. The increased speed of the Dubai surface enabled a few more of his shots to penetrate, as did a courageous early commitment to launching his backhand up the line, and he was characteristically more assertive than the similarly proportioned Juan Martin del Potro had been in the semifinal. But it wasn’t enough, and Berdych’s focus typically warped and buckled under compression. Some have sought to isolate the result in a few missed shots from the third seed – a simple forehand volley, a botched overhead – but that’s being overly reductive. I don’t see that the outcome would have been materially altered had the Czech made those shots. There were decisive moments for Djokovic as well. The difference is that he gains greater clarity when pressed, not less. It helps that he is generally more careful to make the key moments break points on his opponent’s serve rather than his own.

The rest of Djokovic’s numbers are no less impressive, for all that each merely represents an incremental increase on whatever it was on Saturday. He has now won eighteen consecutive matches, dating back to the Paris Indoors (his loss there remains his only one since the US Open final). He has also won thirteen consecutive matches against the current top eight, including every single member of the elite besides Nadal, who he hasn’t faced. Perhaps the numbers are enough. They are, after all, astonishing.

Acapulco

(2) Nadal d. (1) Ferrer, 6/0 /62

Had Djokovic faced Nadal in Acapulco a few hours later it might have been a different story, although that is debatable. He certainly would have provided a sterner test than Ferrer did. However, the story wasn’t that Nadal defeated Ferrer. The real story, or stories – there are two – is that so many people believed Ferrer would win, and that his defeat was of a severity and thoroughness hardly glimpsed since the Romans sacked Carthage.

The word heading into the Acapulco semifinals was that this was Nicolas Almagro’s big chance. If he couldn’t beat Nadal now, a mere three tournaments into Nadal’s allegedly long-term comeback, then he never will. With these conditions in place, I am now satisfied that he never will. As for the semi, so for the final: this was Ferrer’s ideal opportunity to end a losing streak to Nadal on clay stretching back nine years. He won two games, which was at least twice as many as he deserved.

At the risk of sounding boastful, not to say prescient after the fact, I have insisted from the beginning that Nadal would commence winning tournaments from the outset. I was less surprised than exhausted when this turned out not to be the prevailing opinion. There has been endless talk about how hard it is to come straight back into competitive match-play. Many people point to del Potro. I would respond by pointing to Nadal, and then pointing out that he isn’t del Potro, and that he is furthermore one of the greatest clay court players ever, contesting a series of small tournaments through South and Central America. People point to the outrageous upset to Horacio Zeballos in Vina del Mar, apparently forgetting that it was an outrageous upset, and these by definition do not reflect the norm.

The idea that Nadal was the underdog in this final was perhaps the most fantastical of all. Ferrer had been poor in seeing off Fabio Fognini in his semifinal, but even if he’d been playing well I doubt whether it would have enabled him to do more than challenge for a set or two, much like last year’s Barcelona final. A head-to-head record this lopsided doesn’t come about by accident, and it has little to do with luck. Also bear in mind that their last match was the semifinal at the French Open in 2012, in which Ferrer claimed just five games. He might conceivably have reached five games in Acapulco had it been best of nine sets. I confess that for all I’d expected a Nadal victory I hadn’t expect it to be this comprehensive, not to say merciless. But nor did Scipio Africanus ease up once his legion had broken the gates.

At the start of last year I suggested that Ferrer had hit upon a sound method of pushing Nadal, which was to probe at his backhand until it yielded an error or a short ball. It was a tactic employed to great effect by Djokovic in 2011, as well as by Murray in Tokyo that season, and by Federer in Indian Wells a year ago. If the Acapulco final bears analysis on a technical level, that is probably the detail that matters: Nadal’s backhand was impregnable, which it often is, and lethal, which is rarely the case. Normally on clay this doesn’t matter too much, since Nadal’s preternatural footwork allows him to scoot around his forehand. Quick as he is, though, this tendency does open up his forehand wing for any opponent willing to go hard cross court (Djokovic). Today, however, he remained content to use his backhand, and he used it to bludgeon Ferrer into the dirt. Denied anywhere safe to go, Ferrer’s approach grew fragmented and entirely ineffectual.

After Scipio raised Carthage he salted the land, so that it was rendered unusable for generations. Prouder men than Ferrer have been dismantled less thoroughly, and never recovered. One wonders where Ferrer goes from here, though I suspect that he’ll be fine, in his way. He’ll simply return to self-assigned task, which is to beat those ranked below him. I’m not the only one to have decried the increasing consistency with which he capitulates to those above him (regardless of ranking, this includes Nadal), but I’m beginning to suspect he doesn’t let it affect him that much – getting thrashed is simply something he has to get through. It’s likely to be painful, but at least it’s quick. Best get it over with, and move on. Afterwards his only explanation was exhaustion.

Nadal was afterwards overcome, shedding tears into his towel. I’m not a qualified mind-reader – more a dabbler – but I suspect this title meant more to him than Sao Paulo did. I don’t know whether his overwhelming feeling was relief or pride. But I’m sure they were both present, just as I’m sure both gave way to pure delight when he was given an oversized sombrero and a large silver pear-like fruit, which I’m reliably informed is called a guaje. Whatever it is, he now has two of them, and can join Djokovic and Federer’s dramatic reenactment society, although I’m struggling to imagine which movie they’ll recreate. Pear Harbor?

Delray Beach, Final

(Q) Gulbis d. Roger-Vasselin, 7/6 6/3

Nonetheless, it was Ernests Gulbis who won Saturday’s most interesting match; a jaggedly-contoured semifinal with Tommy Haas, in which both men both men repeatedly scaled the peaks of quality only to hurl themselves into the surrounding abyss, thence to recommence the slow climb. Throw in an exploding helicopter and it was basically Cliffhanger. Haas was of course the grizzled veteran once incarnated by Sylvester Stallone, and as the third set wore on, it seemed inevitable that he’d prevail. Like John Lithgow, the affably skittish Gulbis was miscast as the villain of the piece, and in a surprise twist redeemed himself via a sequence of heroic holds, and a quite magnificent final tiebreaker.

It was Gulbis’ seventh straight victory – having pushed through qualifying – which predictably inspired some to declare that he’d won enough matches in a row to claim a theoretical Slam, assuming one was to be staged as a best-of-three set event in Delray Beach for the benefit of about two dozen spectators. For the record, a theoretical Slam is not the same as a real one. Still, it was a harrowing slog: The Road, reimagined as Latvian vaudeville.

He defeated Edouard Roger-Vasselin in the final, handily but for a stumble as he endeavoured to serve out the first set. It was the first time two players ranked outside the top hundred had contested a tour level final since 2007. Gulbis moves to a perfect 3-0 in finals, with two of those coming at this event. He was characteristically forward in praising the place afterwards: ‘It’s my favourite tournament. It’s the only tournament in the world I am winning.’ The local chamber of commerce might want to enlist him as a cheerleader.

Then again, perhaps not. That was probably Gulbis’ least controversial utterance of the week. He has, admittedly and typically, provided tremendous value, especially when it came to revealing his latest source of motivation: ‘I was really getting pissed to see who’s in the top 100. There are some guys who I don’t know who they are. Some guys, I’m sorry, with respect — they can’t play tennis.’ His Delray Beach title propels him back among their ranks, landing him on No.67. He’ll still have to qualify for Indian Wells this week, meaning that, for the time being, he’s still obliged to toil away on the outer courts with more of those allegedly hapless nobodies he refuses to regard as his peers.

Australian Open, Semifinal

(1) Djokovic d. (4) Ferrer, 6/2 6/2 6/1

‘I am trying to do my best every match, but I know they are better than me. What can I do?’ – David Ferrer.

In some ways, it felt appropriate that David Ferrer won just five games in his semifinal against Novak Djokovic tonight. That’s exactly how many games he won against Rafael Nadal in the semifinal at Roland Garros last year. If you’re going to get blown away, you might as well establish a pattern. Everyone loves a pattern. It creates the seductive illusion of meaning, and encourages us to concoct a narrative. The narrative in this case is that Ferrer, the sport’s most dogged underdog, fights his heart out but is simply outclassed on the biggest stages: ‘But I know they are better than me. What can I do?’ Isn’t he adorable?

Djokovic’s ownership of Rod Laver Arena isn’t yet as secure as Nadal’s of Court Philippe Chatrier, although based on tonight’s near-perfect performance it isn’t beyond imagining that it soon will be. He didn’t look like he’ll be losing any time soon, although whoever he faces in the final will almost certainly provide a stiffer challenge than Ferrer did. At the very least, we can assume they’ll put up a fight.

The most lavishly applied term, at least in American coverage of Ferrer’s matches, is ‘respect’. The prevailing vibe is that the Spaniard receives nowhere near enough of it, although as far as I can make out this crippling deficit frustrates the commentators more than the player himself. When probed, he generally waves the issue away. Nonetheless, expect ESPN to announce a twenty-four hour telethon for his benefit, whereby concerned viewers may call in and pledge some respect of their own (not too much, mind, but every little bit helps, and it’s all tax-deductible). Indeed, there seems to be consensus that not only is Ferrer not respected enough, he is actively ‘disrespected’, which has come to mean far more than the mere absence of respect. Apparently it’s worse.

Given my anachronistic determination to go on using the many subtly-shaded words that English already had before ‘disrespect’ became a force – disregard, irreverence, insolence, impudence – I am unqualified to judge how much disrespect Djokovic directed towards his opponent tonight. Did he not respect him enough, or did he disrespect him too much? Some suggested that by thrashing Ferrer so vehemently, Djokovic showed enormous respect. The line of reasoning is that the world No.1 brought his best game to bear precisely because of the threat posed by the Spaniard (with the implication being that he would have chosen to play worse if facing an opponent he respected less, or disrespected more). If this is true, it surely explains why Ferrer is reluctant ever to engage with the matter when it’s raised. If this is what respect feels like, he can probably cope with less of it, not more. He’d already experienced Nadal’s respect at last year’s French Open, and he couldn’t sit down for a week afterwards.

Ferrer’s genuine humility invites all this concern, and there’s a case to be made that the ‘disrespect’ allegedly broadcast at him takes its cue from the deprecation he expresses towards his own game. Lleyton Hewitt in commentary told an excellent story – he is always valuable when he eschews trite analysis in lieu of the type of specific detail available nowhere else – that revealed just how winsomely diffident Ferrer can be. A few years ago, but recently enough that it falls within the Spaniard’s hey-day and the Australian’s long twilight, Ferrer wanted Hewitt to sign his Davis Cup shirt. However, Ferrer was too shy to ask Hewitt himself, notwithstanding that he was himself a fixture in the top ten, while Hewitt was struggling to reconcile a professional tennis career with his passion for surgery. Instead Ferrer put it to Hewitt’s Spanish-speaking physio, who relayed it on. Hewitt admitted to being taken aback. (For the record, he did sign the shirt.) There is no shortage of respect for Ferrer amongst the tour players, and he is, by all accounts, hugely admired.

Among non-players, however, the main term I’d use is ‘patronise’. Too much respect can be fatal, especially as tonight when it comes on inexorably like a tsunami. But to be patronised endlessly is to experience the slow suffocation of lowered expectations. Tonight’s semifinal was pitifully uncompetitive, and my problem with it was that no one appeared  to expect more. Too many shrugged, tossed about some canine metaphors, and pronounced themselves satisfied. But Ferrer is currently the world No.4, and the fourth seed, playing a Major semifinal. Just because he’s a nice guy doesn’t mean he gets a free pass for submitting to a hiding. If Djokovic was too good, why didn’t Ferrer try to make him play worse? Why didn’t he try something?

As the third set commenced, Hewitt, in strong anecdotal form, recalled the parallel moment during his loss to Djokovic here last year in the fourth round. He related that when down two sets and being hustled all over and off the court, he broke the contest down into its constituent elements. He simply focussed on holding his own serve at the cost of everything else, so that he could at least feel like he was ahead in that set. Then he could see what might transpire. What did transpire was that he came back to win the third set, as the unexpected stoutness of his defence caused Djokovic momentarily to waver. The sheen in his eyes as he turned to his box suggested that this one set meant more to him than any number of victories had. Naturally, Djokovic is far too good to allow this to continue, and he’s a far better player than Hewitt, and so came back to win the fourth. While Hewitt was relating this, Ferrer was perfunctorily broken to open the third, his game unmodified from the first two disastrous sets. The contrast was perfect.

In truth, Hewitt made far more adjustments in last year’s match than simply focussing on his serve. He stepped up into the court and refused to yield the baseline, and began to employ his slice more often and more variously. He lured the world No.1 into the net, and passed and lobbed him. In short, he tried everything he conceivably could. We can point to match-ups all we want. It’s undeniable that Djokovic is a terrible match-up for Ferrer, but he’s hardly a better prospect for Hewitt. Yet twice last year Hewitt fought his heart out to grab sets from Djokovic, and at the Olympics nearly delivered an audacious upset.

Tonight Ferrer played the third set the way he played the others, with a near-pristine lack of imagination, and a perfect willingness to be dictated to. Upon delivering first serves he would immediately retreat to the Melbourne sign metres beyond the baseline, whereupon he would commence running, and be prodded into locations from which he couldn’t penetrate. Djokovic’s form was imperious, but with his opponent scurrying backwards there was no reason for it not to be.

Obviously, it might not have made any difference whatsoever. Players have attempted any number of creative approaches to save a dying cause, but to no avail. When Tommy Haas was demolished by Fernando Gonzalez in the 2007 Australian Open it wasn’t because the German lacked imagination. Gonzalez was simply unplayable. It happens, and although Haas left the court feeling he hadn’t played especially well, he at least knew he’d tried everything he could have. In a Major semifinal, especially if you’ve never progressed beyond it, there’s no reason not to try everything.

It could be that I’m alone in this, but I thought Ferrer’s endeavour was entirely inadequate, as were his responses when questioned afterwards. Of course he ran. He always runs, but running endlessly is not the same as fighting, and too readily are the two confused. His assertion that Djokovic had simply been too good – ‘I didn’t have any chance for to win tonight’ – has been greeted rather indulgently and pityingly, as though it is self-evidently true. Perhaps Djokovic was too good – he was very, very good – but the last person who should accept that is his opponent. If Ferrer gains too little respect, I don’t think his effort tonight merited more, and it’s easy enough to be humble when you’ve just been humiliated. He’s supposed to be a fighter. Where was the fight?

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.

Auckland, Final

(1) Ferrer d. (2) Kohlschreiber, 7/6 6/1

A long Saturday kicked off tamely enough as David Ferrer secured his fourth Auckland title, defeating second seeded Philipp Kohlschreiber in an uneven yet entirely indicative pair of sets. The score-line of 7/6 6/1 is a common one when a flashy player succumbs to a superior, solid one, and suggests that the well of inspiration is never quite deep enough, and that those who rely on it too much will struggle once the supply has been exhausted. I assume the reader won’t be surprised to learn that Kohlschreiber was brilliant early, held several leads in the first set, served for it, gained a set point, but was broken back after fatally hesitating on a forehand volley. From there the traffic flowed in one direction only, its progress growing ever smoother as the German’s resistance was gradually pulverised.

Still, while it remained close, the tennis was excellent. One wouldn’t necessarily hold Kohlschreiber’s backhand to be the apogee of technical perfection – hurling his body into the air precludes keeping his head still – but a more orthodox stroke probably wouldn’t deliver the same penetration, given his slight dimensions. Alas, that wing also contributed its share to his extravagant tally of errors. It must be said that Ferrer was also quite error-prone through the early going, and unusually vocal about it to boot. But an expertly wrought tiebreak put things to rights, and from one-all in the second set it was barely a contest at all.

Kohlschreiber was as affable and charming as always afterwards, and pointed that as far as he was concerned the only shortcoming of the Auckland tournament was Ferrer’s tendency to show up, eliciting general laughter. Ferrer graciously apologised.

Australian Open, Qualifying Third Round

By this stage the third and final round of Qualifying had commenced at Melbourne Park, and the trickle of results was deepening into a torrent. Most notably, Amir Weintraub will be contesting his first Major main draw, a tremendous and deserved accomplishment for a player who has done much to evoke life for the sport’s perennial journeymen. Although admitting to it would be injudicious, I suspect he is thrilled to have drawn world No.96 Guido Pella in the first round. Given that he might have drawn Juan Martin del Potro or Nicolas Almagro instead, it certainly could have been much worse.

Weintraub (or Windthrob, as he was called by the announcer) will be joined by Davis Cup teammate Dudi Sela, who recovered a one set deficit to see off Michael Berrer (whose apparently unsayable foreign name was variously mangled as Bela and Derrer by the otherwise fine commentators). Sela will face Nikolay Davydenko, so anything might happen. If the Israeli wins he’ll probably face Roger Federer, in which case only one thing will happen.

Kooyong, Final

Hewitt d. del Potro, 6/1 6/4

Del Potro – my dark horse pick to reach the semifinals – will face qualifier Adrian Mannarino Tuesday. In order to adequately prepare for this titanic assignment he yesterday faced Lleyton Hewitt in the final of the AAMI Classic in Kooyong, although I’m never sure what ‘final’ really means in this context, and never know who’ll be contesting it until Channel 7 breathlessly tells me. Hewitt and del Potro were, as far as I can ascertain, the only two of the original entrants who didn’t pull out with a worrying niggle. Hardly a racy field to begin with – a far cry from the days when Sampras, Agassi or Federer bestrode Kooyong’s hallowed rebound ace – it became a decidedly pedestrian one as the precautionary withdrawals mounted.

All of which is to say one is disinclined to take Kooyong very seriously, and that this reluctance extends to the final, for all that a serious tone was diligently adhered to throughout, on court and in the commentary box. It’s hard to believe del Potro was anything like as committed as he will be in a few days’ time, although Hewitt characteristically toiled as though it was the Australian Open final. The Australian won nine of the first ten games, and was striking the ball as well as he has for years. Del Potro broke back, but was broken again, and that was very much that.

Hewitt is once again the champion at Kooyong. What this mean for his Australian Open campaign is a nice question; he won Kooyong two years ago but then fell to David Nalbandian in a five set opening round classic in a heavily-hyped Rod Laver Arena night session. It’s a question that will be answered tomorrow night in a heavily-hyped Rod Laver Arena first round with Janko Tipsarevic. Regardless of the measured gravity of proceedings, we are also forbidden to take them seriously since the tournament is still serving a two-year ban following Bernard Tomic’s antics in last year’s final. Even though this year’s event would have otherwise ranked acceptably on the Gangnam Scale, rules are rules.

Over at Melbourne Park Kid’s Day was by this point well under way. Sadly, but to no one’s astonishment, Djokovic could not resist Gangnam’s allure, thus entirely invalidating the victory of Team Spongebob over Team Dora.

Sydney, Final

Tomic d. Anderson, 6/3 6/7 6/3

Gratifyingly for local fans who appreciate a dramatic arc, the day’s climax came at the end, as Bernard Tomic captured his first career title in Sydney, defeating Kevin Anderson in tight close sets. The Australian’s odds to win his home Major immediately shortened to $26 – placing him as fifth favourite behind the top three and del Potro – proving once more patriotism is a form of insanity, or that gambling can be an effective tax on idiocy.

Tomic was impressive through the first set, breaking Anderson early and proving far superior whenever a sufficiently probing return enabled a baseline exchange. Having captured the opener, Tomic then unaccountably retreated from the baseline, and regressed to the style of passive noodling that is only effective against juniors, Feliciano Lopez and Fernando Verdasco. Todd Woodbridge – who’d been joined by John Newcombe, ostensibly a ‘treat’ – delivered a useful reminder that despite Tomic’s air of impenetrable composure he was still a young player in his first tour final, and that all players when nervous have a tendency to revert to type. Anderson rightly read Tomic’s retreat as an invitation to attack, and so did with great force and consistency. The South African lost only two points on serve in the second set, although his returns remained inadequate enough that a tiebreak was required.

The story of the match was ultimately Tomic’s determination not to yield the baseline unfought in the third set, for all that his instincts, forged through long easy years in the juniors, must have been screaming at him to take to his heels. It is to his credit that he stayed up and resumed pummelling his forehands. Thus pressed, it was Anderson who lost shape, compiling a disastrous game late in the set to get broken. Tomic served out the match with suave ease, spread his arms, dropped his racquet, and knelt down to kiss the court.

Anderson, naturally, was disappointed, although he was also impish in reminding the crowd about the cricket. Winning Sydney would have meant a great deal. It would have been just his third title. (That ‘just’ is the giveaway that I believe Anderson to be a finer player than his results attest, and that he is under-ranked.) Indeed, Sydney would have been his biggest title, since his others are Delray Beach and the now-vanished Johannesburg. Injury was crushed beneath insult when the APIA spokesperson congratulated him as Ken Anderson. Presumably Ken Rosewall’s proximity had scrambled her brain. (It was a fine day for wrong names, and we haven’t even made it to the Australian Open, and thus are yet to witness Joanna Grigg’s latest doomed attempt to pronounce Anastasia Pavlyuchenkova.)

Tomic subsequently extracted a measure of vengeance on his opponent’s behalf by leaving APIA out as he thanked the sponsors. He also left Tennis Australia out when he thanked everyone else, which may or may not have been a deliberate omission. With him it’s hard to tell. He included his father, however, whose eyes were sheened, one hopes with pride. With him, it’s also hard to tell.

Tommy Haas, No.21

As I write, Tommy Haas is losing amiably to Roger Federer at an exhibition in Sao Paulo, although he earlier proved beyond question that he is the Swiss player’s superior as a dancer. He also demonstrated back in Halle that he could master Federer in a tour final, even one whose mood was almost as unbuttoned as an exo. The Halle title was arguably the high-point of an outstanding year for Haas, which saw him rise from No.205 to No.21, turn thirty-four, and remain, by his standards, injury-free (he only gave away two walkovers and one retirement). His assertion some time ago that he still has top-class tennis in him, and that he is determined still to be playing it when his daughter is old enough to appreciate it, seemed more than a little fanciful. However, I can attest that those who expressed scepticism can still number among the German’s ardent admirers.

Halle aside, my favourite moment came when Haas was denied a wildcard into Roland Garros, so promptly qualified without dropping a set, and pushed through to the third round, at which stage he unfortunately discovered Richard Gasquet on that one day a year when the Frenchman forgets how to miss the court. For Haas, Paris continued a run of form that commenced in Munich, and would be sustained with only minor interruptions until the year’s end. Along the way he defeated nine top 20 players, for only six losses. He’ll be comfortably seeded in Melbourne next month. The other highlight was of course his 500th career victory, which came in Vienna, and for which he received a Fiat.

Certain though I am of Haas’ daughter’s unfettered precocity, I also hope she’s rather slow on the uptake when it comes to her father’s chosen sport, and that he might therefore hang around for a while yet.

David Ferrer, No.5

In 2012 David Ferrer won 76 matches, the most of any player on tour. He is ranked No.5, a position that he has transformed from being an abstract number into a kind of Hadrian’s Wall dividing the top ten. Metaphorically, I can’t quite decide whether he patrols this wall (which would thus permit me to unleash some of the requisite canine allusions), or whether he in fact is the wall. Against the four players above him he compiled a record of 1-9, with the lone victory against Murray at the French Open. Against those ranked below his record was 75-6, including 8-0 against those ranked between 6 and 10, including comprehensive wins over Juan Martin del Potro, some gripping victories over Janko Tipsarevic, and thrashing Tomas Berdych in the David Cup final. He isn’t the kind of player who has bad years, but this year was without doubt his best.

For all that I’m drawn to a complicated view of things, and generally resist easy categorisations, I admit I appreciate the way Ferrer so clearly and straightforwardly separates the top four from the rest. Despite finally claiming a Masters title, he doesn’t belong among the truly elite. Yet nor is he the best of the rest.  He is considerably better than the rest. This is especially true of the young players on the way up, in whom the mere sight of Ferrer’s name near theirs in a draw must reduce them to desolation. Whether you’re Tomic or Raonic or Janowicz, he is a wall that can be neither penetrated nor scaled. It’s a shame for them, as it’s a shame for everyone ranked below him, but for the rest of us there’s something gratifying about it. We know where we stand with Ferrer, and he has worked tirelessly to ensure we know where everyone else stands, too.

Radek Stepanek, No.31

When Radek Stepanek and Leander Paes defeated the Byran Brothers to claim the Australian Open doubles title, there was a real risk that advancing age and the opportunity to share his outlandish victory celebrations with a kindred spirit might see him become a full-time double specialist. This transition remains on the cards, even though Stepanek still claims his share of singles matches. Then again, if he never contests another singles match he probably won’t care, since in the last one he played he defeated Nicolas Almagro in the fifth and deciding rubber of the Davis Cup final, securing it for the Czech Republic. In some ways, a year doesn’t get better than that.

Sam Querrey, No.22

When Sam Querrey recovered from a first set disaster to inflict Novak Djokovic’s only pre-semifinal loss in 2012, it was the culmination of an unlikely year for the American (although the extent to which the Serbian’s fissured focus contributed was much debated, especially by those among Djokovic’s ‘fans’ who’d prefer their man strategically tanked rather than honestly lost). It was a year in which a coaching change provided initial impetus, which was sustained across all surfaces, and in which confidence was derived wherever it could be found.

As this season commenced Querrey was ranked No.93, thanks to an injury-addled 2011. He then won just one match prior to Memphis in late February, where he reached the quarterfinals and thereby instigated a radical turnaround: he started losing in second rounds rather than the first. That’s progress. The first real change came at the $100K Sarasota Challenger, where he survived a strong local field, and helpfully demonstrated why challengers remain a useful resource for struggling men who should be ranked higher but aren’t.

Querrey is a typically American specimen in that his game is fashioned around a first serve and a forehand, although despite a sometimes striking resemblance to the Iron Giant he rarely transforms into a fearsome colossus. But he is atypical in his willingness to turn up for the European clay events, and then to actually perform well at them. He has even won an event on continental red dirt. He has also won one on grass that isn’t Newport. This year’s semifinal at Queens saw him arrive at Wimbledon ranked No.64, where he lost to Cilic in the second longest match in tournament history. An old hand at such matters, he made a suitable pile of hay during the early part of the US summer, including his third title over a sadly emaciated field in Los Angeles, which was wonderful for him but apparently a sufficient affront to the presiding powers that the event has been relocated to Columbia. Nonetheless, LA like Sarasota turned out to be precisely what Querrey needed. Sometimes you need to rediscover a winning feeling, and it doesn’t matter who it’s against. Sometimes beating Ricardas Berankis means that you’ll later get a shot at Novak Djokovic.

Mikhail Youzhny’s Beard, No.1

Mikhail Youzhny’s earned his only trophy this year in Zagreb in February, where he became by some considerable margin the most magnificently bearded man to capture an ATP title this season. With minor alterations he sustained this facial thicket through to Roland Garros. Then he was shamefully and painfully dispatched by Ferrer. His pain was evident in the care with which he etched ‘SORRI’ into the clay, while the full extent of his shame only became clear when he turned up in Halle with a smooth – and thus mortified – chin. This was also bad news for the endangered species of vole now deprived of its habitat.

His beard has since returned, but has never regained its lumberjack-worthy lushness. Still, this probably explains why he wasn’t invited to join Federer in South America, where a beard can seem provocatively revolutionary and, worse given that Gillette is footing the bill, like a terrible failure to stay on-message.

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.

World Tour Finals, Day Six

(6) del Potro d. (1) Federer, 7/6 4/6 6/3

(4) Ferrer d. (8) Tipsarevic, 4/6 6/3 6/1

The round robin phase of the 2012 World Tour Finals is now complete, with the upshots being that speculation on the final group standings can mercifully stop, and that any remaining ticket holders can rest assured they haven’t paid top dollar to attend a match they wouldn’t otherwise bother watching on television. In all, the round robin portion featured twelve matches, but there wasn’t anything like an upset until the eleventh of these, in which Juan Martin del Potro defeated Roger Federer. The twelfth match saw David Ferrer eventually beat Janko Tipsarevic in a dead rubber. It is hardly my intention to level any disrespect at either of those guys, who are after all elite exponents of my preferred sport. But it’s hard to avoid doing so when I say that for thousands of the fans in attendance it probably wasn’t quite how they’d hoped to spend their Saturday night. For what it’s worth, Sir Ian McKellan didn’t bother to stick around.  Luckily the match itself was sternly contested for a while, recalling the pair’s excellent US Open quarterfinal, until it wasn’t. In the end it seemed a fitting amble with which to conclude a round robin phase that never quite hit its stride.

Ferrer’s victory did have ramifications for the final standings in Group B, with the wash-up being that Juan Martin del Potro, who’d earlier threatened to secure top spot after defeating Roger Federer, must make do with second. I confess I did not at the time grasp the various permutations whereby this matter might be decided. My fogged confusion was expertly deepened by Sky Sports, who did their soporific best to divest me of my will to care. Surprisingly, it turned out Greg Rusedski had the best and lengthiest read on it, though when it comes to keeping an audience enthralled he is hardly Peter Ustinov. Speaking nothing but common sense, Rusedski is unquestionably spell-binding, though unfortunately it’s the same spell that knocked Sleeping Beauty out for a century. I confess I nodded off. It was all academic anyway, and now that Ferrer has beaten Tipsarevic it isn’t even that. It’s just what it is, and all the speculation on it was merely wasted breath. Del Potro will face Novak Djokovic in the first of the semifinals, an outcome that one assumes provides him with little solace.

It probably doesn’t leave Djokovic’s fans feeling terribly relaxed, either, for all that their man boasts a sterling record against the Argentinean. Like everyone else, Djokovic has been quite up and down this week, though the fact that he was mostly up against Tomas Berdych in his last match should instil a measure of comfort. But del Potro is certainly looking dangerous. Federer more or less ruined the early part of his season by providing an impenetrable roadblock to titles and later rounds from the Australian Open through to the French. Del Potro thus won’t have had the best laugh, but he’ll undoubtedly have the last one, securing a couple of vital wins late in the season, and ensuring that Federer’s usual practice of going unbeaten through the indoors won’t continue. As an interesting quirk, del Potro remains the only man to have defeated Federer in the round robin phase at the O2 Arena. Now he’s done it twice.

Federer, it must be said, has not quite looked himself since the early rounds of the US Open some months ago. Whatever issue hobbled him in Basel – he referred to ‘niggles’, from which his detractors reliably inferred poor sportsmanship  – has apparently not resolved itself in the weeks since. He can play well in patches, but too often the fine points are alloyed with sufficient rubbish that his opponent’s moments of inspiration prove to be crucial. In all Federer hit 46 unforced errors today. Generally this isn’t a stat that I find very useful, but many of these errors came in clumps at vital times, such as the first set tiebreaker. And too many came on shots that were never going to be winners, and could only generously be described as ‘forcing’.

For Federer, any realistic assessment of his chances against a player like del Potro (or, say, Berdych) will include the anticipation of any number of spectacular forehands ploughing a furrow through the baseline, or monstrous first serves rupturing the service line. It’s just going to happen, and it’s not worth pretending that he defends as well as Djokovic or Andy Murray that he can reliably stop it. He defends well, but his great strength is in attack. For Federer, the recent problem with del Potro’s game is neither its ferocity nor its regularity – which given the Argentinean’s abilities are a given – it is that the Swiss player too frequently places himself in a position in which his opponent’s great play becomes decisive.

The service game in which Federer was broken today, in the third set, provides a useful example. A 30/0 lead was carelessly yielded up, including an eminently makeable forehand of his own delivered forcefully into the net. It was at 30/30 that del Potro suddenly found his range, and then forced the break. But it was hard to shake the sense that Federer’s mistakes had provided the platform from which del Potro launched his sortie. As I say, you can assume a player as powerfully accomplished as del Potro, fairly bristling with ordnance, is going to unleash an uncounterable assault at some stage. This was the case in all of their matches this year, including the handful that Federer won.

But just as Federer hasn’t been at his best lately, due allowance should be made for the fact that del Potro often wasn’t at his best then, with the quarterfinals at Indian Wells and Roland Garros particularly standing out. And just as Federer earned plaudits for those victories, so too should del Potro for these. Beating Federer at the O2 is hardly less audacious than beating him at home in the St Jakobshalle, and in both cases del Potro was fierce and fearless when it mattered most. He’ll need to be both, and more, to beat Djokovic.

Nonetheless, due to his continued disinclination to lose to either Ferrer or Tipsarevic, Federer has topped the group. His reward, if one can call it that, is to face Andy Murray in the semifinals. As far as I can tell, this is the third time this year that Federer will face del Potro and Murray back to back. In Dubai he defeated the Argentinean and the Scot in the semifinal and the final respectively. At the Olympics, he very much didn’t. This will also be the third time Federer and Murray will face off in London this year, having already split the finals of Wimbledon and the Olympics. Even for those of us who chose to be born outside of Britain, this match cannot help but assume a special significance.