The Next Point

Davis Cup, First Round

It has been a long week, and it isn’t over yet.

The Australian Open concluded last Sunday, as ever seen out with considerable pomp by a 200-piece brass band performing a vexatious medley of tunes by John Philip Sousa, arranged by Erik Satie. On Wednesday I released The Next Point’s 2012 Annual to considerably less fanfare: a lone hobo with a decrepit sousaphone attempting the Baby Elephant Walk. Having resolved to take an extended break from writing, watching and thinking about tennis, my reaction upon realising that the Davis Cup first round would begin in only two days was thus mixed. I was dismayed to learn that drinking heavily only made the time go faster. Still, it helped. If by Friday my mood hadn’t quite lightened into ecstasy, at least my resignation had shed its bitter weight.

The singles began on Friday, but precisely what this meant within a global context was unclear. At no time is the transcontinental nature of tennis more evident than in the first round of the Davis Cup, when ties are spread across nearly every continent on Earth, besides Antarctica, whose bid to host South Africa’s home tie at McMurdo Station fell through at the last moment. For determined tennis fans camped on the prime meridian, Friday began at about ten o’clock the night before, when New Zealand and Lebanon kicked off their tie in Auckland. Friday finished as Canada and Spain completed an intriguing day’s play Vancouver at about three o’clock Saturday morning.

The first day of play, in other words, went on without a break for about twenty-nine hours, and by the time it ended the second day’s play was already under way across the date line. By the time Frank Dancevic had engaged fully with the task of thrashing Marcel Granollers, New Zealand’s doubles pair were already well on their way towards securing the home tie. It turns it’s possible to watch David Cup almost continuously over its first weekend, assuming you have an internet connection capable of simultaneous streams, a ready supply of amphetamines, and no loved ones to talk you out of it.

I won’t pretend I have any intention of doing that. I fear I lack the means and the fortitude. As a rule I don’t sleep much, but that only causes me to covet the little I do get. For the Australian tennis fan, the sadness that accompanies the conclusion of the Australian Open is heightened by the awareness that following the sport and adequate rest will be mutually exclusive until at least October, during the tour’s brief return to Asia. Most of the results that truly matter occur in the middle of my night. So do the results that don’t matter much at all, such as Novak Djokovic’s bold (and not-at-all fearful) romp over Oliver Rochus in the first match of the Belgium-Serbia tie. By the time the plucky David Goffin had established a two set lead over Viktor Troicki, I felt at once enervated and energised. I had never felt so alive; if the dead do yearn, it isn’t for their beds. Nothing much matters when you feel like that. Or like Jurgen Melzer, who’d just lost to Evgeny Korolev.

I rose in time to see Granollers collapse to an inspired Dancevic, thereby frog-marching the Spanish squad to the edge of elimination. The last time Spain contested a Davis Cup tie without Rafael Nadal, David Ferrer, Nicholas Almagro or Fernando Verdasco was long before any of those men had attained the top ten or even world fame, back when Juan Carlos Ferrero and Carlos Moya were national heroes, as opposed to national treasures. Alex Corretja probably would’ve preferred to bring either or both of those guys back. We marvel endlessly at Spain’s depth – and I suppose there are of nations competing this weekend who would struggle to field a team at all without their top five players – but it isn’t infinite, and they’re one lost rubber away from a first round exit.

Meanwhile France’s best pair was available for the tie in Rouen, where they had little difficulty in seeing off Israel’s best pair. Amir Weintraub is something of a Davis Cup warrior, but he’d yet to face anyone of Jo-Wilfried Tsonga’s quality. He acquitted himself very well in taking a set, and seemed like the better player for passages in the fourth, with the difference being the Frenchman’s superior serve. It ended badly for the Israeli, in a flurry of silly errors. I hope that isn’t the part of his performance that stays with him, although it was clearly the part he was dwelling on in the immediate aftermath. It was the last thing I saw before sleep pulled me under.

My dreams were troubled, but at least they were dreams. Alas, they were too brief, and featured a terrifying hobo with a sousaphone.

US Open, Days Three and Four

The 2012 US Open is barely four days old, but it has already equalled the record for the most victories achieved from two sets to love down. This record number, set back in 1989, is ten. With somewhere over half the current tournament’s matches completed, that count has been matched, and there’s every reason to believe it will be surpassed in the coming days. It’s an obscure record, to be sure, but they can’t all be important. I should also stress that these ten victories were all achieved by men. None of the women players have yet figured out a way to recover from a two set deficit, not even Kim Clijsters, who retired yesterday afternoon, whereupon she was immediately canonised by the attendant media.

Last year, if memory serves, the US Open broke the record for the most retirements at a single event. I think there were about twenty (although I should make it clear that I am referring specifically to tennis events, since there were even greater casualties at the Battle of Antietem, not to mention Ypres. It’s also worth registering some surprise that this record was achieved on a fairly standard hardcourt, and not, as expected, on perilous blue clay, which is said to be fashioned from crystallised nerve gas.)

Anyway, the ten men who have so far recovered from two sets down are no doubt proud to be part of history. (Their vanquished opponents were probably less thrilled, for all that some of them didn’t merely snatch defeat from the jaws of victory, but ventured into victory’s gullet with a lantern, a support team and a map.) Hopefully the USTA will release some appropriate memorabilia for collectors. Perhaps a set of signed espresso cups, or (better) some action figurines. The figurines, in no particular order, would be of Ernests Gulbis, Marin Cilic, Alexandr Dolgopolov, Philipp Petzschner, Paul-Henri Mathieu, Janko Tipsarevic, Gilles Muller, Fabio Fognini, Mardy Fish and Guillermo Garcia-Lopez. All figurines would be fully posable, and most would come installed with a well-worn self-destruct button. Petzschner’s could be accessorised with a range of knee-socks. Tipsarevic’s would talk if you pull his ripcord, or ask him for his views on women’s tennis. Gulbis’ figure could come in two versions, a highly collectable ‘Unstoppable’ model, and a more common one set to ‘Underachieve’. But I digress.

The temptation, as ever, is to search for a clear pattern when something like this occurs. Theories already abound as to why this particular edition of this particular tournament has produced so many comebacks. The most convincing theory, as is often the case, is that it is a coincidence, although this regrettably makes for bad copy. Last year a similar thing happened with all the retirements. The wearisome orthodoxy emerged that players were dropping in industrial quantities due to the heroic length of the season and the physical stress caused by grippy hardcourts, notwithstanding that many of the retirements owed to upper body ailments, and at least a few were due to gastric issues. But sometimes the temptation to posit an underlying cause is irresistible. We can consequently grow prescriptive.

I don’t exclude myself from this tendency. Suddenly the most fraught parts of any match occur when a player gains a two-set lead. Thus when Philipp Kohlschreiber dropped the second set to Michael Llodra one felt it to be a strategic masterstroke, although this only narrowly failed to backfire when Llodra almost served out the third. No one wants to see their favourite players up two sets to love. You’re just asking for them to become a statistic.

Blake d. (24) Granollers, 6/2 6/4 6/1

This was especially the case this evening when a hitherto rampaging James Blake gained a two set advantage over Marcel Granollers. For all that no one quite rampages like Blake, he plays with such terrifically tight margins that even slight miscalibrations can prove disastrous. He is an exemplar of the rule that an uncompromising attitude only merits applause while it pays off, but generally deserves ridicule when it doesn’t. So far it had worked, and he was leaving the Spaniard in his dust. Granollers was by no means playing poorly – although I’m inclined to think his current ranking of No.24 is somewhat inflated – but even at his best he would struggle against a guy whose entire game is predicated on the idea that nearly every shot be struck as hard as possible, and who was hardly missing. A better defender might have done enough to introduce some doubt into the American’s mind, thereby tightening those margins still further. Granollers was trying his best – painfully so judging by the sound he was making – but his best bet, from two sets down, lay in hoping that Blake would start to miss. To be fair, most of Blake’s opponents have made that bet successfully in recent years.

Gulbis yesterday spoke with typical candour about one’s attitude while trailing by a couple of sets: ‘The mind-set is that you don’t care any more. You’re two sets down, you’re a break down. You simply don’t care. Then magic happens suddenly.’ Not caring of course places the Latvian comfortably in the middle of his natural habitat. He has made an art-form out of indifference.

Granollers, unfortunately, isn’t the type to begin lashing winners with gallows detachment. In any case he was permitted neither space nor time in which to unleash the requisite laissez faire fatalism. The magic never happened. Blake, far from rediscovering doubt, only grew more reckless in his resolve. He never stopped coming. The rampage became an onslaught, and the winner tally mounted alarmingly. He didn’t face a single break point, yet won 44% of his return points, even as Granollers served at 72%. And Blake did it without once tempering his natural inclination to attack. He’ll next face Milos Raonic, in what will surely be a night match on Arthur Ashe Stadium. Expect no compromise, from either of them. That’s not their way.

Rome Masters, Third Round

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elsewhere

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

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

Basel, Semifinals

Nishikori d. (1) Djokovic, 2/6 7/6 6/0

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

Kei Nishikori has, in his quiet and enthusiastic way, figured among the brighter stories of the so-called Fall season, his achievements outshone only by those of Andy Murray, blindingly good in Asia, and Janko Tipsarevic. As with the latter’s unrelenting failure to claim a maiden title, Nishikori’s fabled pursuit of Project 45 – whereby he would become the highest ranked male Japanese player of all time – had developed into one of the most intriguing of the Tour’s innumerable side-narratives.

Nishikori broke into the top 50 for the first time in April of this year, and appeared to be rising fast. However, in the long months since, he twice rose agonisingly to No.46, before subsiding fitfully. Doubts were expressed, and much like Tipsarevic’s pursuit of silverware, the inevitability of the accomplishment began to look questionable. Then, three weeks ago, he reached the semifinals of the Shanghai Masters, and overshot his ambition by some margin, climbing to No.30. Again like Tipsarevic – who eventually claimed his first title in Kuala Lumpur some weeks ago and then almost immediately claimed his second in Moscow (and nearly had a third in St Petersburg) – the realisation of Project 45 has opened something of a floodgate. Today he became the first Japanese man to defeat a reigning world No.1. By beating Novak Djokovic, soundly, he has guaranteed a ranking of at least No.25 next week. If he somehow defeats the greatest player of them all in the final, he will climb to around No.21. Win or lose, I suspect he will be recalibrating his expectations for 2012.

Coming in to today’s semifinal, the prevailing odds were not kind to Nishikori’s chances, and. they saw little revision as the top seed tore through the opening set in fine fashion. Much will naturally be made of Djokovic’s shoulder, which received constant treatment and will probably see him withdraw from the Paris Indoors next week, but it hung together well enough for the Serb to come within two points of the match, with Nishikori serving at 4/5 in the second. There is such a thing a close bagel, with all of the games going to deuce, but today’s third set was not an example of this. Djokovic won about a dozen points. Nishikori was fearless, but then he usually is, and executed perfectly, which is an exciting new development. The dexterous net exchanges were superb.

In the final he will play Roger Federer, who didn’t have too much trouble seeing off Stanislas Wawrinka in straight sets, bringing their head-to-head to 10-1. It will be Federer’s sixth consecutive Basel final (eighth overall), and, should he win, his fifth title. Figuratively, we might say that he owns this event.

Valencia, Semifinals

Monaco d. (1) Ferrer, 7/5 1/6 6/3

We can literally say that David Ferrer owns Valencia, which means that we can assume that the event will have Hawkeye next year. It is only one of two 500 level tournaments that lack the technology, which some have called an ‘oversight’, suggesting it was on that part of the To-Do list obscured by a coffee cup. In any case, for Ferrer, the lack of Hawkeye has led to the worst kind of injustice imaginable: the kind that affects him. He thought he had saved a breakpoint with an ace, but it was called out. The dummy was spat, the overrule was not forthcoming, and the impossibility of recourse to Hawkeye was duly noted. Schadenfreude was forthcoming. Ferrer lost to Juan Monaco, who will face Marcel Granollers in the final, an incongruous line-up for an indoors hardcourt event, although it is the slowest hardcourt on the tour. Apparently the balls are flat, too.

US Open, Third Round

Ferrero d. (31) Granollers, 6/1 3/4 ret.

(20) Tipsarevic d. (9) Berdych, 6/4 5/0 ret.

Word is that the ATP record for most retirements in a single tournament stands at ten, a tally that was today equalled in New York, and will doubtless be surpassed by the quarterfinals. If the women’s event is included, that total climbs to something like 19. Inevitably, everyone has a theory to explain these numbers, and just as inevitably the most likely reason – coincidence – holds little allure. Coincidence makes for bland copy, and it denies one the chance to confect those narratives whereby sport approximates life, but not reality. Sport needs to be meaningful in order to be more than merely diverting. Anyway, the upshot is that players are apparently dropping left and right due to the heroic span of the season, the physicality of the modern game, and the hardness of the hardcourts.

However, whilst these explanations are not without consequence, given the broad variety of reasons cited for the defaults, as explanations they remain insufficient. The hardness of the surface does not explain the high number of upper body injuries, and the season’s length has little to do with those stricken with viruses or food poisoning. Shit happens; when a lot of it happens in the same place at the same time, we might more usefully say that shit coincides. It’s no less of a shame, but it’s still just shit, and so ought to be kept in perspective. An arch of the eyebrow is more appropriate than a jerk of the knee.

As for today’s casualties: first Tomas Berdych then Marcel Granollers failed to complete their respective matches. Granollers’ back went early, and unexpectedly, providing welcome relief to his opponent, the aged and battle-wearied Juan Carlos Ferrero. Meanwhile, Berdych’s engineering team apparently used the wrong kind of lubricant on the servos in his shoulder assembly, leading to a catastrophic mechanical failure as the first set got serious. The immediate winner was Janko Tipsarevic, who will now clear the cusp of the top twenty. In the longer view, the ultimate beneficiary will be Novak Djokovic, which is about as touching and useful as donating your dole payment to Bill Gates. Berdych in ominous form might have presented the top seed’s only challenge prior to the semifinals. Alas, Tipsarevic, if he progresses so far, will present no hindrance whatsoever. Whatever else defines the current era of men’s tennis, the ossified national hierarchies are usually decisive in their way. Tipsarevic can no more defeat Djokovic in a major than Wawrinka can defeat Federer, or Verdasco defeat Nadal.

Gstaad, Final

Granollers d. Verdasco, 6/4 3/6 6/3

Hands up who remembers that American Express ad from some years back, the one in which Andy Roddick stoically endures those side-splitting situations that arise when one transports various trophies via commercial passenger jet? He blocks the aisle with an oversized novelty cheque, and the in-flight movie with some Queens-calibre silverware. It’s very relatable. At one point the overhead locker springs open, and a trophy lands on his head, which next to ‘groin’ and ‘awards ceremony’ is the most hilarious place to be hit by a trophy. While the ad is intended to be funny, the comedy derives more from the amply-explored sub-genre of large things getting in the way, than from the patent absurdity of Andy Roddick winning enough events that this could be a problem. It’s been many years since that’s been an issue, which rather dates the piece.

Even so, it is never far from my mind during the European indoor swing, which for aficionados of ludicrous trophies is considered high season. How do the titlists get these things on the plane? I can only imagine the disappointment that would ensue for a trophy shaped like a pair of giant nail-scissors. Given the apparent flimsiness of the overhead compartments, Roddick is probably lucky not to have won more in Europe. Certainly it’s a good thing he never won Gstaad. Marcel Granollers just did, and has been rewarded with the opportunity to have his skull caved in on the flight home. He saw off Fernando Verdasco in the final, consigning the senior Spaniard to a paltry 0-3 record in finals this year, and 5-11 for his career. Still, there are worse finals to lose than Gstaad. We might say he dodged a bullet, except that it was clearly ammunition for a catapult.

On the subject of obscene trophies, Alexandr Dolgopolov earned the first of his career in Umag. I don’t know if he packed appropriate luggage, although he was thoughtful in coordinating his outfit.

Madrid Masters 1000, First and Second Rounds

It is a testament to the rankings trout-farm between 10 and, say, 30, that so few of today’s ostensible upsets were surprising. The betting market was a shambles, which should have been a given, given that so few of the results were. In hindsight we might pretend otherwise, but the fact is that the merely lucky cleaned up, and the astute were left for dead, a configuration beloved by bookies. Anyway, it’s all in the past, and hindsight can be permitted its frolics. Five of Sunday’s finalists returned to action, but only three of them won.

Speaking of frolicking, Feliciano Lopez apparently survived the meat-grinder of Belgrade more or less psychically intact, perhaps satisfied at having pushed the preordained victor to a tiebreak on sludge. Today he was too much for Milos Raonic, whose tiredness has progressed from his limbs to his brain, inspiring a baffling tactical adjustment following an excellent first set. Thereafter he retreated, inviting the attacking Lopez to step in, a bad move in fast conditions. What ensued wasn’t quite real tennis, but it was enough to earn Lopez a date with Federer. It is debatable what consolation his close chum Fernando Verdasco will draw from this, although he certainly needs consoling. His psychic lacerations following a shellacking in Estoril are clearly profound, and saw him succumb in arguably the upset of the year, going down in straights to Yen-Hsun Lu. It was the latter’s first tour victory on clay in about seven decades, or years, I forget which. To put this result in perspective, Lu’s last match on clay was in the first round of qualifying in Belgrade, where he lost 6/0 6/4 to Ervin Eleskovic, ranked 441. It was not an upset. It’s about time Verdasco lost the watermelon pink t-shirt, but only because I don’t like it. He should probably do something about his tennis, too.

Hitching a temporary ride on the debacle wagon was David Ferrer, who traded bagels with Adrian Mannarino, and Juan Martin del Potro, who stuffed his hip, was told by the physio not to continue, and then continued to beat Mikhail Youzhny. How he’ll pull up is the vexing issue, especially if you love or loathe Rafael Nadal. To the merely sane, it’s merely interesting. The burbling of seeds tumbling like a brook over rocks continued steadily as Florian Mayer overcome Viktor Troicki in an unlovely match, and as Gael Monfils, for a change, retired injured.

Nikolay Davydenko, fresh from titling in Munich – they gave him a car, don’t you know – contrived to lose to Marcel Granollers, who at No.50 is the 65th ranked Spaniard, and whose technique is so awkward that he almost flies to pieces with each groundstroke. But you never quite know when the Russian’s worst effort is coming these days, although you know it’s never far away. Today he failed to earn a single break point. What a mess.

Miami Masters 1000, Second Round

Bogomolov Jnr d. Murray, 6/1 7/5

As he did last year, Andy Murray made it all the way to the second round in Miami, but no further. Today he fell in straight sets to Alex Bogomolov Jnr. He probably wouldn’t have troubled Bogomolov Snr, but at least he has defended his points. Indeed, if Robin Soderling loses before the quarterfinals – and he nearly did earlier – Murray will move back up to No.4, which tells you something about how closely ranking correlates to form. Really though, Murray was fortunate to survive the first round, notwithstanding the fact that he is seeded and had a bye. Nothing is a given right now. Statistics don’t always tell a story, or at least the right story, but in this case they are indicative: Murray committed 32 unforced errors – recall that his is a low risk game – and was broken in seven out of ten service games. Bogomolov’s career-high ranking of No.97 attests to his prowess on return. It is a nice question whether this loss will hurt more than the one to Donald Young in Indian Wells. It probably doesn’t matter. The prevailing view is that both results are candles to the sun when compared to the Australian Open final.

Widespread opinion is that it was his defeat to Novak Djokovic in Melbourne that propelled  the Scotsman into this lugubrious swan-dive down the form ladder. This assumption forms the foundation for the various theoretical and psychological edifices constructed atop it, the most common being that folding  to Djokovic was more traumatic than either of the two major finals against Roger Federer. The latter is a legend to whom there is no shame in losing, whilst the former is a peer and – until recently – a fellow member of the also-ran club. As explanations go, it sounds pat, which is a good reason to be suspicious of it. Is it actually right? How do we really know when a slump begins, or even why? Surely it is at least as accurate to say that Murray’s current woes began with the semifinal victory over David Ferrer. If we take a longer view still, we can see that he hasn’t exactly been captain reliable for some time now, hardly impressing against Alexandr Dolgopolov in Melbourne, or even against, say, Nicolas Mahut at the Hopman Cup. He was up and down at the World Tour Finals, and mostly down in the weeks prior, losing early to Monfils in Paris, Monaco in Valencia, and Ljubicic in Beijing. The shining exception was his frighteningly complete title run in Shanghai, where he trounced an in-form Federer with a thoroughness even Djokovic can only envy.

Anyone else in the top ten would immediately decamp to Europe – doubles be damned – praying that a change of surface might be just the ticket. Even Federer took that view last year. Unfortunately, the terre battue has never been Murray’s terrain of choice, and the kind of game it requires is  precisely the kind of game he now lacks the ticker for, as we say in Australia. Perhaps, like last year, he will turn things around on the grass, but it’s hardly guaranteed, and there are likely to be a lot of dud results before then.

Andujar d. Verdasco, 3/6 7/6 6/4

Granollers d. Wawrinka, 6/0 6/7 6/3

Still, Murray was hardly the only allegedly formidable player to go out today. Fernando Verdasco proved resourceful in overcoming a one set advantage, thereafter deploying double faults with the surgical precision of the Dresden firebombing. There was no live coverage, but I’m confirming reports that several of his double faults occurred in his opponent’s service game. As I say: resourceful. It was Pablo Andujar’s second ever hardcourt victory. Not to be outdone, Stanislas Warwrinka celebrated not having to face Federer in the quarterfinals by ensuring he won’t have to face anyone. The bagel was a deft touch.

It’s also worth mentioning that with Milos Raonic’s loss to Somdev Devvarman, the much-heralded next chapter of men’s tennis has been almost entirely expurgated from the Miami draw. Lest you’ve forgotten who I’m talking about, here are their names in no particular order: Bernard Tomic, Ricardas Berankis, Jack Sock, Grigor Dimitrov, Donald Young, Ryan Harrison, Ryan Sweeting. If they were an outlaw gang, they’d be called The Wildcards.