The Next Point

Vina del Mar, Second Round

Montpellier, Second Round

Hajek d. (7) Troicki, 6/0 4/2 ret.

My tennis day began boisterously on a sun-mottled clay court in coastal Chile and concluded in the electric shadows of Montpellier’s whimsically titled Arena. Diana Ross was harrying a wounded Viktor Troicki from the court with the soulful admonition that love don’t come easy, and that, furthermore, it’s a game of give and take. Throughout a first set bagel the Serb had repeatedly proved that love comes pretty easily if you can’t win points, but Ms Ross’s broader point remained. He hadn’t given his all, and then took a retirement package while trailing a break in the second set. This elicited the most rousing applause of the match from the dozen or vagrants who’d wandered in searching for warmth. His opponent Jan Hajek acknowledged their approval, and then he too left. ‘Love Don’t Come Easy’ gave way to ‘Groove is in the Heart’, and the scoreboard flicked over to warn me that Gilles Simon would soon be appearing. My grooveless heart sank like a stone. No matter where it began, no journey that ends that way can be considered a happy one.

(1) Nadal d. Delbonis, 6/3 6/2

It began, of course, with the exuberant return of Rafael Nadal to professional tennis, an event that was feverishly anticipated in certain areas, and amply discussed even where temperatures remained mild. What was said was largely speculative, and most of that became redundant the moment the Spaniard found the court and struck his first ball in anger. Nadal was broken to open the match, inspiring a strained edge to the Spanish commentators’ otherwise breathless encomiums. He struck his first ball angrily a few games later, a running forehand pass up the line, and unleashed the first fist pump of his comeback. The technique on both forehand and pump appeared unaltered from their previous incarnations, which is encouraging. The modern fist-pump is generally performed with an open-stance, with most of the player’s weight borne by the left leg (in the case of a left-hander). Even at that early stage we can confidently declare that Nadal is indeed back.

He broke back before too long, found the range on his groundstrokes, spanked a few winners, landed a few serves, perspired freely, and otherwise cruised to the kind of early round victory that would have seemed unremarkable had it not followed a seven month sojourn. I was left to wonder just how long a break he’d need to take in order for Frank Delbonis to have a chance. Years, probably. I could say that tougher tests await Nadal, but if they do it won’t be this week. The same question was pertinent to Juan Monaco, and whether Nadal’s inevitable rust would provide the Argentine’s best chance at finally claiming a win. It’s a question that will remain purely academic, since Monaco, who was defending champion, managed to lose his opening match. Between Nadal’s return and Monaco’s loss the number of notable things happening in men’s tennis this week now sits at two. This is a tally I suspect won’t be augmented elsewhere.

Fifteen hours later in Montpellier the inter-match entertainment had taken on a decidedly surreal turn. The court was invaded by five . . . let’s call them dancers, in curly haired wigs and garish attire. Their loosely choreographed moves were set to the title theme from Rocky (‘Gonna Fly Now’). This mighty handful in turn gave way to five new dancers – or perhaps the same five; my brain had entirely forsaken its groove by now – performing synchronised swimming manoeuvres over a moodily sax-ridden masterpiece that made liberal use of whale song.  I could probably make this up, but I’d be insulting your intelligence to try.

As evidence of where a grooveless mind strays when left ungoverned, I idly wondered how many of the dancers had hoped that this would be their big break – a paid gig at the Open Sud de France! It was, admittedly, a depressing line of speculation. By now they’d acquired some kind of ball-gun, and were firing tennis balls into the stands. These projectiles would occasionally strike the slumbering homeless, eliciting dull groans and raging tirades. Perhaps they were a troupe, and this was how they earned a crust. Perhaps it was a court-invasion, and no one could summon the energy to stop them.

I perused the Montpellier website, hoping to discover some explanation for this lunacy, or at least a playlist for the changeovers, but to no avail. (The sit-down after the first set between Troicki and Hajek was extended, putatively so that the Serb could consult with the trainer, but really so that Madonna’s ‘Gimme All Your Lovin’ could be enjoyed in its full dark glory.) I did however find some evidence that the insanity prevailing on court was merely one thrust along a broad front. After discussing Gael Monfils victory over Ruben Bemelmans, the article’s writer asserted that:

‘The next step will be another story, this time not Belgian. In a shock fratricide, Gaël found in his way Richard Gasquet, native son #10’ .

Perhaps something was lost in translation. I checked up the original French version, and discovered that ‘fratricide’ was a direct rendering of ‘fratricide’. It could be that the term is employed colloquially in France, or it could be that Nadal and Monaco won’t be the only notable things to happen this week. As it happened, Gasquet subsequently prevailed over Monfils, and although it was long, reports are that it was mostly bloodless. Indeed, it was noteworthy only in that it was a rare Monfils match that didn’t end with him injured.

(4) Simon d. Brugues-Davi, 7/6 6/2

But this lay in the future, which is now the past. Further in the past, in the narrative present, I flicked back to the Montpellier stream, to discover Simon, native son #14, putting away a crisp smash at the net. Hope flared briefly. About once per year, Simon will emerge and, as if from nowhere, play adventurous, attacking tennis, striking winners and venturing forward to knock off volleys. My momentary hope that today was that day was quashed when I realised it was merely the hit-up.

The match proper followed a familiar, flaccidly sagging arc, whereby the lower-ranked player – in this case qualifier Arnau Brugues-Davi – gained an early break, rode it almost to the end of the set, was broken back, lost the tiebreak, and then performed closer to his ranking in the second set. At least it didn’t take too long, unlike Simon’s week-long victory last month against Monfils in Melbourne, which was not merely fratricidal, but suicidal, too.

Zagreb, Second Round

I realise I haven’t mentioned Zagreb, but there’s a reason for this. Despite my latent affection for any event at which Mikhail Youzhny is defending champion in both singles and doubles, there are certain boundaries beyond which no tennis tournament can venture and still be taken seriously. Sadly, the PBZ Zagreb Indoors is now tainted after a Gangnam outbreak was witnessed on its centre court. Ivan Ljubicic was the perpetrator. At his age he should know better. The only mitigating factor was that it didn’t occur during match-play. Nevertheless, the whole enterprise will need to be quarantined, and comprehensively audited. Zagreb is in lock-down.

Hamburg, Final

(3) Monaco d. Haas, 7/5 6/4

For better or worse, online gambling on tennis is now an intrinsic part of the sport. This was clear enough during Channel Seven’s coverage of Wimbledon, which would periodically cross to the proprietor of a local betting site, who would justify his latest odds by dressing up common knowledge as dreary analysis, which in turn explained why his odds looked more or less like everyone else’s. It was even clearer today after the Hamburg final, as tournament director Michael Stich’s endless stream of German was periodically broken up by the phrase ‘bet at home’, three words that apparently want for Teutonic equivalents. Of course, bet-at-home is the tournament’s primary sponsor. I presume at least some in the crowd lacked sufficient English that the sponsor’s miraculous message was lost on them. The miraculous message is that you can now gamble on sports from anywhere, without undergoing acute soul-erosion in an actual betting parlour.

Closer to home – the home from which I may now safely conduct wagers – TAB Sportsbet proclaims itself to be Australia’s premier sports betting organisation. I am privy to no market-share data that suggests otherwise, so will not quibble at their assertion. Sportsbet has for some time been running an advertising campaign in Australia extolling the various advantages of online gambling, the chief virtue of which is that discerning punters aren’t obliged to consort with the weirdos who bet on sports in situ, archly implying that you somehow aren’t one of them. This is a common enough conceit in advertising, but no less effective for that. It helps that anecdotal evidence from my youth bears it out. Betting parlours really are horrible.

Yet on some level the local TAB shop was a seductive space as a child, since I vaguely associated it with Tab cola, which was the diet Coke from before Diet Coke (though it was only ever supplied by adults who couldn’t get the simplest things right, like buying actual Coke).† I would peer expectantly into these TAB venues and would suddenly understand despair. If Tab cola didn’t taste quite right, the local TAB just smelled wrong. The drink was disappointing, but this was something else. For many Australian children – though I assume this isn’t limited to here – it was our first whiff of abject failure, and the tang of it was sour and male. Sometimes I’d spot men I knew in there, perhaps the father of a school friend. Only when I was older would I understand why little Jimmy Peterson only ever brought water crackers for lunch.

Anyway, this was the reverie in which I lost myself as I watched the final of the bet-at-home Open in Hamburg, streamed live via the Bet365 website, during an ad for the new SkyBet app. I was saddened that my children would not know this experience. As our society is increasingly atomised by technology, the number of spaces in which grown men might congregate and discover they understand neither statistics nor horse racing, in the process bringing ruin to their families, are lessened. The local betting parlours, once filled with collective despair, are now empty with it. Is it wrong that I’m saddened by this? I doubt whether the Jimmy Petersons are eating any better. Anyway, onward to tennis.

Had Philipp Kohlschreiber defeated Nicolas Almagro in the gamble-from-your-couch Hamburg quarterfinals the other day, he would have entered the top twenty in the ATP rankings for the first time. It was an excellent opportunity for an exciting player, one who I number among my favourites. It would have been a worthy reward for a guy who has lately supplemented his capacity to belt winners with a determination to belt winners in. Alas, Kohlschreiber lost, and remains stranded at No.21, although this is still a career high ranking. To get over that top twenty hump you have to earn it. You also have to not get broken while attempting to stay in the set, twice. He also served for the second set, but was broken. Almagro served for the first, but was broken. It was that kind of match, although it was also the kind that is brim-full of glorious backhand rallies, suicidal trips to the net, and deft touch. The German came in more, which meant the Spaniard passed more. Almagro followed this up by losing to Juan Monaco in a tight semifinal.

A Kohlschreiber victory would also have been in keeping with the custom whereby Germans produce their best results at home (as opposed to, say, Stalingrad). Tommy Haas remains the custodian of this tradition. He moved through to the wager-from-the-lavatory Hamburg final with a fine win over Marin Cilic, although the Croatian phoned it in towards the end, presumably via the SkyBet app. Nonetheless, it was a vintage performance from Haas, recalling 1999, 2001, 2002, 2007 and 2009. He moved to a provisional ranking of No.35. You will recall he was compelled to qualify for the French Open, and that it was only by the grace of the AELTC that he wasn’t required to do so at Wimbledon. If he’d won the Hamburg final he would have entered the top 30, meaning a seeding for the US Open. That’s staggering, and owes in large part to stellar results on home soil, including the title in Halle, and a semifinal back in Munich. It’s probably no coincidence that his only Masters series title came in Stuttgart (2001), during one of his early comebacks.

He didn’t win, though he went down fighting. Monaco did win, also while fighting. It was a scrap, and a very entertaining one. Haas flew out to early leads in both sets, but was reined rapidly in each time. With the possible exception of Gilles Simon in the second round, Haas hadn’t faced anyone as quick as Monaco this week, and it began to tell as the match wore on. The German was belting everything from both wings, but he was having a hell of time getting anything past his opponent, which has always proved the surest way to drive Tommy Haas round the bend. His wife began to scream at him to focus. Haas nodded. It was technically coaching, but at least he stopped tossing his racquet about for a bit.

It seemed clear that the epic seventh game of the second set would turn out to be pivotal. Haas fought off a succession of break points with daring net play (although the last of the exquisite drop volley winners was executed from near the service line), but Monaco eventually broke through. Then Haas broke back, sealing the eighth game with a ferocious backhand up the line. His animalistic bellow preceded the crowd’s roar by only a moment. Then he was broken again, which was a bit deflating for the crowd, who didn’t roar nearly so lustily. This turned out to be the pivotal moment. The Argentine served it out, and collapsed onto his back. It was his turn to roar, and then to dart away into the stands.

Haas won’t re-enter the top thirty just yet, but Monaco will enter the top ten for the first time in his career. He is the eleventh Argentine to achieve this feat in the Open Era, and the third among active players. The bet-your-home Open German Tennis Championships is the biggest title of his career, notwithstanding that he was canonised as the US Mens Clay Court Champion as recently as April of this year. Perhaps most encouragingly of all, fears that the ankle injury Monaco sustained on Monte Carlo’s treacherous red clay would wreck his good form – as injury did in 2007 – have proved to be unfounded. There’s no especially good reason to think he’ll remain in the top ten for long, since the sparseness of points in that range make it something of a rankings trout-farm, but it’s still a nice moment, and stranger things have happened. He and Haas received stylised propellers in lieu of trophies. No explanation was given.

† TAB stands for Totalisator Agency Board, amply evoking its whimsy.

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.

Monte Carlo Masters, First and Second Rounds

(4) Tsonga d. Kohlschreiber, 6/2 6/4

(3) Murray d. Troicki, 6/0 6/3

There is a persistent belief, and one that I share in spite of my better judgement, that Jo-Wilfried Tsonga is a fundamentally streaky player. This is unfair, and inaccurate. Even in an era in which the top four monopolise the available points, it is difficult to ascend to No.5 in the world without achieving consistent results. There might still be hot streaks, but those sudden skyward forays require a sturdy launch pad. (The question of how high a truly streaky player might rise is debatable. If surface is no issue, it is defined by Tomas Berdych. If surface and geographical location are limiting factors, there is Mardy Fish.) There was a time – it is even within living memory for all but toddlers and YouTube commenters – when the tendency periodically to lose to players ranked below you was not called streakiness. It was just called tennis. Of late, the top three have taught us differently, by rarely losing to anyone but each other. It has been a tough lesson for Andy Murray, who remains atavistically committed to losing matches to anyone, sometimes.

Last year at Roland Garros, Murray seemed committed to losing to Viktor Troicki, and was late, though not too late, in reconsidering. He hobbled through, painfully, keeping his perfect record against the Serb intact. Today Troicki demonstrated to everyone’s satisfaction that last year’s French Open will remain his best chance at beating Murray. Through the first set he never looked like getting a game; he was broken three times, and without apparently difficulty. There was plenty of variety in the points – patient exchanges, scrambling all-court flurries, sudden attacks – and Murray won them all, however he wanted to. The second set was closer, but this is only a relative term. Troicki wasn’t close to winning it.

Nick Lester and Chris Wilkinson on the TennisTV feed lapsed immediately in smug complacency, the way English pundits do when the Scot is well on top. The best example of this was in last year’s US Open, when Murray won ten straight games and looked to be cruising against Robin Haase, before a violent resurgence by the Dutchman had the commentators eating crow. Today, of course, Troicki mounted no such counter-surge, which afforded Lester and Wilkinson ample space in which to extol Murray’s virtues, with devastating loquacity. One of them insisted that there is no top player better at making world-class opponents look average, apparently forgetting that Murray himself is pretty world-class, and has been made to look decidedly average by all three of his peers. The long-smothered question of whether Murray is the most talented player out of the top four was duly resuscitated. An awkward ramble on the nature of talent eventually yielded the generous concession that Federer might equal Murray in this regard.

Murray’s rapid dismissal of Troicki brought Tsonga and Philip Kohlschreiber on to court in short order, for which I was grateful. Lester and Wilkinson, orgasmically spent, went off for a lie down, and Peter Fleming took over. Seasoned professional that he is, he wasted only a few games before essaying the contractually-required comparison between Tsonga and Muhammad Ali (by way of Joe Frazier). The experienced commentators come prepared with a crib sheet, and get an early start on ticking off each item. Unfortunately, he’d apparently brought the wrong notes for Kohlschreiber, several times suggesting that the German was ‘a real pro’, who ‘knew how to get it done’ when the key moments come around. In fact, no definition of streaky would be complete without a portrait of Kohlschreiber to set it off.

My pre-tournament pick was that the German might streak through this open quarter, all the way to the semifinals, and there lose heroically to Rafael Nadal. Clearly, my judgement had been clouded by the superannuated view of Tsonga as a mercurial headcase, reinforced by the awareness that he was at his worst on clay. By no means was Tsonga terrific today, but it’s only the second round of a Masters, and he didn’t need to be. He was typically aggressive, but he was also sufficiently solid, and his risks were always reserved for prudent moments and makeable shots. Kohlschreiber, however, would typically save his wildest flights for 0-15 or 0-30. Even if he was a seasoned campaigner who knew how to play the big points, he allowed those big points to come around far too often. In the first set, the big points were break points on his own serve. This isn’t to say he didn’t have plenty of chances on Tsonga’s serve, especially in the second set. A streaky player is not a bad player, and there was plenty of hot stuff to go with the cold. He gained six break points against the Frenchman in the second set, but converted none of them. A poor last service game ended it, capped by a final rally in which Tsonga sparred patiently, and Kohlschreiber thrust another backhand into the net.

Haase d. (11) Monaco, 7/5 0/6 2/3 ret.

It is well known that the Nice tournament, played the week before the French Open, is cursed, that the champion on the Cote d’Azur is destined to fall in the first round the following week. The last two years they’ve blown a two set lead. Why top players continue to show up in Nice at all is beyond me. A similar question might be made of Juan Monaco’s determination to be crowned US Men’s Clay Court Champion in Houston last week, the week before the somewhat more illustrious Monte Carlo Masters, thereby depriving an American of this coveted accolade. It didn’t help that he saw off Michael Russell (a Houston resident) and John Isner in the final two rounds. Neither the gods nor the Department of Homeland Security were likely to let this matter slide. Today, up a break in the final set against Robin Haase, Monaco rolled his ankle viciously, and two points later was forced to retire. No news has emerged as to the seriousness of the injury. It’s worth pointing out that Monaco blew a 4/2 lead in the first set, and so shouldn’t have been in a deciding set at all. There was also a lengthy rain delay. It’s also worth pointing out that the last time the Argentine ascended to No.14 in the world was in 2007, whereupon he rolled his ankle badly. Think about it. If it’s not the work of capricious gods or humourless men in suits, then what is it?

Appalling luck, that’s what it is. And a damned shame.

Houston, Final

(4) Monaco d. (2) Isner, 6/2 3/6 6/3

Juan Monaco today earned himself a career-high ranking of No.14, the right to call himself the US Men’s Clay Court Champion (ladies), and a potentially decisive bone-weariness as he decamps for Monte Carlo, where it will be compounded by jet-lag. Thus debilitated, he will face Robin Haase almost immediately, and can therefore feel confident that either a win or a loss will come quickly. There is a very real possibility that he will be out of the tournament before I overcome my annual, facile delight that Monaco is playing in Monaco, nearly.

Come what may in Monaco (the principality), Monaco (the player) proved unbeatable on Houston’s drab clay – apparently it is hosed down with used dishwater each morning – cracking open the hitherto impenetrable serve of John Isner three times. Both players bore the indelible marks of yesterday’s semifinals. In the case of Isner, the excruciating win over Feliciano Lopez expressed itself in a surplus of lactic acid, which lent the American’s characteristic air of pedestrian exhaustion a certain authenticity, at least through the opening set. (To be fair, none of us emerged from that semifinal psychically intact, but at least our physical recovery was brief.) In Monaco’s case, he was typically spry, and doubtless buoyed by the knowledge that, come what may, the final could not be as lethally dull as his win over Michael Russell had been. What followed was a modestly engaging yet ultimately forgettable final, in which Isner served poorly and Monaco ran lots. Monaco afterwards celebrated by submerging himself in the dishwater tank, which, as health risks go, still ranks somewhere below the Yarra.

With the Championships completed for another year, this will be the last we see of the US Men for a while, unless you live in the United States, where they are still permitted to roam free. By reaching the final, Isner has supplanted Mardy Fish as the highest ranked US Man, the twelfth chap to be so honoured. (With that pressure lifted from his shoulders, there is surely hope for a change in Fish’s fortunes. He probably won’t win much more, but at least his failures will generate less commentary.) Tennis.com, typically, contrived to spin Isner’s achievement into a lament for American tennis:

‘The first four men to hold the top U.S. ranking—Stan Smith, Jimmy Connors, John McEnroe, and Andre Agassi—combined for 25 Grand Slam singles titles. The middle four of Michael Chang, Brad Gilbert, Jim Courier and Pete Sampras combined for 19 major titles, while the last four—Andy Roddick, James Blake, Fish and Isner—own just one Slam in singles, Roddick’s victory at the 2003 U.S. Open. Neither Blake, Fish nore [sic] Isner has reached the semifinals of a major.’

I’m not sure precisely who they’re angry at here. Perhaps it is merely a generalised fury that their recent top players chose their era so unwisely.

Monte Carlo Masters, First Round

Dodig d. Ljubicic, 6/0 6/3

Play has already commenced in Monte Carlo, although in line with official policy only those actually attending are permitted to see the early rounds. There is, apparently, a real risk that players outside the top twenty will gain dangerous exposure if televised, leading to civil unrest. As with Miami, when no one saw Fernando Gonzalez’ last match, this issue has become particularly pressing in Monte Carlo, where no one saw Ivan Ljubicic’s. The Croatian today lost in the first round to compatriot Ivan Dodig. The ATP released a commemorative video. There was a presentation on court afterwards, which was, by all accounts, rather moving.

It was also rather short, since the event needed the court urgently. There’s been rain aplenty in Monte Carlo over the weekend – literally tumbling from the sky – and the qualifying schedule is sodden and rent. Most players were on court twice today, assuming they won their first match, which precisely half of them didn’t. Grigor Dimitrov did win his first, but lost his second to Mikhail Kukushkin. Arnaud Clement, who is older even than Ljubicic, lost his first. How does he keep going? The day’s remaining first round matches saw the necessary losses of the two local wildcards, Jeremy Chardy and Benjamin Balleret. They were valuable wildcards that could have been better spent. I wonder if Dimitrov feels aggrieved he didn’t receive one. I’m not suggesting he deserved it.

Miami Masters, Quarterfinals

(2) Nadal d. (6) Tsonga, 6/2 5/7 6/4

My stated intention to write about last night’s Miami quarterfinal between Jo-Wilfried Tsonga and Rafael Nadal was, as the second set wore tediously down, coming up hard against my urge to stop watching it entirely. The tennis – and this is intended as wry British understatement – was not great. By Nadal’s own admission afterwards, Tsonga was all over the place, and all the Spaniard required to win was an amiable defence. Still, the standard can be low and yet a match can still prove worthwhile, provided there is sufficient drama. Alas, until Nadal stepped up to serve for the match at 5/4, it wasn’t dramatic, either.

Of course, we know what happened next, how Nadal tightened, Tsonga broke back, lifted, and broke again to force a decider. The Frenchman appeared willing to go on with it, despite a recalcitrant first serve, an unwavering commitment to piss-weak drop shots, and an unhelpful preoccupation with the line-calling. Nadal, of course, fought on grimly, battling through his own service woes, and a knee injury apparently so grievous he almost couldn’t run at top speed. The quality still wasn’t very high, but at least it was now exciting. It became especially so when at 4/4 Tsonga sent his second-serve in search of the first, whereupon it went missing, too. He was broken.

For the second time, Nadal served for the match. Match points came and went, forehands went in and out, Tsonga had some break points, and a broken string. Then it was over. Having failed to snatch victory from the jaws of victory, Nadal was forced to venture into victory’s maw, inch his way down its gullet, and retrieve a win that was half-dissolved in gastric juices. It was still recognisably a win, and he took it. On the subject of gastric juices, in some ways this match was a mirror of the day’s first quarterfinal, in which early intestinal turbulence gave way to serene sailing for the favourite. All else being equal, I suppose you’d take the later match for entertainment: if the tennis itself is going to underwhelm, there may as well be a decent dramatic arc, with the climax at the end.

(21) Monaco d. (8) Fish, 6/1 6/3

The fervent hope, heading into the second day of men’s quarterfinals, was that the drama might be sustained, and conducted at a higher level. Miami has so far been short on great matches, and we were due. Speaking of being due, Mardy Fish has complained this week that despite his status as the top-ranked American he had yet to play on the main stadiums at either Indian Wells or Miami. He has a point. Today he was granted his wish, and a timely tutorial in being careful of what you wish for. He also discovered that the stadium court at Crandon Park is brim-full of Argentinean fans. This became urgently relevant when it turned out his opponent was Argentinean, too, and had already thrashed an American – Andy Roddick – on this court just days earlier.

Juan Monaco has now thrashed two Americans on the stadium court, which is all he could find. Unlike Roddick, Fish wasn’t bagelled – I am striving manfully to eschew food metaphors, as so many others haven’t – although he did win one less game. The debate as to which American sustained the greater hiding is a pointless one. Both were thoroughly outclassed by Monaco. Both men lost handfuls of games in a row, which is troublesome against a player who doesn’t rely on momentum. Monaco is not the type to get on a roll, and ascend to unplayable heights. What he does do is prove that there are varying shades of ‘solid’, and that within the narrow parameters of toughness and determination, there is room for a kind of virtuosity, which extends beyond mere doggedness, and attains an inexorable mercilessness. Fish probably believed he could have beaten Monaco if he’d played his best, but must have known early on that he wasn’t playing his best, and stood little chance. Every mistake was dealt with.

Monaco now moves through to his second hardcourt Masters semifinal. As he did in Shanghai in 2010, he has undeniably benefited from an unexpectedly open quarter, in this case due to Roddick’s defeat of Federer. (In Shanghai he took full advantage when Melzer removed Nadal from his path.) Even if he progresses no further, he will return to the top twenty for the first time since 2008, landing somewhere around No.16, with the clay season to come.

(1) Djokovic d. (5) Ferrer, 6/2 7/6.

It is doubtful whether Monaco will progress much farther, since he must face Novak Djokovic in the semifinals, who tonight slugged and flowed past David Ferrer in the best match of the round. Here, finally, was tennis played at a truly elite level. Ferrer had astonished the round before in seeing off Juan Martin del Potro, and sustained that form into the first set against the world No.1, in which, frankly, he was lucky to get a game. This was the planet’s fifth best player performing to his abilities, but it didn’t matter. From the third point on, in which he darted up to a drop shot and flicked it cross court for a winner, Djokovic was nearly flawless, and without any discernible weakness.

Having served out the first set, Djokovic broke to open the second. It was hard to see what Ferrer could do about it, other than play even better than he can. It thus proved both laudable and hugely entertaining when he did just that, breaking Djokovic back in a spectacular second game that lasted nearly a quarter of an hour. Then it got tough, with both men trading savagely fought holds for a while, until Ferrer was broken again at 4/4. Djokovic came around to serve for the match, and was broken back in turn, courtesy of a daring forehand-volley-overhead combination from the Spaniard. For the first time in days, we had quality and drama.

Sadly the final tiebreaker proved perfunctory. Ferrer is a notoriously poor tiebreak player, considering his ranking, although not considering his serve, while Djokovic was among the best in history even before his 2011 season. Nonetheless, despite a flaccid conclusion, it was the finest match of the tournament so far. The hope is that it earns Ferrer more fans, since he deserves them. As for Djokovic, the first set alone should be sufficient to convince us that he has, for the first time in 2012, returned to somewhere near his level of last season.

Terrifying.

Davis Cup, Final

Day One

Nadal d. Monaco, 6/1 6/1 6/2

Ferrer d. del Potro, 6/2 6/7 3/6 6/4 6/3

Juan Monaco, in what he himself declared to be the most important tennis match of his career, was thrashed by a magnificent Rafael Nadal in the opening rubber of the 2012 Davis Cup final. According to the official Spanish line, rehashed with soporific frequency all week, this outcome was not merely unthinkable, but apparently unsayable. Only yesterday, during the second or third of his daily press conferences, Nadal insisted that his best hope lay with solid preparation, and hoping the opposition didn’t ‘get inspired’. In other words, he’d do his best, but when you’re facing a guy like Monaco it really isn’t in your hands.

The issue isn’t that Nadal says these kinds of things, or even that he believes them. It’s that the people he proffers these opinions to accept them, carefully transcribe them into their notepads or notebooks, and faithfully report them. One hopes they don’t believe them, but the fact that they don’t question them – whether at the time or in the subsequent article – does make you wonder. But then, what would be the point? If someone was to snort derisively and demand whether Nadal actually believed what he was saying, the response would doubtless be curt, and heavily favour such phrases as ‘respecting your opponent’.

After the match (the most important of his career) Monaco looked crushed, but that’s ok. Crushing one’s opponent is considered fair play. Conversely, speaking honestly and realistically about the likelihood of it happening is considered disrespectful. By this measure, the betting markets showed Monaco no respect at all. A successful modest wager on Nadal losing would have fed an Argentinian family for a month.

Given the inevitability of the trampling, one questions the wisdom of throwing Monaco under el Toro’s hooves in the first place. The hope, presumably, was that the simple joy of the activity would occupy the bull for some time, and would preserve the constitutionally-delicate David Nalbandian for the doubles and, if necessary, the reverse singles. Argentina’s decision was thus a pragmatic one, based on the realistic assumption that Nadal would not be losing this match in a fit. It was a long shot, but all their shots are long this weekend. Facing Monaco instead of Nalbandian put the matter beyond whatever scant doubt there was, although it did mean Nadal had to toil harder to assert his underdog status, his sternest challenge so far.

For his part, David Ferrer stayed more in touch with reality, although he forwent no opportunity to evoke his exhaustion, and to point out that just last week he was playing indoors on an English hardcourt. Both points are undoubtedly true. However, the implication that the transition to clay presents a titanic challenge is generally overblown, and the reportage has largely granted Ferrer the breadth of his claims. Somehow it is forgotten that he was still playing tennis on a tennis court in London, and not performing the Ice Capades on a pogo stick. As for his tiredness, it is undeniable that he did play in London last week, and none of the Argentines did. But he only played four best-of-three matches, and only one of those went to a third set (6/1 to Berdych in about 20 minutes). It was with Ferrer’s putative exhaustion in mind that I watched him overrun Juan Martin del Potro in the second rubber today, easily outlasting his opponent as the match entered its fifth hour.

Del Potro looked as crushed as Monaco. Ferrer was exultant. Spain was 2-0 up, having overcome Nadal’s lingering Weltschmerz, Ferrer’s bone-weariness and the unbearable lightness of its own low expectations. The home team was on the cusp of snatching victory from the very jaws of victory.

Day Two

Nalbandian / Schwank d. Verdasco / Lopez, 6/4 6/2 6/3

Whatever else happens, we can at least commend Argentina for getting one decision right. Playing Nalbandian in the doubles was the right move. Spain’s decision to play Feliciano Lopez and Fernando Verdasco – the dreamboat duo that served them so ineptly in the semifinals – was more problematic. If Argentina goes on to win this final, these decisions will be widely lauded and reviled respectively. Of course, their chance of winning remains vanishingly small, but Nalbandian and Eduardo Schwank have at least given them something.  The snowflake has returned from hell, but now finds itself stranded in the Upper Gobi.

Mostly what they gave today was unflappable assurance and technical solidity. This was not virtuosic doubles by any stretch, but it was a remarkably accomplished performance given the circumstances. The Davis Cup ranks among Nalbandian’s most coveted cups, and Argentina was 0-2 down, in Spain. This pair had also never played together before. The pressure was immense. Verdasco and Lopez, by contrast, play together a lot, sometimes in doubles, but could not have looked less cohesive.

The psychic lacerations first inflicted on Verdasco by Milos Raonic have since grown infected and spread to his entire game. Even at his best, baseline slugging was basically all he had, but today he was easily out-rallied by Schwank. Against Nalbandian he looked completely helpless. He was no better at the net or overhead. Meanwhile, clay isn’t Lopez’ best surface, but his lefty serve is his best shot anywhere. Today he was out-served by both Argentinians.

Spain will doubtless regain the coveted cup tomorrow, thereby breaking Nalbandian’s heart. Verdasco and Lopez will be there ecstatically sprawled on the court with the rest, having failed to win a doubles set in the semifinal or final, proving emphatically that the world’s best Davis Cup squad is Rafael Nadal, David Ferrer and anyone.

Reasoning that tennis might well survive my inattention more or less intact, I had paid it little heed since the Tour Finals concluded last Sunday. Both the sport and I were doubtless better for it. Sadly, my indifference could not last. With the Davis Cup final between Spain and Argentina fast approaching, it seemed imperative that I get up to speed. Some light googling revealed that tennis had indeed survived, primarily because almost nothing had occurred. It’s true that both nations had been availing themselves of hourly press conferences, but, depressingly, this did not mean they had anything much to say. Still, I could not help but be intrigued when the very first search result, courtesy of USA Today, revealed that ‘Argentina is already putting the pressure on Spain, calling the defending champions …’

‘What?’ I demanded. ‘What did they call them?’ Pussies? Imperialist pig-dogs? Whining nancy-boys? Eagerly I clicked the link. It turned out that Argentina, or the tiny part embodied in its Davis Cup squad, had actually just called Spain ‘the favourites’. Oh dear: the dreaded F bomb. Well it had to happen eventually. The teams could only pussy-foot around each for so long before fangs were bared and claws extended. The accusation of favouritism is a serious one in professional tennis, which in terms of sledging clearly has some way to go to catch up with test cricket or UFC or the average retiree’s bridge evening. (I was immediately reminded of a list that appeared in a British newspaper last week, arranging Roger Federer’s verbal barbs at Andy Murray from over the years into a veritable litany of outrage. It featured such vicious broadsides as: ‘Would you consider Andy Murray to be one of your main rivals?’ ‘No.’)

Obviously Spain are the favourites, given that they field a superior team, have won the event more than anyone else recently, and are playing at home on clay. Naturally, you wouldn’t know it from the Spanish team’s tediously over-rehearsed statements, which they somehow delivered with straight faces. Here’s world No.5 David Ferrer: ‘I’m very tired. I want to stop, but I can’t because I have the Davis Cup. It is a disadvantage because we’ve played more matches. We’ll be more tired. We have to change now to clay courts. The Argentinian guys, they were practising two weeks ago on clay.’ Or how about Rafael Nadal, heavily draped in excessive humility: ‘They have great players, all of which stand out on the circuit, so the only thing we can do is concentrate on reaching the final as prepared as possible and then hope our rivals don’t have an inspired weekend.’ That’s right: Nadal – probably the greatest clay courter in history – is actually insisting his only chance lies in hoping Juan Monaco isn’t inspired.

The commitment to achieving perfect underdog status has by now become so encompassing as to defy reason. Or physics, since the crushing gravity of this much self-deprecating horse shit will collapse in on itself to form a singularity, forming an event horizon beyond which nothing of the slightest interest can escape. I won’t pretend for a second that Team Argentina is behaving any better, though they are at least justified in asserting their opponent’s superiority, since it is beyond reasonable question. Neither Nadal nor Ferrer have ever lost a singles match on clay in Davis Cup play.

So the week’s build-up has led to nothing more than this. Two groups of grown men who have been so conditioned to cherish their own inferiority that they apparently cannot otherwise compete. The situation was delicately poised, until Spanish great Manolo Santana, who learned his craft long before the image doctors took charge, went and spoiled it all by telling the truth: ‘We [Spain] are superior on clay, grass, hard courts and, if necessary, even on roller skates.’

The Spanish team’s sudden anxiety was palpable. It was exactly the kind of wild, unvetted remark that risked firing the terrifying Juan Monaco up. Then who knows what might happen? Nadal beware.

Paris Masters 1000, Third Round

(5) Berdych d. (11) Tipsarevic, 7/5 6/4

Monaco d. (7) Fish, 1/6 7/6 1/2 ret.

(1) Djokovic d. (15) Troicki, 4/6 6/3 6/1

The consequences of Tomas Berdych’s perpetually evolving victory over Janko Tipsarevic in Paris today will resonate both in the short term and the long. Most immediately, it means that the final line up for the World Tour Finals has been decided (perhaps), meaning the ATP website will have to find something else to go on about for the time being. This outcome is being widely reported, as expected.*

Less discussed, but unarguably more profound, has been the ineradicable demonstration that robotics has progressed to the point whereby even a merely steady AI will overcome a fallible human. The ending has begun. It may seem a large jump from Berdych to Skynet, but tyranny never begins all at once. Later generations, huddled starving in their bunkers, will view Berdych’s first win over Tipsarevic in five meetings as a tipping point, the point when the machines gained something like sentience, and watched on in wonder as the humans discarded theirs. Twice.

Tipsarevic blew leads in both sets, and both times the collapse was total. It is one thing to be broken back while serving for a set, even indoors, but it quite another be broken again and again. Berdych can admittedly be a terrifying prospect when he is imposing his game, with ‘game’ in this sense meaning hitting the ball very hard from the baseline. Beijing was a good example. Today was nothing like that. He was merely steady, having realised – sentience! – that even at 1/5 down, nothing more was required. Tipsarevic makes serving for a set look like the most precarious position imaginable. Perhaps I am being harsh, but the Serb will finish 2011 in the top ten, and this will be his final match of his break-out season (perhaps).

The reason I qualify the point is that Tipsarevic has narrowly missed out on a Tour Finals berth, but will go in as first alternate should one of the qualifiers withdraw for any reason. As it happens, Mardy Fish managed to injure himself whilst seeing off Juan Monaco, and was compelled to retire. As a rule, I have little patience for precautionary retirements, but clearly the decision not to proceed was justified. This will be his first appearance at the Tour Finals, and even those who qualify every year regard it as an honour. He was clearly injured, and sacrificing his spot merely to grind out a painful win in Bercy – and then face Federer – understandably held little allure.

Novak Djokovic doubtless enjoyed a broadly similar apathy coming into his match against Viktor Troicki. He certainly looked disinclined to win, and sprayed several hundred errors in dropping the first set. There was more of the same to begin the second, except that Troicki reverted to type, and could not gain the decisive break no matter how many times Djokovic double faulted. The world No.1 somehow held at 2/2, and then realised that even down a set it would be quicker and easier just to win the thing and get off court. He allowed Troicki just two more games, which is two more than he deserved.

*The final three qualifiers are Berdych, Jo-Wilfried Tsonga and Mardy Fish.

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.