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.

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.

Wimbledon, Day Seven

Of the 128 men who more or less randomly populated the Wimbledon men’s singles draw on the tournament’s opening morning, fully 112 failed to last the week. They have since joined forces with the roughly three billion other men who never had any chance, a staggering tally that features yours truly, although not prominently. We are the rabble, for all that our number includes kings and captains, cabbages and Rafael Nadal. Sixteen men remained, and it is only by generously rounding up that I could even call them the one per cent, although doing so was a necessary step in cultivating my outrage. Their number included Roger Federer and Denis Istomin. They got to play in the second week. It’s a privilege.

All sixteen men were scheduled to play today, ostensibly the greatest single day of tennis in the year – our sport’s answer to Sandwich Day – which is surely a blow to the US Open organisers, who’ve gone to some lengths to dub their second Saturday ‘Super’. Isn’t it fitting that the second Monday at Wimbledon doesn’t even have a name? Can you imagine an American event permitting that oversight to continue? Think of the wasted marketing potential, the value of which can be measured in ‘Lobotomies per square mile’. My research department informs me that by failing properly to christen its second Monday, Wimbledon has foregone approximately 143,400 lobotomies in the Open Era. That’s a lot of people who are still capable of independent thought. Frankly, it’s too many.

With that in mind, I propose the formation of a working committee to address this issue. After all, a concept un-marketed is a concept wasted, a concession to the vacuum, and I vaguely recall reading somewhere that nature abhors those, although I might be thinking of gerbils. The first rule of naming anything is that, as with Superman’s love-interests, one cannot go wrong with alliteration. That’s presumably why Super Saturday is such an unalloyed success, since it cannot be due to the undoubted wisdom of scheduling both men’s semifinals the afternoon before the final. Sadly, Mad Monday is already taken, although ‘mad’, like ‘super’ is suggestive. What it suggests is that whichever word is eventually chosen – following an extensive submission and shortlisting process – must lend itself to exclamation points, and to deployment in the kind of font that would flash up on screen whenever Adam West or Burt Ward punched people. Mental is therefore good. Mellow is not. Maximum might usefully be incorporated. Midget, not so much. Manic would work, if it hadn’t been co-opted by the same women who ruined Egyptian perambulation for everyone. Anyway, submissions are open.

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

Mostly today was Meteorologically-Abbreviated Monday, which I don’t expect will catch on, notwithstanding that England is the spot for it. Only three of the eight scheduled matches saw completion. The first of these, assessed chronologically and in terms of concern over Roger Federer’s spine, was said player’s scratchy, lurching, masterful, lumbar-inhibited victory over Xavier Malisse. Malisse Monday? Federer, as almost anyone who cares will presumably already know, was troubled from near the outset, especially in his movement, footwork, groundstrokes, volleys, and serve. His hair was pretty good, and at one point he rocked the hell out of a fairly natty cream sweater. But he could barely push to his right, and his forehands were uncharacteristically feeble when stretched that way. Malisse duly stretched him to that side, but nowhere near often enough.

Initial bafflement among the faithful bloomed into heaving unease when Federer left the court leading 4/3 in the first set for a medical time-out. John Newcombe, commentating on Channel Seven, perceptively suggested that Federer might be sick. Malaise Monday? Darren Cahill over on ESPN had already identified a back issue. Federer returned eight minutes later, but hadn’t improved. Malisse pushed him wide to the forehand, and broke. Then the Belgian made a tiny tactical error, although it was one that would ultimately cost him the set, if not the match. He stopped hitting the ball wide to Federer’s forehand, and he stopped hitting the ball into the court. Federer was by now caressing his shots with a Tomic-like somnolence, and in several pivotal rallies merely goaded Malisse into over-hitting. These points were usefully interleaved with ripping backhand passes, deft hands, and brazen chip-charges. Anything but big forehands. The second set disappeared quickly. Once he’d broken back in the fourth, that one went quickly too. Malisse grabbed a set, too. Mercurial Monday?

(26) Youzhny d. Istomin, 6/3 5/7 6/4 6/7 7/5

That might usefully describe Mikhail Youzhny’s fairly stirring win over Denis Istomin, who, had he won, would have seemed like a pretty unlikely Wimbledon quarterfinalists, in contrast to Youzhny, who has somehow never been there, either. This is surprising. It feels like Youzhny should have made the quarterfinals of Wimbledon before. Indeed, there’s no one particularly good reason why so elegant a grass-courter hasn’t reached the final eight in a career’s-worth of visits (he has done so at each of the other majors), although there are lots of little ones. Mostly he keeps losing in the fourth round. I suppose that’s hard to argue with.

Anyway, The Colonel didn’t lose today, but it was a close thing. Up two sets to one, it seemed quite likely that he’d finish it off, especially since Istomin’s lone set had come against the run of play. Then Istomin augmented his lone set with another, further thumbling his nose at the run of play. Then he broke in the fifth – thereby blowing his nose on the run of play’s favourite t-shirt – and nothing made sense anymore: Muddled Monday. Youzhny broke back, quite magnificently, and displayed typical reticence in broadcasting his satisfaction, looking as ever like he could bite the head off a chicken in his exultation. Again the hope that he’d push on was quashed, or at least forestalled, as Istomin kept finding break points, although Youzhny kept retrieving them – overhead winner, ace, forehand – in a long tenth game that Istomin otherwise spent supine on the turf. There was a persistent misty drizzle, and footing was not secure. Youzhny held, then eventually broke. He’ll next face Federer, for the former a first Wimbledon quarterfinal, for the latter his tenth in a row.

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

The only other completed match saw Victor Troicki put in his usual effort when confronted with the towering Novak Djokovic – Matterhorn Monday - which is to say a perfunctory one, suggesting that Janko Tipsarevic’s newfound determination to take it to the world No.1 isn’t at risk of becoming a trend among his lesser compatriots. As ever, this lesser compatriot instead set about proving Henry Ford’s famously inspirational maxim: ‘Whether you think you can, or you think you can’t – you’re Viktor Troicki.’ Being who he is, he probably wasn’t going to beat Djokovic, who has the wherewithal to be what he is irrespective of our beliefs, but he could have given a far better account of himself. He needed to be a better Troicki than the one he invariably is when faced with the defending champion.

Djokovic looked tremendous, but it was the kind of tremendous that is almost troubling for a fan, since it’s so good you immediately assume it isn’t real, like watching someone nail every shot in target practice. Whether Troicki lurched to the net, or noodled about near the baseline, target practice was all he provided. Mismatch Monday.

The rest of the matches will be finished on Tuesday. Train-wreck. Torrential. Tangential . . .  

French Open, Day Five

Fognini d. (28) Troicki, 6/2 3/6 4/6 6/3 8/6

Fabio Fognini saved two match points while defeating Viktor Troicki today – 8/6 in the fifth set – and it is reasonable to suppose he played the second of them with a cracked frame, having hurled it to the court upon conceding the previous point. This has traditionally signalled the moment at which Fognini grows interested, so it proved something of a surprise when he subsequently broke for 7/6, and then served it out at love. Those of us who had hunkered down for an epic could be forgiven for feeling a little short-changed. Where was Troicki’s counter break, amidst a flurry of foot faults? No cramps? Even the self-directed tirades, for all that they roamed through the more florid regions of several romance languages, were mostly delivered sotto voce.

If fans cannot rely on The Fog to instigate a melodramatic and farcically-extended classic, wither should they turn? Who remaining in the draw even had the pedigree? A short time later John Isner strode onto Chatrier, where he would remain for over five and a half hours. Denied the services of Nicolas Mahut, who is scheduled to face Roger Federer tomorrow, Isner had instead enlisted the equally unlikely Paul-Henri Mathieu. When Big John really has time to kill, it seems only aging also-ran Frenchmen need apply, although once you’ve met those basic requirements it’s apparently a case of first come, first served-at. (Arnaud Clement, busily terrorising ball kids, missed his chance by mere hours. Utterly despondent, he immediately announced his retirement.)

(WC) Mathieu d. (10) Isner, 6/7 6/4 6/4 3/6 18/16

By now you doubtless know how it turned out. Doing anything more than recounting the scores does any of the first four sets too much justice. Each provided a timely reminder – timely is almost certainly the wrong term – that Isner’s classics are not to be delectated for their individual moments, but only appreciated in their totality, like an extended work by Philip Glass. No one emerges from a performance of Einstein on the Beach unchanged, but nor do they necessarily recall that delightful bit in the third hour, unless it’s years later, during therapy. Steve Tignor, who was courtside, correctly suggested that a match like this one evokes the fleeting transience of human existence. He should try doing it through a frigid Melbourne night. Somewhere in there May became June, and it felt like it. A month had passed.

The match lurched to a kind of life in the fifth set, likely a ghastly simulacrum. Those parts of Mathieu’s career not taken up with surgery and recovery have been mostly devoted to establishing his reputation for gagging at the big moments. He kicked things off nicely in the 2002 Davis Cup final, when he blew a two set lead – in Paris – to Mikhail Youzhny in the fifth and deciding rubber. For disappointment that’s hard to top, which isn’t to say he hasn’t tried to at least match it in the long decade since. Still, he appears to have turned a corner of sorts. Two days ago he recovered from a two set deficit for the first time. Today he held his nerve admirably. Isner, it turns out, should have vetted his aging also-ran Frenchmen a little more closely.

When a fifth set lacks a tiebreaker – as it should – it’s inevitable that fitness becomes decisive, especially on clay. At 6’9’’, Isner will never be able to run all day. But Mathieu is still in the preliminary stages of his latest comeback, so there was no reason to believe he could either. Blunt weariness was thus decisive, but for a wonder it was the Frenchman who was holding more comfortably, and whose groundstrokes retained their sting. Isner should have been taking bigger cuts on his return games, undoubtedly, but Mathieu was admirably steadfast. And he was making Isner toil mightily to hold, doing everything he could to counter the American’s beastly kick to the ad court. I don’t wish to imply that the tennis was suddenly breathtaking. It wasn’t, but at least Mathieu’s break points were now match points, each holding out the promise of a final perfect cadence. Alas, this was Glass in a capricious mood, and every time the dominant chord would resolve imperfectly, sliding cruelly away, back into the churning minimalist coda. Isner saved six match points.

He didn’t save the seventh, and Mathieu looked slightly less elated than stunned as Isner’s final forehand drifted wide in the gathering murk. He too had given up hope of an end. His feet were in terrible shape – one of his toes is broken – and he must have been close to collapse, but he looked numb rather than wounded. They both did, but Mathieu, once it had sunk in, was the one permitted to raise his leaden arms aloft for the delirious crowd.

If we weren’t constantly reminded, it might be easy to forget that Isner was considered an outside chance to take the French Open this year. I was never sure whether this brazen assessment was based more heavily on his stirring Davis Cup efforts against Switzerland and France or his heroic first round loss to Nadal here last year. Either way, he has emphatically failed to impress since returning to Europe. It is with some dismay that we must admit that a strong run at the US Men’s Clay Court Championships back in Atlanta does not necessarily guarantee triumph at Roland Garros. I suppose we had to find out sometime. Juan Monaco, who will face Milos Raonic in a few days, maintains some hope it doesn’t therefore guarantee failure. Isner looked quite upset at this discovery, although initially his analysis remained measured, as though he was reading it from a coaching handbook: ‘I felt like I got caught in patterns that weren’t idea for me.’ The issue, he suggested, was one of confidence. Fair enough. Then, finally, his disappointment broke through: ‘I am just going to go home. I don’t want to think about tennis right now.’

Mathieu has been denied the same luxury, for all that he must crave it at some level. Unfortunately, he is already home, and he won’t be granted the freedom of oblivion. He must do it again in a few days, much of which will be spent in an ice bath, traditionally a difficult – although not impossible – place in which to savour victory. Whether that victory will prove Pyrrhic is the question. Fabio Fognini knows all about those, as does John Isner. Now Isner knows that they’re still better than a loss.

Nice, Final

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

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

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

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

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

World Team Cup, Final

Tipsarevic d. Berdych, 7/5 7/6

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Indian Wells, Quarterfinals

(1) Djokovic d. (12) Almagro 6/3 6/4

It’s curious where one’s mind wanders while watching Novak Djokovic idly construct a routine victory over the twelfth best tennis player in the world, who at this moment is Nicolas Almagro. Mostly it wanders into areas that are neither pertinent to a tennis column, nor necessarily safe for juvenile consumption. But occasionally it strays somewhere almost relevant.

It was last year in the Davis Cup semifinals that Djokovic famously substituted himself for Viktor Troicki, believing that even in his fatigued and wounded state he stood a better chance of beating Juan Martin del Potro in the live fourth rubber. It was a backhanded compliment to his opponent, delivered by way of a forehand insult to his notoriously flaky compatriot: ‘[We] all felt that I could go out on the court with maybe 50-60% and play better than Viktor at this moment.’ The universe wasn’t going to let that slide. It turns out that friends in very cosmic places have got Troicki’s back. Incensed, they decided to take Djokovic’s back, too, whereupon they snapped it. Trailing by a set and break, the world No.1 collapsed (melo)dramatically to the court. Sixty per cent became zero per cent. Surely even Troicki could have topped that.

Discounting that exhibition event in Abu Dhabi – as everyone does – it seems to me that Djokovic has never quite recaptured the immaculate state he sustained through the first nine months of 2011, a period in which he compiled what is surely the greatest start to a season so far, and looked for a while as though he was going to achieve the finest start possible, which is to say a start without an end. He didn’t, and his end was disappointing, marred by three further losses, a withdrawal, and no more titles. This year he has returned to winning, but he hasn’t quite looked the same while doing it. (I don’t mean to denigrate this, because it really ought to be celebrated.) Some have suggested that the task of repeating last year’s efforts is simply too daunting. Perhaps they’re right. He seemed to want it enough in Melbourne, although his eventual victory was for me categorically unlike  the triumphs of last season, which were often terrifying in their completeness (Rome was perhaps the exception). Yet gods cannot be heroes, and this year’s Australian Open was altogether more heroic, through being infinitely more human. Whether one cared for the tennis or not, the struggle was inspiring, because, fundamentally, it was not titanic. If he does go on to fashion a season to rival his previous one, it will be, for me, an even more astonishing achievement.

I remarked after last year’s Miami final that Djokovic, somewhere, had discovered a mind free from doubt. I remain happy enough with how I said it, although even at the time I knew that as a theory it did not run counter to the general current of thought, which was that Djokovic had always had the game, but just needed to get his head right. This year he seems to have rediscovered his doubt. How many times at the Australian Open did he look like the old theatrical Djokovic, determined that no one in the stadium or at home should fail to note his breathing issues, all while hunching over and flexing his legs almost as frequently as Andy Murray tends to his own niggles, which is to say after every lost point. It was depressingly familiar.

What is unfamiliar was how he has kept on winning, anyway. He still outlasted Nadal in the final, and Murray in the semifinal. He still hasn’t lost at Indian Wells. I am coming to suspect that the entrenched notion that Djokovic always had the game, but just needed the belief is flawed, and lazy. The fact that it immediately shifts the discussion into the rarefied, not to say ineffable, discourse of belief should have been the first clue that there might be something awry with it. The particularities of tennis – technique, reaction-time, movement, tactics – are too quickly glossed over in favour of airy theories which cannot proved or refuted, and invariably rely upon the player’s own say-so. But maybe we’re all making it too complicated. Perhaps Djokovic is just better at playing tennis than he used to be. Perhaps he’s just become that much better at it than the other guys.

At the level at which the top players operate, it can be hard to tell, since the improvements usually come in such vanishingly small increments. So much of the Serb’s genius is in his balance, in his ability to maintain a stable foundation for his strokes even at the uttermost stretch. He’s always looked pretty spry to me, yet I’d say he is moving better than ever. His forehand is undoubtedly better. Ironically, it is one of the more underrated shots in the sport, except when it finds the line on match point down in the US Open semifinal, when we apparently cannot hear enough about it. But this moment is worth examination, since it was so widely lauded as an example of Djokovic’s now-impenetrable champion’s mentality. However, I remain convinced that the shot was launched with a mordant gallows-recklessness, which is the place Djokovic used to occupy in such situations. In that moment, he was the old, wry, bitter Djokovic, but his forehand was now just a tiny bit better, and so it found the line where once it would have missed. I cannot say whether any of this is true, but it’s worth considering. Also worth considering is the extent to which confidence stems from technical mastery, and not the other way around.

Today, faced with Almagro, Djokovic didn’t particularly look like last year’s inexorable victory-machine. He just looked a better player than his opponent: faster, steadier, and more technically sound. I know it’s boring to say so, but that’s mostly what tennis matches come down to. The guy who is better at it wins. This brings us back to the question of how good Djokovic actually is. If compelled to guess, I’d say that Djokovic was today operating at considerably more than 60% of his maximum intensity, although how much more I can’t say. He certainly would have beaten Troicki.

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.

Moscow, Final

(1) Tipsarevic d. (2) Troicki, 6/4 6/2

Stockholm, Final

(1) Monfils d. Nieminen, 7/5 3/6 6/2

Janko Tipsarevic’s first title on the ATP Tour was a long while coming, and for a time his quest for silverware figured among the more diverting side-narratives that liberally pepper the sport. It is worth remembering this, for upon claiming his maiden title in Kuala Lumpur last month there was every chance it will be forgotten, as so much is forgotten. Now that he has augmented that trophy with a second, in Moscow, that chance has become a certainty. The by-line that Tipsarevic was the highest profile player never to win a title was at the top of every commentator’s crib sheet, along with whatever book he is reading at the moment, but next year it won’t be.* The urge to preserve ephemera is of course quixotic, a commitment to fight the tide. But when the tide is one of forgetting, the fight is worth having. We save what we can.

Anyway, claiming his second title appeared no harder than claiming his first (and for that matter no harder than claiming Eastbourne in June, or Rosmalen last year, which he nonetheless failed to do). In the semifinal he defeated Nikolay Davydenko and in the final Viktor Troicki, with the former presenting a sterner challenge than the latter, as one might expect. Even now, I cannot come at the idea that Davydenko in Moscow is not better than Troicki. In any case, there is always a pecking order among players from the same company, even amongst a group knit as closely as the Serbs. It often bears only a tangential relationship to the respective rankings. Lleyton Hewitt, for example, retains seniority amongst the Australian player group, and his compatriots will mostly defer to him. Tipsarevic already outranked Troicki, which technically made him the second-ranked Serb. Today’s uncomplicated victory has assured us the abstraction of the numbers is now matched by the reality. You may recall that Troicki replaced Tipsarevic in the deciding rubber of last year’s Davis Cup final. There is no chance of that happening now, especially given the fresh trend is for Djokovic to sub himself in, even while injured.

Tipsarevic moves to a slightly more respectable 2-4 in career finals, Troicki: 1-4. It could be worse. It could be 1-10, which is now Jarkko Nieminen’s record after losing to Gael Monfils in the final of Stockholm. Mind you, Monfils can hardly gloat – he has improved to 4-11. That’s a combined 8-29. Really, they were all lucky to be playing each other this weekend.

*Highest profile male player, that is. Surely Kournikova will never be surpassed in this area.

Welcome to my continuing look back at the hardcourt season just ended. The first part, which goes into slightly more detail about why I’m even bothering, can be found here. Part One looked at the top players. This part examines a selection of the rest. I won’t pretend there isn’t bias in my selection, but if pressed I would insist that the bias isn’t gratuitous. In advance, I’m sorry if I’ve missed your favourites.

16. Viktor Troicki, 18. Richard Gasquet and 19. David Nalbandian
Aside from Mardy Fish, the three biggest arrivals into the top twenty have travelled strikingly different paths: finding ones feet, returning from injury, and being Richard Gasquet, in no particular order. Nonetheless, all three are united by how little their ranking owes to strong performances at big events, a testament to the relative scarcity of points available in this range. However, it also means that their ranking is more stable than those reliant upon a freakish run at a premier event, such as Ljubicic, Berdych or Melzer. Those guys can fall away very suddenly, indeed. For Troicki, Gasquet and Nalbandian, however, death will only come via a thousand cuts, and it’s just as likely that points dropped here will be matched by gains elsewhere. Those critical of Troicki’s game would do well to bear his fundamental consistency in mind. As for Gasquet, well, anything might happen there.

33. Kevin Anderson
The belief was widespread, although not generous, that Kevin Anderson claiming the SA Tennis Open back in February said more about the event than about the player. There were even murmurs that his victory was the final nail in the camel’s back. The tournament is no more. Having sat courtside as Anderson succumbed pointlessly to Blaz Kavcic in Melbourne – it was on the court adjacent to one where I shared an awkwardly Seinfeldian half hour with Mikhail Youzhny – I was sympathetic to this most unsympathetic of views. That all changed in Miami, where he produced a level of tennis worthy of the top ten. Unfortunately he produced it against Novak Djokovic, so he lost 4 and 2, but he gained a lot of fans. Naturally, everyone his size has a monster serve, but unlike Isner and Karlovic he is solid off the ground, and boasts surprising agility for his dimensions. Clay doubtless won’t be kind to him, but he would be justified in looking forward to the grass, and beyond to the North American summer.

41. Ivan Ljubicic
In stark contrast to the players discussed earlier, Ivan Ljubicic’s high ranking of the last twelve months was largely buttressed by his extraordinary triumph in March 2010, an Indian Wells Summer for a nice guy in the twilight of his career. He scored a victory over Andy Murray in Beijing last October, which used to be a sweet achievement before Young and Bogomolov soured it for everyone, but otherwise his hardcourt season emphatically underwhelmed. At 32, a return to the top 20 is a long shot, about as long as beating Nadal and Roddick to capture a Masters title.

42. Nikolay Davydenko
By some cosmic coincidence, it transpires that the answer to Life, the Universe and Everything is the same as the question of what happens when the most finely calibrated ball striker in tennis goes off for an extended period: 42. Unlike Ljubicic, Davydenko’s high ranking was based around consistently strong results at prestigious events, including victories at the Shanghai Masters and the World Tour Finals. To be where he is has required playing poorly for a long time. Something has gone missing from his immaculate game, and none of the theories sound at all convincing.

64. Lleyton Hewitt and 68. Radek Stepanek
A pair of tour stalwarts, precipitously tumbling some 30 to 40 ranking spots. Age shall weary them, and break them, it turns out. At the end of a long decade, in which one has overachieved and the other hasn’t – which is which? – the only remaining constants are the hideousness of Stepanek’s shirts, and Hewitt’s blithe insistence that he remains a force at the majors. One is painful to look at, the other awkward to hear. That said, for Hewitt the highlight of his hardcourt season was a surprisingly successful and generous commentary stint in the Australian summer, although he wore a little thin once the supply of anecdotes dried up.

35. Milos Raonic and 70. Grigor Dimitrov
Of the young guard, the Wild Cards, it might seem counter-intuitive to lump Raonic and Dimitrov together, but I do have a point to make, since there are comparisons to be made. Both young men have improved their ranking by over 230 spots since last July. The volume of praise lately heaped on Raonic exceeds the amount of disappointment and disapproval directed the Bulgarian’s way, although the latter quantity is not inconsiderable. Raonic has of course had the stronger results – a fourth round at the Australian Open, a title in San Jose, and a runner up in Memphis – although Dimitrov has been no slouch. People say he should prove himself on the Challenger tour, so he does well in Challengers. No, he should be trying his luck against the big boys on the tour! So he plays qualifying, and battles through consistently, including strong fields in Rotterdam, Dubai and Miami. But that isn’t good enough, either. Obviously at some point he’ll have to start winning main draw matches, since Challengers and qualifying will only get you so far – about No.70, by some coincidence – but he is only 19. Naturally, the archetype of the all-court wunderkind is Federer downing Sampras on Centre Court a decade ago. As an image of the guard changing, it is hard to top for succinctness.

Six months ago, when Raonic was Dimitrov’s age, the Canadian was ranked No.200 in the world. Since January, he has put together a run even tour veterans must envy, especially Janko Tipsarevic and Florian Mayer. The slow courts of Indian Wells and Miami were less kind to his game, although his loss to Ryan Harrison in California was an honourable one, which I’m sure was an enormous consolation. Arguably, his greatest achievement was the systematic annihilation of Fernando Verdasco’s will to compete.