The Next Point

Davis Cup, First Round

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Auckland, Final

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

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

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

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

Australian Open, Qualifying Third Round

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

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

Kooyong, Final

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

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

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

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

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

Sydney, Final

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another update has appeared to the continuing exploits of Israel’s No.2 tennis player Amir Weintraub, whose escapades I first covered here. The fifth installment of his adventures – entitled ‘A week that really happened to me’ – has been translated and posted in the original forum thread (it’s on page 8). It covers his debut for Israel in Davis Cup, in which he fought to a five set win over Jerzy Janowicz, whom he persists in referring to as ‘The Pole’.

As much as I enjoy and appreciate Weintraub’s intermittent updates, I do regret an increasing tendency towards introspection; towards merely telling us how he’s feeling, especially when he’s feeling glum. This stuff is not his strong point, mainly because he ends up sounding much like everyone, and thus could be anyone. World literature is hardly under-represented on this front, and Weintraub’s posts demonstrate that the terms with which self-pity is conveyed transcend language barriers. It reads predictably even in translation. You don’t need to have played your first Davis Cup match to write: ‘I’m shaking and excited. My stomach rolling. How am I supposed to hit the ball when I’m this nervous? I hold it all in, get the claps, hundreds of people calling my name, I’ve waited my entire life for that moment and it is a lot more thrilling than I could possibly dream.’ You just need a modicum of imagination. Conversely, with only a few words altered you could be describing the closing scenes of Teen Wolf. It’s just too general.

When he gives us the incidental details, however, his rare situation snaps into focus: ‘We get back to the hotel room and each of us gets exactly what he wanted for ‘match day food’. Dudi asks for pasta, I opt for rice.’ We can surmise, without having to be told and through the mere fact of its inclusion, that this strikes Weintraub as noteworthy. The (unintentional) echo of death row only adds to the sense of foreboding. It is perfectly evocative, for it conjures the distance between the Davis Cup experience and the week-in grind of the Futures and Challenger circuits.

Overcoming Jerzy Janowicz is to date the greatest moment of Weintraub’s career. However, it isn’t so great that he wishes to repeat it: ‘I only pray Andy and Yoni will take the doubles . . . so I wouldn’t have to go through this hell on Sunday again.’ Again, it’s the specificity of the admission that lends it value. Really, he’s only saying that he’s relieved, but if he’d only said that he wouldn’t have been saying much, certainly not much that we couldn’t have guessed ourselves. It is the particularity of his relief that makes it his, and that makes it valuable to the reader. These details invite us into his world.

His world is not that of, say, the world’s No.1, who spent the Davis Cup weekend at the impossible task of beating up hapless Belgians. It was a weekend in which the world group ties ground on with narcoleptic inevitability. It is worth being reminded that the zonal groups didn’t. Indeed, there is substance to the argument that the Davis Cup is most meaningful only for the nation that lofts the trophy each December, and for the smaller nations whose players are granted a transfigurative experience. Amir Weintraub was one such. I’m eager to see where he goes from here.

Another update has appeared to the continuing exploits of Israel’s No.2 tennis player Amir Weintraub, whose escapades I first covered here. The third installment of his adventures – entitled ‘Crash’ – has been translated and posted in the original forum thread (it’s on page 5).

Following hard on our hero’s adventures at the Australian Open qualifying, this entry deals with the soul-miring comedown of returning to the minor leagues. Weintraub has gone from scraping into qualifying as an alternate in Melbourne, to being top seed at a Futures event in own his country, a radical downshift in pond-size. The prose is as simple and evocative as ever, and the theme provides a salutory message to the likes of Bernard Tomic and Milos Raonic, who will undergo similarly undignified journies from roaring centre courts to arid backlots.

There is some light for Weintraub, who has been selected for the Israeli Davis Cup squad. However, the promise of this experience exerts a distraction commensurate with Melbourne, and caught between them, he loses to a player ranked 400 spots below him. Cue soul-searching.

Just a quick update to the continuing exploits of Israel’s No.2 tennis player Amir Weintraub, whose escapades I first covered here. The second installment of his adventures has been translated and posted in the original forum thread (it’s on page 4).

It covers his recent experiences at the Australian Open, where he competed in the Qualifying tournament. It is a fascinating read, and valuable precisely for details such as this: ‘I go to the giant dining room. After a few moments I notice the noisy room with the 250 players in it goes totally silent and everyone looks toward the door. Rafa Nadal just walked in.’

There is a pecking order on the ATP. Weintraub may be the bottom, but his candour and determination make him an ideal guide.

In the course of researching up-and-coming Australian players for an upcoming article, I stumbled across some resources that are too valuable not to pass on immediately.

The first is Challenger Tennis, a website whose mission is the chronicling of men’s tennis at those levels directly below the regular ATP tour. This is achieved with such seemingly effortless class that I could not help but be impressed. I’d wondered if anyone was actually covering this material; now I wonder that someone is doing it so well.

By limiting its scope, the site has freed itself from the obligation to get everything in, which in any case is a foolish obligation to feel. Even with all the resources in the world, a panoramic view inevitably leads to a diffusion of gaze. You just can’t get everything in, and it is a kind of conceit to try. Challenger Tennis is the internet at its best, because it represents the furtherance of human knowledge at its most selfless. Indeed, I am struck by the extent to which it reflects the near-thankless toil of the Challenger and Futures tours themselves. From that perspective, the effort is heroic. That it is done with engaging charm is a bonus, but not an incidental one. A truly literary style is a hard thing to gainsay, even when it is placed at the service of ephemera:

“Throughout the second, Greg saved BP’s with brave net ventures and big serves, sometimes combining them in a little something I like to call serve and volley (I hope that catches on).”

Proof, if more is needed, that it is always better to say things well.

The second link is an intriguing thread from Mens Tennis Forums, making it something of a diamond in a morass. The poster has taken it upon themselves to translate (from Hebrew) the continuing adventures of Amir Weintraub, who as of this writing is Israel’s second highest ranked male player (No.270). Though only the first instalment, it makes for some evocative reading, and provides an important counterpoint to the prevailing view that the life of a tennis pro is all sunshine and dazzling splendour. Of course, those who follow the sport know it to be otherwise, but it is always valuable to hear a human being say it.

It is poignant to juxtapose Roger Federer’s earnest remark following his victory in the Tour Finals (‘I need holidays. Time is money these days.’), with Weintraub’s wry concluding line: ‘. . . what’s money in comparison to the chance to earn a few more ranking points?’ Naturally, the gap between Federer and Israel’s second best tennis player is vast, but these lines suggest it is a chasm. After four days transit to make about $500 in Noumea, all Weintraub has is time, even if, at 24, he can probably already feel it draining away.

Incidentally, Weintraub did make the qualifying cut for the Australian Open, but fell in the first round to Ivan Sergeyev in three tough sets.