It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
At almost five hours, it was the longest Wimbledon men’s singles final ever. From the way they played, all indications pointed to a virtual tie: 6-4, 6-4, 6-7, 6-7, 9-7. The sun was setting when Roger finally yielded the championship to Rafa courtesy of a forehand that went into the net.
Had I been present at the match, I would have already fainted during the third set. The first two and a half hours belonged to Nadal, without a doubt. Federer certainly looked as if he was awestruck by Nadal’s extreme and unfailing angles. Contrast that with his overwhelming unforced errors and inability to convert his break-point opportunities–well, I can only imagine the kind of pressure that must have been churning inside his imperturbable exterior. Even his point challenges failed. I wanted to turn off the television, not wanting to see Roger robbed of his title in straight sets.
Little did I know that the match was only halfway.
Federer stayed true to form and bounced back with aces and winners. I could barely keep track of all the incredible tennis that the top two seeds played. They seemed to be able to lunge deeper, flex, or stretch their arms an extra inch or two, in order to bounce the ball back into action. In the last three sets, only a few points were wasted, which could have been attributed to fatigue, the strong gusts of wind, and the dimming light. The energy of the normally-staid Wimbledon crowd seemed to heighten to U.S. Open levels.
From the way he played, Rafa could have been from Salamanca instead of Majorca. His trademark constant pulling at his shorts got more frequent as the match progressed. I irritatingly thought that that was how he managed to hex Federer. One backside pull by Nadal=one unforced error by Federer.
I watched the replay tonight and still felt the same gripping action, fervently wishing the impossible– that the results would somehow change.
I saw the anguish in Roger’s eyes as he bowed his head and struggled to retain his composure as Rafa slid to the ground in victory. I felt his numbing pain when his name was called as the runner-up instead of champion for the sixth time. I cried silent tears for Federer. This was his court, his tournament, his time. This must have been his worst defeat of all.
In his day, Pete Sampras had been my favorite too. But I have high hopes that Federer will break his record of fourteen Grand Slams.
Cheer up, Roger. The U.S. Open 2008 will be Grand Slam No. 13.
