It has been a week since Roger Federer walked off Centre Court as Wimbledon champion for the seventh time. And as a Grand Slam winner, the best of 128 players, for a mind-boggling 17th time. The Slams simply dried up after January 2010, two and a half years ago. Novak Djokovic dumped on-court mimicry for titles. As his mother put it, 'Earlier it was Rafa, Roger, Rafa, Roger, now it's Novak, Novak, Novak..' Rafael Nadal grabbed the two available French Open titles. It is almost a given now - 128 men travel to Paris and Nadal wins.
But Roger was the consistent loser. He never left before the quarters, but never left a winner. I was one among many who wrote him off as a has-been. But he pushed on, knowing he would win again, not hanging up his racquet just yet.
And what better place to redeem himself than his adopted home, Wimbledon. In front of a polite crowd, appreciative of the genius he was displaying that day. Which brings me to the final. Andy Murray was the man on the other side of the net. (You think the next sentence will have the words 'first', 'British', 'man', 'Fred', 'Perry' and 1936 in it. I will spare you this most repeated piece of history in recent times.) The crowd was behind Murray, but some odd shouts in support of Federer could be heard. Federer had reached the summit clash having blown away the likes of Djokovic and Youzhny. Murray had braved Tsonga. He broke Federer early in the first set and went on to take it.
Federer, never one to be walked over, bounced back to take set two. After two games in the third, the clouds opened to bless Federer. The Swiss accepted the blessings and romped his way to the set in progress and the next. Like Steffi Graf, he got around backhands to unleash his lethal forehand. He lifted the trophy, his long-time friend of ten years.
British hearts were broken, but they got to see vintage Federer as a splendid compensation. Murray, the nearly man, praised his tormentor and thanked his crew between sobs. Federer was certain his vanquished opponent will win at least one Grand Slam some day. And I am certain that day will not arrive as long as Federer is playing this way.
But Roger was the consistent loser. He never left before the quarters, but never left a winner. I was one among many who wrote him off as a has-been. But he pushed on, knowing he would win again, not hanging up his racquet just yet.
And what better place to redeem himself than his adopted home, Wimbledon. In front of a polite crowd, appreciative of the genius he was displaying that day. Which brings me to the final. Andy Murray was the man on the other side of the net. (You think the next sentence will have the words 'first', 'British', 'man', 'Fred', 'Perry' and 1936 in it. I will spare you this most repeated piece of history in recent times.) The crowd was behind Murray, but some odd shouts in support of Federer could be heard. Federer had reached the summit clash having blown away the likes of Djokovic and Youzhny. Murray had braved Tsonga. He broke Federer early in the first set and went on to take it.
Federer, never one to be walked over, bounced back to take set two. After two games in the third, the clouds opened to bless Federer. The Swiss accepted the blessings and romped his way to the set in progress and the next. Like Steffi Graf, he got around backhands to unleash his lethal forehand. He lifted the trophy, his long-time friend of ten years.
British hearts were broken, but they got to see vintage Federer as a splendid compensation. Murray, the nearly man, praised his tormentor and thanked his crew between sobs. Federer was certain his vanquished opponent will win at least one Grand Slam some day. And I am certain that day will not arrive as long as Federer is playing this way.
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