!Rs by Pete Bodo
Well, Roger Federer's life just got a whole lot more interesting, and y'all know why: Robin Soderling, not Rafael Nadal, is on track to meet him in the French Open final.
Somehow, it just doesn't have the same ring. And of course, any of three other able men - more able, on paper, than the 6-3 pale-skinned Swede - might have a say in that, for Fernando Gonzalez, Andy Murray and Nikolay Davydenko (who's manhandling Fernando Verdasco as I write this) all are in the hunt now. The first thing that struck me when Nadal half-chopped, half-pushed a forehand volley wide, cross-court, to end the match is that two enormous stories exploded in Paris today, with the one-two count that you can actually verbalize to mark the cock-and-fire beauty of a Nadal forehand on a day when he's hitting the shot well. Which was not today, at least not for stretches that are less well described as long or short than as critical.
Those two stories are: Rafael Nadal, who won four successive titles at Roland Garros and vaulted to the world No. 1 ranking before he lost his first match here at the French Open, has been beaten, and not by one of the usual suspects. Story number two, and one that may prove to be even more historic, is that for the first time since the beginning of his golden era, Federer is, on record, the best clay-court player in the diminished draw and thus the instant favorite to win the title on Sunday. And we all know what that means: a career Grand Slam, and nearly universal acclaim as the greatest player ever to swing a racket.
And the most tantalizing question to rear its head is: Will Federer be able to handle it?
But let's leave that one hanging for now and backtrack a few hours. It was just my luck that I arrived here, more or less fresh (or stale) off my overnight flight from New York, just as things on Court Philippe Chatrier were getting interesting. While waiting for my credential to be processed, stunned press amigos kept wandering by saying, Do you see what's happening to Rafa?. . . What do you think of the way Soderling is playing?. . . Can you believe what's happening out there?
Well, at that point, Soderling was up a set and they were starting the second-set tiebreaker. When Rafa swept that one, I breathed a little more easily, and while I had no premonitions about Nadal losing, I had been thinking all morning about how quickly things can change in tennis. On a day-to-day basis, the game is predictable; the winning percentages of the top players attest to that. But you never really know where the land mines are buried, and when they go off they can alter the tennis landscape dramatically.
Running up to this event, I had a gut feeling that somehow we weren't going to see another Federer-Nadal final; that we'd had three successive ones already was remarkable, and in an odd way as much of a testament to the noteworthy superiority of both men. But for reasons that don't much matter here, I thought Federer was the one less likely to uphold his end of the deal. I was half-right, but instead of a mere scenery changer (for Nadal), we saw what might be a game changer for Federer.
In line with this reasoning, and cleaving to the conventional wisdom, could you have come up with a less likely spoiler than Robin Soderling, that lanky, stiff-armed Swede (the same one who lost to Nadal, 6-1, 6-0 in Rome just a few weeks ago)? This is as good an argument that exists for demolishing the inexact science of bracketology (as much fun as it is for some), or for lobbing thinly disguised insults over the Iberio-Swiss divide. Today, being in the same half as Soderling was a decided disadvantage, for he was very much on his game. But let me amend that first sentence slightly, in a broader perspective: Soderling is actually a picture-book spoiler: He hits pretty big and fairly flat (and guys like that are always a danger when they're feeling their oats), he's a veteran who appears to have a chip on his shoulder, and he tends to throb and then just as quickly detumescence on the radar.
I kept an eye on set three, and when Soderling wouldn't go away, taking it 6-4, I knew that even though I wasn't really in work mode yet, I'd better go out and sit in the sunshine to see if this was to be a four- or five-set opera. I started thinking about, instead of merely watching, the match in the third game, after it became clear that Rafa was going to have a hard time making that break of serve he earned in the second game stick. Soderling attacked Nadal's next service with brio. As Soderling later explained, "I tried to think, don't think. . . because you know, I just tried to play the next point after next point. . . I think I played exactly the way I wanted to play before the match. I didn't want him to make me run. I tried to be the one that make him run. I worked good with my forehand, and my backhand worked well. I worked my backhand flat and tried to go around and hit my forehand."
My first real note says: If there's an Appalachia in Sweden, that's where Soderling is from. He's big, raw-boned, woodsy-looking. His shirt theoretically is white, but it looks kind of dull, and the combination with those black-and-yellow shorts is pretty awful. But there's a deliberateness to his game today, and it projects danger, not clumsiness or poor movement as it might on another day . . .