Hi Kamakshi,
You finished your last post by asking how a champion goes about becoming a champion—what order do the traits come in? Reading this book reminded me that Federer’s road was longer and more winding than most people remember or realize. He’s been nearly invincible for so long, you forget that two months before he turned 22, he had never even reached a Slam semifinal, which is late for an entrant in the Greatest of All Time sweepstakes. Sampras had won a major by age 19 and Laver had won one and been in the final of two others before he was 22.
Through the first half of the book, I kept thinking, “Well, this must be when he begins to turn it around.” But then another appalling loss at a Slam would come along. First it was to Mario Ancic in straight sets in the first round at Wimbledon in 2002; then it was to Luis Horna at the 2003 French Open, also in the first round, also in straight sets. After that match, Federer walked into the press room, hung his head, and said, “I don’t know how long I’ll need to get over this defeat, a day, a week, my entire career.”
Stauffer titles the chapter in which he recounts these losses “The Grand Slam Block.” If you looked at Federer at this point in his career, you might have thought, no matter how talented he was, that he had the career arc of—to use a current example—someone like Ivan Ljubicic. Federer cleaned up at relatively minor events around the world, enough to keep his ranking hovering near the Top 10. At the Slams and even at the Masters events, though, he came up small. Stauffer explains that Federer suffered under the pressure of his talent and the dreaded label, “Best player Without a Slam.” His early-round losses came because he had no idea how to work himself into a two-week event. He would come out on the opening day, fall behind to someone he was supposed to beat, and collapse into despair. “After losing the first set,” Federer said about the Horna match, “I had the feeling that it was impossible, that I was no longer in control of the situation. I said to myself, ‘Even if survive this round, I still have to play six more rounds to win the tournament.’ That almost drove me insane.”
In other words, getting back to your question, Kamakshi, Federer seemed to be born with everything but the mental approach needed to be an all-time champion. In 2003, I might have said he was just too soft for the biggest events, a whiny character who complained when the balls were too heavy or the court too slippery or the wind too strong, a guy who lacked the mental resources to win when he wasn’t playing his best. Most of the time, if that’s true when a player’s 22, it’s going to be true for his career. But Federer obviously didn’t lack those resources.
How did he change so dramatically and completely? I think it’s similar to Sampras’ situation. In most of Federer’s pronouncements over the course of his career, and even stretching back to his junior days, he has had an absolute belief in his ability—with both he and Sampras, you got the feeling that’s all they had in their lives at certain points, but it was enough. Even when he was losing to the Hornas of the world, Federer didn’t lose that confidence; it was pretty much built in. His attitude was something like, “It’s unbelievable that I, with my flawless technique, could possibly play like this.” Have you noticed how Federer visibly relaxes once he gets ahead in a match—the winners start to flow once he’s up a break, and his trusty, calm self-belief takes over once more. That’s something like what his career has been since winning Wimbledon in 2003. He’s said that he relaxed completely after that title—no wonder he burst out with such emotion on Center Court.
You’re right, Kamakshi, Federer is interesting because he is his own person, but he is in no way a “character.” In this, he's similar to the other two guys at the top of the GOAT list with him, Laver and Sampras. Laver was shy and soft-spoken compared to his waggish, well-liquored Aussie compatriots Newcombe, Stolle, and Emmo. Sampras came up playing the straight man to the flamboyant media darling Agassi. Federer is also an unassuming guy guy who happens to believe, like Sampras, that no one on earth can beat him at tennis if he’s playing his best (their exos this winter should be entertaining!)
Is there something about a plain, down-to-earth, essentially classy—but still hyper-competitive—personality that leads to greatness in men’s tennis? Maybe it’s that uncluttered quality to their minds that helps them in the crucial moments; there’s nothing extra there. Or maybe their shots just happen to be better than everyone else’s.
Steve
