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by Pete Bodo
About midway through the second set of the third-round US Open match between no. 6 seed Juan Martin del Potro and Austria's Daniel Koellerer, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned, surprised to see former Top 5 pro, Jose-Luis Clerc, sitting behind me. I've been friendly with him for a long time, which is an easy place to get to with a guy as gregarious and energetic as Clerc. He asked me if I thought del Potro was destined to win a major, or become no. 1 in the world.
Given the way Delpo was beating up on Koellerer at that stage, it was a pretty easy question to answer; the only aspect of Delpo's game that I was unsure of, I said, was his ability to rise to the big occasion. At times, he sends the worst possible message for so imposing and powerful a young man (Delpo stands 6-6 and weighs in at 182): He allows his shoulders to slump, and looks more like a befuddled, gentle giant than a rangy, sinewy specimen who looks impossibly big across the net - even if you're sitting six rows back from the baseline, as was I.
Jose-Luis listened, and when I asked what he thought, he cut to the chase. He said Delpo needed two things to maximize his talents: to improve his footwork, and to hit closer to the lines.
Hmmmm.. . Doesn't everyone always try to hit near the lines?
Not really. Jose-Luis challenged me to point out one ball that Delpo hit during a rally that landed really close to the line when he went either down-the-line or cross-court. "He always hit far from the line, by a kind of habit" he said, spreading his hands to about two feet. "So he don't put enough pressure on the other guy."
Danged if this simple analysis didn't have the ring of genuine insight. Delpo's power and pace may obscure it, but he probably plays his rally shots with too much margin for error. It's like clockwork, and it's true whether he's going down-the-line or cross-court, and even when he hits the ball nice and deep. What, does he feel guilty for being able to cover so much ground with his own long legs, and wants to give his opponents a break? Somehow, I doubt it. Clerc's point is that Delpo plays too cautiously, in a sneaky way. It's good enough against most guys, but not good enough to win majors.
!90413440 Today, Delpo's opponent fit the category, "most guys." This is the best performance Koellerer has mounted at a major, and playing on Louis Armstrong stadium, against the no. 6 seed, represented a career moment for a guy who has surpassed his 2009 goal of cracking the top 100 (he's at a career-high 61). I watched this match because I've been approaching this tournament as if were a Suicide Pool, bent on finding intriguing stories, or writing about relatively obscure but interesting players throughout the first week. Koellerer fell neatly into both categories. Also, I'd received an email from a friend abroad encouraging me to write about this guy - the "anti-christ" of men's tennis.
The anti-christ. How could I possibly resist?
Some of you may know the stories: Koellerer was the kid the other juniors teased for being "too fat" until one day he punched out one of them, back at their home club in Linz. The guy whose first coach not only tolerated Koellerer "winning ugly" in the most literal - and least appealing - sense of the term (that is, by resorting to any form of gamesmanship, intimidation, or cheating) but insisted on him doing so. The guy whose peers on the Challenger circuit circulated a petition demanding that he be thrown off the tour (the protest went nowhere, of course). The guy who spit on his right hand before shaking with Frederico Luzzi after a match. That Luzzi recently died of leukemia only made the story that much more poignant.
Well, I doubted that the wild man of the Alps would try to punch out the mild bull of the Pampas, based on the tale-of-the-tape alone. But Koeller's seemed an act worth taking in, and I had to wonder, what is it with Austria? First, there was the late Horst Skoff, whom Ivan Lendl dubbed "the biggest jerk in tennis" (of course, some said the same of Lendl). Then we had Tomas Muster, who represented the stereo-typical, hard-nosed, rough-and-tumble Austrian, and reveled in the nickname "The Animal." And now Daniel Koellerer.
When the players were introduced walking out onto the court, there were audible boos for Koellerer - old grudges come home to roost, no doubt. He looked like rough trade; if I had to guess, I would have said he's a hockey player. He hasa powerful upper body and short, muscular legs. He has the facial-hair trifecta: trimmed Fu Manchu mustache, soul patch, and a goatee connected tenuously to scraggly sideburns. Appropriately, Koellerer was wearing black shorts, a white shirt, and a trucker's cup worn backwards, so hanks of his long-ish brown hair (it's streaked with blond) stuck out from either side, just aft of his ears.
It must have been Darth Vader day at the Open, for Delpo himself was in black shorts and sleeveless top, showing off the guns he doesn't really have (and apparently doesn't really need). His contrasting yellow wrist bands and headband suggested that this was one bumblebee that could sting, and so it was - in the first set, Delpo swarmed all over Koellerer, breaking him twice to built a 4-1 lead. By that time, Koellerer had already called for the trainer to attend to his left foot, and he sat there stenciling the face of his racquet like a lady doing her nails while getting a pedicure.
By then, I'd noticed that Koellerer owns a game that squares with his appearance. He's a workingman's tennis player - a guy who seems not so much to address the ball as fling himself at it with abandon; he takes huge cuts off both sides and can't resist heavy slice or topspin - a tendency to exaggeration that robs him of length. Delpo ate up those short balls and, being well inside the baseline to begin with, he did plenty of damage even while operating within the parameters noted by Clerc.
!90413223 Koellerer, who's 25, has no fear of charging the net on a prayer, or trying to end a warp-speed rally with a feathery drop shot. He doesn't grunt as much as breathe heavily, which makes you appreciate the moment-by-moment energy he expends to an even greater degree. The opposite poles of cute touch play (this is a guy who loves the drop volley) and hitting the crap out of the ball exert equal gravitational pull, which means he's a guy capable of almost anything, at any time (including truly bone-headed shot selection), save that he's not real big on that cardinal virtue, patience.
Patience goes hand-in-hand with consistency, qualities that encourage moderation and self-control. Koellerer doesn't have much use for those virtues, as they seem to run counter to his explosive temperament. By the end of the first set, his volatility was well established. He'd bellowed a few times, and tomahawked his racquet into the court; it cartwheeled a good three times and arced out about six feet above the court. As heaves go, it was a good 'un.
By then, though, Koellerer was winning plenty of hearts and minds in the well-populated open-seating sections of Armstrong. People, perhaps Americans in general and definitely New Yorkers, take to players, especially underdogs, who let it all hang out - who aren't afraid to grub and roar and fling themselves hard against impossible propositions. If you're old enough to remember Tim Wilkison, who was dubbed "Dr. Dirt," you'll know just what I mean. Most people are suckers for a player who raises effort, no matter how futile (and sometimes, the more futile the better - let's remember Eddie the Eagle), to an art form. By the time Delpo notched up a break for 2-0 in the second set, romantics of every stripe were shouting, "Come on, Dani!" Or, "Way to go, Dani baby!"
Dani had futility cornered, but he let it slip away. He broke Delpo in the third game, after which chaos reigned and we had a regular shoot-out - exactly the environment in which a fella like Koellerer wins a lot of friends. Delpo's lousy serving and lackadaisical groundstroking emboldened Koellerer, and breaks in the seventh and ninth game won him the set. One point in that final game seems representative. Delpo hit a fine drop shot. Koellerer stumbled as he started for it but lurched on, out of control. He didn't reach the ball, of course, but he got there in time to smash it, resounding, against the oval plywood Lexus logo fixed to the net in the doubles alley.
Delpo re-established control of the match in the third set, breaking Koellerer in the third game - a blow from which Koellerer would not recover, although he gets credit for keeping things interesting all the way.
This guy has more racquet throws than any player I've ever seen. There's the changeover toss that lands his frame on his racquet bag with a satisfying, deep "whap." There's the pancake throw, where he hurls it down so that the racquet meets the court flat as a pancake and then bounces straight up horizontally, slowly spinning, and lands back in his hand. Hey, how did he do that?
And Koellerer also has half-a-dozen fake throws, and one where he lifts a leg high and bounces the racquet off his thigh. I have the feeling that when he goes back to his hotel at night, he takes out a racquet and slashes his way through the lobby, decapitating pretty orchids, lamps, and little old ladies all the way to the elevators.
The money game of the match was the third one of the fourth set, Delpo up, two sets to one. He'd just broken Koellerer, but the crowd was very much behind the Austrian, and Koellerer slashed his way to a 40-0 lead: three break points. Delpo dispatched the first one with a forehand winner, the next with a 118 mph slice serve. He then scared an error out of Koellerer with a booming forehand approach, and parlayed a forehand winner and an unreturnable serve into the critical hold.
Dani held his own the rest of the way, amid cries of encouragement and affection(one wag shouted, "Vamos, Dani!"), but he never made-up that break.
I caught up with Koellerer after the match. He's a good-looking guy, you could easily mistake him for the gravelly-voiced singer in some indie rock band (as if the world needs any more of those). He looks wolf-ish, smiles easily, and speaks frankly. He's got a gleam in his eye, and I have a feeling it's not always put to the service of innocence. I wondered how he felt about being adopted by the crowd.
"I played already two or three times in big stadia, but this today was the best match I ever had with a crowd. They gave me energy and power. They were supporting me in the first row of the seats. Once, when I wanted to challenge a call, one of the guys there told me, 'No, don't do it, it was good!' " He laughed. "So I withdrew the challenge."
And what's up with quiet little Austria, producing all these big personalities?
"I can only speak for myself, for me, it's nice to play with the crowd like this, at my back. If they like it with the way I play, the way I push myself, it's even nicer."
He lit up when I mentioned that he had the most diverse and artistic set of racquet tosses that I'd ever seen: "You like it, eh? I practice it the same way I practice the serve." We both laughed, but I asked how he kept his temper in check, and to what degree it was a negative - or positive - thing.
"Yeah, I had this problem the last couple of years, but now since half a year I'm working very hard with a mental coach, and he helps me with this. Yeah. I mean, it's still not perfect, but it's getting better and better. But if sometimes I don't shout like I do, or throw the racquet, I might explode myself, and there will be a big mess on the court."
I asked about those controversial and dark episodes, from earlier in his career.
"I couldn't control the negative energy I had. I was freaking out almost every ball I missed, but now. . .it takes a long time that something comes out of my mouth, or that I bounce the racquet in one of the ways I do it, as you said before. I improved my game and I improved my personality, and I also worked very hard. Everything is okay now. The guys in the locker room, today they were watching and when I came off the court they said, 'bad luck,' or 'better luck next time.' It's better like this."
Better for all concerned, I suppose.