Sunset for the Skinny One

Generational turnover has been a major, if unsung, theme of 2012 on the men’s side. Aging tour vets Ivan Ljubicic, Fernando Gonzalez, Andy Roddick, and Juan Carlos Ferrero scattered their retirements through the season. At the same time, two 25-year-olds, Novak Djokovic and Andy Murray, consolidated their positions at the top of the sport, one by defending his No. 1 ranking, the other by making his Grand Slam breakthrough. The only thing missing from this circle-of-tennis-life scenario is the crop of young prospects who should be starting their climb up the mountaintop right about now. But that’s a story for another day. Or many other days.

Today’s news is that one more long-serving, long-slaving veteran, 33-year-old Juan Ignacio Chela, is also hanging up his racquet. You might be tempted to call Chela a quintessential journeyman pro, but he was too reliably solid for that. “Stalwart” is a better word, though it might sound a little hardy for a gaunt man known as El Flaco, “the skinny one.” Chela played for 14 years, had a 326-277 record, was 10-5 in Davis Cup, reached a career-high ranking of No. 15 in 2004, and won six titles, all on clay.

Chela was also representative of his era, as well as his country. He stuck with the fashion-backward turned-around baseball cap until the end, yet was up-to-date enough to announce his retirement on Twitter. He was suspended for three months in 2000 for testing positive for methyl testosterone, only to have a tribunal determine that he hadn’t knowingly taken the drug. Most notoriously, Chela joined fellow Argies David Nalbandian and Guillermo Coria in his inability to contain his rage at Lleyton Hewitt. At the 2005 Australian Open, Chela was fined $2,600 for spitting at a revved up Rusty. He also tried to hit the agitating Aussie with a first serve for good measure. See the epic sequence of events here:

I’ll remember Chela chiefly for two matches. The first was similar to his showdown with Hewitt, though not quite as dramatic (or salivic, thankfully). In 2002 he played a night match in a raucous Louis Armstrong Stadium against Andy Roddick. This was the young, visor-wearing A-Rod in full Jimmy Connors mode, high-fiving the crowd, running to the sidelines on changeovers, and generally orchestrating the evening to his benefit. Chela, who won the first set and appeared to be the better player for much of the evening, complained about the antics and the atmosphere, but accepted his fate in the end. What could he do against 10,000 tipsy yuppies?

My second memorable Chela moment came eight years later at Roland Garros, and again involved his defeat at the hands of an Andy—Murray, this time. On this occasion, though, it wasn’t the result that mattered to me, but the view I had. The match was played in the Bullring, and I watched it from the front row. I’ve written many times about how the distance from which we usually watch tennis—either on a TV screen or high in the stands—will always keep us from having a full appreciation of the players’ skills and the intensity of the competition. This was one of those rare times when I closed that distance and got close enough to feel like I was inside the match. From that vantage point, Murray was obviously impressive; what was more surprising was how great Chela looked, and how exciting he was to watch. Here’s what I wrote afterward:

“I had always thought of Chela as a pro's pro, someone who does his job without a whole lot of passion or anger. I was wrong. Every lost point, every Murray winner, elicited a grimace of real anger from the Argentine. I also think of Chela as a dull and steady baseliner par excellence. Also not true—by any reasonable standard, he pummels the ball. There’s an unpolished quality to his strokes, especially his serve, but that doesn’t rob them of their pop, or their powerful sound.”

Here’s a description of a typical rally from that match—typical only when seen on TV, of course, not from a few feet away—with a few of my reactions thrown in toward the end.

“Let me finish with a tiny snapshot of one rally. Murray began it by moving Chela wide to his forehand side, so far wide that Chela had to execute a long slide into the corner of the court. You could hear the clay crunch under his feet. He got there just in time to reach out and throw up a towering lob. From my seat, it arced straight upward, toward the sky, much higher than lobs normally appear to go. Finally it came down, with a solid thud, an inch from the baseline. (“What a shot!”)

Murray, without blinking an eye, calmly set up and drilled a perfect bounce overhead into the other corner ("Wow!"). Chela slid there, clay crunching under his feet again, and buzzed a ridiculous slice backhand crosscourt ("Jesus"). Murray was on it in a flash and . . . (Head shake) . . . (“Holy...”) . . . (Smile) . . . (Hand clap)

For me, Chela, because of that match, because of points like that, will always represent the underappreciated excellence of the second-, third-, and even fourth tiers of professional tennis. It was a day that reinforced my belief that if everyone could watch the sport from a few feet away, everyone would be a serious tennis fan. Chela won’t get a lot of ink in retirement; certainly less than the other members of the departing ATP class of 2012. But for getting as good as he did—i.e., amazingly good—I will say good-bye by echoing what I did at the end of many of those points in Paris two years ago:

Slow hand clap