W: Tough to Ace

For me the first day of Wimbledon begins on the town's main drag. That's where, the night before, I'd seen Maria Sharapova tottering around in jeans and heels—does she really need them?—with five friends. They couldn’t get into a bar that was jammed with people watching a soccer match; instead, Maria and her girlfriends wandered a little aimlessly, and conspicuously, through town (call ahead, Maria!). This morning I find Lleyton Hewitt and Tony Roche in the local Starbucks. They’re both in full tennis regalia—sneakers, white warm-up suits, baseball caps. Do you remember those AMEX ads a few years ago that featured various pros going about their daily business, like grocery shopping, in their tennis outfits? It seems true in real life as well.

The journey continues down narrow and scenic Church Road, which is already a semi-mob scene. Expensive cars are bumper to bumper and foot traffic is backed up along the tiny sidewalk. But the atmosphere is upbeat, anticipatory. Inside the gates, there’s a very official bustle. A phalanx—yes, a phalanx—of ushers in navy suits is there to greet you, comb through your bag, and generally shake you down. Walking into the central area of the grounds, you can still get a sense of Wimbledon’s origins as a social event of the English summer season. Men are in button downs, journalists in blazers, women in dresses, young guys in sweater vests, and the staff in yachtsman’s suits. Under the hydrangeas, reporters talk to chair umpires, former players talk to old friends, and various VIPs greet each other with hearty handshakes.

Walking farther out from the center, the general public comes into view. Here are the teenage boys with their hair pushed forward and carting heavy backpacks, girls with Union Jacks plastered to their cheeks, older couples planted on Henman Hill, and one woman, evidently a Federer fan, wearing a Swiss flag as a cape. These are the visitors to the traveling tennis circus for today. They revolve far from the tight-knit community at its center.

In between these two worlds is Court 18, a remote show court that’s packed by 11:30, a full half an hour before Sam Querrey and Juan Carlos Ferrero are set to play the first match. And why not? It’s warm and the sky is blue; the court is a pristine green set off by the gold of the netposts and the bright white of the chalk lines. By 11:50, the ball kids are in their places and standing at military attention. The designated net-checker walks out with a brown stick to make sure the tape is at just the right height. At noon precisely, clapping starts and the players take the court. During the warm-up, a ball comes to rest in the alley. The ball kids are supposed to grab it; this isn’t a small matter, as Tommy Haas found out three years ago when he turned an ankle on a ball in the warm-up and had to default. But for the moment, I’m glad the kids don’t notice it. The military perfection of the moment has been ruined—next to me, Pam Shriver says the ball kids are suffering from "rust”—but the yellow ball looks so good by itself on the grass.

The first shots of the warm-up look telling to me, though I don’t want to read too much into them. Ferrero is standing his ground and hitting flat forehands; on the other side, Querrey is leaning on his back foot and flicking them back with wristy topspin. A small thing, maybe, but Ferrero looks like the stronger player.

It isn’t true in the first set. Ferrero is hampered by a right leg injury (his thigh is wrapped) and moves stiffly. He also looks a little sluggish and rough around the edges in general, and Querrey jumps on him with an early break. His serve is a major asset, not just because he can bang it 130 miles an hour, but because he can back that up with a nasty slice that buzzes the grass.

Watching Ferrero up close, you get an idea of why he’s no longer in the Top 10. He can hit winners if he’s inside the court and moving forward. Querrey, on the other hand, can hit them from behind the baseline when he’s leaning backward. In that sense, the power game, as it’s practiced by today’s taller, stronger, rangier, younger athletes, has passed Ferrero by.

But in another sense, this helps him against Querrey, because it forces Ferrero to find ways to get inside the court. That’s exactly what he does over the next three sets. He gets Querrey moving to his left and exposes his one major weakness, his defense on his backhand side. Querrey is forced to slice the ball back, and Ferrero is there to take advantage, ending many points at the net. The American earns a break point at 2-3 in the third, but Ferrero pops a big serve in and Querrey sails the return long. Ferrero wins 11 of the next 12 points and the match, leaving Querrey to berate himself for being “tentative."

You can’t blame him. As the match goes on and he spends more time behind the baseline, I start to think of Querrey as the American Gael Monfils, with more raw north-south power but less speed. Querrey generates enough pace to control a point from a defensive position, which means he never needs to take an offensive position.

In his interview afterward, Querrey didn’t seem at all disappointed. He had shaken off any testiness that had crept in during the match. He said, contrary to what I would have thought, that grass was his least-favorite surface because “you play on it so little," and chalked up the loss to the fact that Ferrero was a former Grand Slam champion and a great player overall. Querrey was a little too calm about it, in my opinion. I’d have liked to see him be a little less resigned about losing to anyone he’d just beaten 6-2 in a set. But that’s Querrey—eternally matter of fact.

He may be even-keel, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t perceptive or honest. The one specific comment Querrey made about Ferrero was that he’s “tough to ace." These days, on grass, that has to be frustrating. Maybe JC isn’t over the hill yet. Or maybe Querrey needs to expect to hit fewer aces and find more ways to win.