It was a match made in heaven, featuring the artist and the warrior, played out on clay in the precincts of purgatory - a red clay surface that diminishes the tools and weapons of the artist, leveling the playing field for the combatants in a relentless tug-of-war between talent and determination, gift and desire.
Once again today, warrior took full measure of the artist, and if the latter didn't go spinning off into hell, hair afire, he felt as if he had, which is just as bad.
Rafael Nadal pounded Roger Federer into the red clay today in four sets on the Chartrier court at Roland Garros, establishing himself as a worthy successor to Bjorn Borg on the surface where accumulating multiple titles may be more difficult than at any other Grand Slam. It isn't as if Nadal has met all his challenges, though. What he needs to do now is win a Big on a surface other than clay, and if that mission doesn't seem daunting, all he need to do is look at the trials and tribulations The Mighty Fed has experienced trying to prove that he can, indeed, win the clay-court major.
Some of you watched this match with your eyes. Some of you watched it with your hearts. My own heart is stone cold when it comes observing tennis; it's just eyes and brains, although I'll be the first to admit that there were moments today when I felt deep sympathy for Federer. At times, he looked so danged lonely out there, with his stick legs protruding from those baggy shorts, his slight build (it's an illusion of sorts, because in real life he's an impressive, broad-shouldered specimen), and that shock of dark hair that makes him look like a film star from the 1930s - and therefore almost anachronistic in comparison to the plantalooned wild child across the net. I almost wished that Sandra DeJenken, the chair umpire, would climb down from the high chair and give him a hug. Not only did she not do that, but did you notice that the platter she got in recognition of the service made Federer's runner-up trophy - a silver cheese board or something - look measly.
But enough sentiment, let's get back to the cold and towering realities, the most signifcant of which is that Federer led, and we all know how much easier it is to play well (not that Federer did that) when behind. Rafael Nadal was the pace car in the match, Federer the tricked-out racer that was expected, at any moment, to go full throttle and perhaps even pull away. Instead, the closest Federer got to the pace car was when he won the second set. He closed on Nadal's bumper and then - just one service game later - he fell back again, this time for good. The match was, for all practical purposes, over.
This analogy, in addition to being somewhat strained, may be confusing, (hey, nobody does "hack" like me!) . But that's only because of the shades of meaning attached to the word, "pace." For despite what I just wrote, the most curious feature of this match was that it was played at a tone and pace set by Federer. That is, it was not the kind of match that seemed to afford Nadal the most comfortable terms of engagement. There would be no (or few) exhausting rallies, or 30-stroke exchanges ending with desperate lobs eliciting agonized overheads, answered by - what else - a spectacular Nadal get-winner followed by a leaping fist pump and roar of Vamos!
Clay-court tennis? NOT.
Once again, Federer and Nadal demonstrated that even though Nadal is a clay-court expert ( I no longer use the "S" word, but am getting pretty fond of this construction), something about Federer's skills and style, and Nadal's ability to adapt, adds up to just, plain, good, positive, aggressive tennis. Of course, "positive" would be a difficult adjective to attach to Federer's tally of unforced errors; with 59, he had twice the number as Nadal. But the point remains valid: Nadal played Federer on his terms, in a way that minimized some of the advantage clay gives Nadal, and battered him convincingly.
I asked Nadal about that in his presser, tagging on the observation that it looked as if some of his newly acquired hard court skills had something to do with all that. He answered:
Well, that's always depends on the moments, depends on the confidence of the moments. But sure, I say the last days or the last month, no. I feel better player this year than last year. I am more - I think I am more complete. I can go to the net sometimes. Well, here it's tough, especially against Roger, because he has unbelievable passing shot, backhand and forehand.
But now I know I can go to the net and have better chances than before. I can play a little bit more aggressive with my forehand. improved my backhand a little more, too. So I feel a better player.
You never know what's going on after this tournament, no? But sure, I am very happy about my clay season, about my performance this year, because I win a lot of matches, BUT I win a lot of matches playing well. Last year I won a lot of matches without playing very well.
I took that to mean, partly, that Nadal sees himself as a man slowly moving from the grinder camp to the shotmaker camp, territory presently inhabited by players like Federer, Novak Djokovic, and even the ghost of Marat Safin - all fine players who are comfortable on clay and can do great damage on it (in Safin's case, usually to himself, but that's another story). They are anything but turgid, baseline sluggers, and Nadal has joined that august company. When he grinds from now on, it will never be because it's all he can do.
This is not great news for Federer, or any of the other ATP pros. We know that Nadal will remain well nigh invincible on clay. Hamburg was a aberration. But now he is positioned as a far more dangerous force on hard courts, perhaps even on grass.
One other factor that seemed huge to me in this match was the same feeling I had when Federer and Nadal met in the semifinals two years ago. Nothing about the way Federer played, acted, or carried himself suggested that trait that Nadal brought to all his meeting with Federer: appetite. He looked today like a man with indigestion, forced to sit down to a feast. He poked his food around with the fork, he took a sip of wine now and then, but his game had more power outages than than a bad night in Baghdad, and he seemed unable to get out of himself - unable to let that beautiful, graceful game flow for any sustained period.
There was Nadal, strutting around with his bare guns glistening in the late afternoon sun, chest flung out and wedgie firmly planted in his derriere. He looked around now and then, and if his expression didn't exactly say, Gee ain't this fun! he appeared ready for every moment as soon as he was finished with the last. Federer, by contrast, hung his head, shuffled around on the clay, kept his own counsel much like a man entertaining his final thoughts before execution. My French photographer pal, Jean Marc Pochat, said that the impression was even more striking when perceived through a long lens in the courtside photo pit. "Roger," Jean-Marc said. "He looked not confident and sometimes even sad."
