I could tell there was going to be trouble shortly after I arrived at Louis Armstrong by the way Rafael Nadal was hitting his forehand. You know how he sometimes looks like he's falling off a cliff, with his back to the abyss, as he hits his forehand? Well, Youzhny was backing him up and, placing his hand on Jet Boy's chest, giving him that last, polite shove. Bye,bye Rafa. . .
It was early in the fourth set, and already the signs for Nadal were bad. In fact, it was the kind of day when, if Nadal were any less of a grinder, he would have been in big trouble, instead of medium trouble: his penetration off the ground was very poor, which was allowing Youzhny to really step in (it's always a step up as well, at least mentally) and dictate. Jet Boy seemed unable to put together even two or three consecutive points in which he applied serious pressure and made Youzhny run - and hit on the run - more often and with greater alacrity than that with which he is comfortable.
Some of this was due to the level at which Youzhny was playing. His relatively flat game is tailor-made for beating a guy who plays with what the Europeans like to call "lift" (topspin), provided he can do at least two of these three things: take the ball early, make deep placements, and apply pressure by coming to the net often enough to peel off and neutralize the critical layer of peripheral vision that great retrievers and counterpunchers like Nadal so rely on when their neurological gatekeepers are crying out, Fire in the hole, fire in the hole. . . And that's something players like Nadal love to inflict, but are loath to experience.
This could get interesting, I thought, as Chris Clarey showed up and settled into the seat next to me.
It was early evening at the USTABJKNTC, the sky was the color of pewter, and the enormous, festively-colored scoreboard perched atop the stadium provided a striking contrast to the ponderous gray clouds behind it. When the lights come on over Louis Armstrong stadium to abet the fading light, the palette of colors representing the assembled spectators takes on a kind of glow, and you half expect the whole joint to lift off and go spinning back to a mother ship somewhere in outer space.
About halfway through the third set, Nadal had a resurgence, and he once again found his length and ability to shove Youzhny around. But he was unable to do it with his characteristic consistency. Youzhny wasn't giving an inch. This guy has had a reputation as a deadly if not entirely pulled together Grand Slam contender for about four years now, ever since he became a superstar in his native Russia by coming back from two sets down in the fifth and decisive rubber of the Davis Cup final, securing Russia's first DC trophy with his electrifying win over Paul-Henri Mathieu.
Youzhny's game is clean as a whistle, and built on a versatile one-handed backhand and an exemplary, open-stance forehand. He seems to wrap the entire upper portion of his torso around the ball with each swing, but the real magic is in his legs, and watching him I think I figure out something that has eluded me for many years. Certain players (Jimmy Connors and Miloslav Mecir come to mind and, strangely enough, so does Lleyton Hewitt, albeit in a different way) can get from their legs (with an assist from the hips) what most of their peers get from their arms and shoulders. Somehow, they seem better able to tap into the power below their waist (often with less apparent effort, a la Mecir), which is partly due to exquisite timing and partly to the same kind of funky genetic anomaly that enables some white people to break dance.
Of this, Youzhny is a classic example. If you watch him hitting that forehand, you'll see that his knees are almost always bent (the opposite of, say, John McEnroe, and the equivalent of Boris Becker, serving),no matter how indisposed and under pressure he appears to be. And as he uncoils and meets the ball, Youzhny's legs leave the ground, even though he's in a semi-crouch (hey, how did he do that?), and rotate into the court, so he lands on both feet, square to the net at roughly the same time his shot whistles over the net.
All in, it's an incredibly crisp motion that satisfies with its one-two beat, all the parts in unison even if the upper and lower body seem to be traveling in different directions. It seems as impossible to me as I write this as it does to you as you read it. But that's sure how it looks to me.
Anyway, Chris observed that on these hard courts, Nadal's backhand appeared to be more deadly than his forehand. 'He hits it flatter," Chris said, just as Nadal tagged a monster forehand winner. "It's a more forceful rally shot."
I think that's accurate. Nadal's preparation for the backhand may be the most classic part of his game, and it absolutely shines in comparison with his odd, Hewitt-esque, service motion, which is really the only part of Nadal's stroking repertoire that looks forced and stiff, rather than explosive and natural. Nadal even sets his left foot with the toe pointing at the net, which is pure Bjorn Borg. But as good as that backhand is, and as much as it is his ultimate, defensive, point-ender, the forehand remains his offensive closer, if not his most persuasive rallying tool on hard courts.
Before long,a Long Island Railroad train tooted a few melancholy blasts to announce what appeared to be Youzhny's imminent demise as he fell behind, 5-6, 0-40 in the third - triple set-point. And what are the odds of getting out of that kind of jam, given Nadal's ability to play his best on big points?
As it turned out, Youzhny played a great game from that point on, serving well and attacking boldly, to hold. Once he pulled himself up to a higher level, Youzhny apparently decided he liked the scenery and stayed there, and the men produced some of their best tennis. In the ensuing tiebreaker, Youzhny got one huge break: leading by 5-4, Nadal tagged a big forehand that looked a winner only to clip the net cord and fly out.
That proved to be key shot of the match. Youzhny won the next two points to take the 'breaker, and Nadal never looked the same again. After an easy hold to open the fourth set, Youzhny broke Nadal at love. Nadal looked utterly dispirited, and even the occasional fist clench looked half-hearted at best, as if he were engaging in a little nostalgia, or wishful thinking, rather than pumping himself up for the rest of the match.
Youzhny didn't hesitate to call this his best win ever, and it topped his epic Davis Cup in one, bittersweet way that made this match seem an excercise in deferred gratification:
For me, it was really tough time because three months before the Davis Cup, my father has died. He doing a lot for me and he cannot watch this match. And I cannot be glad. I be happy, but I cannot be happy for hundred percentage after this match because it was just three months after the father.
