*source: sportphotogallery.com*
He walks onto the tennis court with a faint smile curving his lips. His dress as always immaculately worn and nothing seems out of place. He saunters across the court to his chair carrying his tennis essentials. He stoops, sets his bag down and shakes his head. His body moves languidly with an ease that is startling. He slips on the wrist band, pulls the cover off a racquet and ventures out into the court. He waves to the crowd waiting for the inevitable crescendo of applause that bubbles up from all corners of the stadium. Roger Federer is ready to play.
He is not a muscular Adonis who diminishes the court but instead seems somehow a part of the court, indistinguishable from his surroundings. He appears unremarkable in demeanor and unrelenting in his calm acceptance of the challenge in front of him.
There is no hint of things to come as he warms up with his opponent. He looks as if he is at the practice courts and going through the motions without a care in the world. Common sense tells us that he should be wrought with tension but a look at his face banishes that thought. There is a hush in the arena as the spectators breathe in the impenetrable calm that emanates from Federer. The crowd waits expectantly yearning for the game to begin. He walks unhurriedly to the far side of the net and waits patiently for the ball to come to him. He whips a forehand down the line and follows up that with a superb volley winner near the tram lines. It is business as usual.
His movement is surreal in its smoothness as he whisks around the court. His muscles just ripple and unfold as they sashay his body from line to line. Lunge, parry, thrust, riposte! Federer floats upwards and smashes an overhead into the stands. A delectable backhand is sent on its way by a mere twist of his body. A slashing forehand is driven with immaculate grace. A gasping dying half volley coaxed over the net by his entreaty. He runs, stops, pirouettes, springs, slides, hovers and dances with the ball treating the audience to his own singular operatic version of the game. The ball hums across the court, hastening to his bidding and then returns again to resume this lilting tango.
A long rally ensues and he glides from one side to the other as if he already knows where the ball is going to be before it is even hit. He meets the ball with perfect timing and sends it across with a mere flick of his wrists. A drop shot forces him to skid forward feathering the ball into open space. There is neither celebration nor outcry for he is a man who expects to make that shot. He is the ultimate recycler of human emotions and almost never lets down his guard.
Cool, calm and collected would be words that are wasted on Federer. He does not have time for such platitudes. He lives in the moment, waiting for the ball to come across the net so that he can do with it as he pleases. The game flows on in idyllic fashion, politely nudged on by him with such composure that it makes you wonder whether a match is being played at all. The game is punctuated by serene backhands, laser forehands, sharpened aces and silky drop shots. Suddenly it all comes to a juddering halt. A collective sigh oozes out of the crowd as the spell lifts.
The result is a foregone conclusion. The crowd had what they wanted. They have stood shoulder to shoulder with the tennis gods. They had experienced perfection in its purest form. They had lived the impossible moments and pulled off the improbable shots. They had been at the epicenter of the game as mere mortals and came out as gods themselves.
Federer shakes hands with his associate in this couplet and packs up his bag. He smiles waving at everyone and saunters off to sign a few autographs. Then moments later he exits the court with a shy wave of his hands. He almost seems apologetic that he had to halt the proceedings. The crowd is suddenly noisy and bubbles with an intemperate tilt as if they have been released from their celestial restraints. They had come to watch a game and instead they were now part of tennis lore.
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