Wimbledon 2017 - Final
Roger Federer v Marin Cilic
(6-3, 6-1, 6-4)
Tonight
his ageing feet remembered a dance step - and dance he did.
In
recent years Federer has borne the image of a tired hero riding off into the
sunset. Except this year, at 35, he fought his way into the Wimbledon final for
the 11th time, having earlier stunned fans by winning the Australian Open back
in January. He has challenged the assumed narrative; he has found the dawn in
the dusk; he ensures this piece is not so much one on sport as much as it is
about a man defying Time.
Poets
have long made the trope of Time one of their greatest fascinations. At the
onset of his decline Federer was himself dubbed the 'misspelling poet'. For
periods, he has looked like the perennial frustrated artist. Yet in 2017 he has
done all but passively accept mortality like Dickinson - no, in every
one-handed backhand gift of a spectacle he's like Thomas raging against the
dying of the light.
I
watch and play football, basketball, and (sometimes) table tennis, but tennis
is that sport I watch but have never played. That means my awe may be
overstated - like that of a tourist marveling at the sight of the Merlion,
which isn't actually that majestic. Conversely, it could be understated, since
I have absolutely no idea just how difficult it is for Federer to execute those
deft flicks (that's if it's possible to comprehend at all).
What
I do know, is that some of the best writing I've ever read have appeared in
columns on Federer's exploits - written for print or online by the likes of
Phillips, Wallace, Shekhar, and locally, Brijnath. These writers are legends
themselves, but sometimes I wonder if the beauty of their writing is merely a
corollary of the man's craft, which alone ensures that any piece written on him
automatically summons the best words and transposes them into the best order.
When I watch him, this seems highly probable. Writing about Federer isn't hard.
Not when he plays with such embroidery and such invention. Not when he graces
us all with an eternal elegance that privileges our very existence. Not when he
inflicts to afflict. Not when he affects to effect.
Teachers
or editors that I've worked with often said that sometimes my writing meanders
its way about, and that it's a lot of passion but no point. I've very
consciously tried to work on that ever since, but for this one time, I've not
edited anything above, I've not set out to be concise - these words are all
raw, and so is the emotion with which Federer plays.
The
paradox of Wimbledon (and of Federer at Wimbledon), is that the craft, his craft
- for those moments between services - commands a silence that honours the
genius at play, and yet it is the same craft that sets the stands alight in
raging applause when the point has been won. Wimbledon, where he has arguably
been at his most successful in a 19-year career, is where an all-white dress
code already lands players in a certain position of poise. Federer goes one
further, and with an artistry of nerve and sinew, lands himself in the
imagination of all who watch. Such is the capacity of his style to inspire and
move that I'm very sure he must have made Theresa May - sat there in the stands
today - feel, for the first time ever, what it's like to be human.
There
comes a point when we will run out of tomorrows - that much we must accept -
but then Federer has shown us that he still lives, aging feet and all, even if
just today.
(Photo by AFP)
