By Roger Baxter
3.A.M., AND Robin Soderling has just lost in five sets to Alexandr Dolgopolov, something of an ignominious end for a player that last year played his way into the erstwhile uncrackable top four, the topmost echelon of men’s tennis.
Such a result is the biggest shock in what has been something of an odd Australian Open so far. Dolgopolov, a polysyllabic Ukranian stripling of 22, was unseeded and unfancied, but ultimately it was Soderling that was undone. The fact that his opponent had overcome Jo-Wilfried Tsonga in his previous match ought to have provided some little sense of caution for the Swede, but he looked both lethargic and puzzled during Dolgopolov’s 1-6 6-3 1-6 6-4 6-2 victory.
It isn’t as though the entire tournament has consisted of shocks. Serbo-Canadian ace-machine Milos Raonic is the only other underdog besides Dolgopolov to mount any significant upset, his unceremonious ejections of Michel Llodra and Mikhail Youzhny belying his ATP ranking of 152; yet these are not the times of Goran Ivanisevic and Pat Rafter contesting Grand Slam finals. What has been happening, however, is that the favourites all seem a little out of sorts, with King-in-exile Federer, courtly Nadal, jester Djokovic, et al. all appearing, at one point or another, to be losing their rhythm.
Andy Murray, meanwhile, has been nothing of the sort. As he walks out for his match against Austria’s Jurgen Melzer, he has not dropped a set or been in any sort of trouble, winning his last contest against 31st seed Guillermo Garcia-Lopez 6-1 6-1 6-2. He has looked both serene and focused, the latter in particular with the comment, “If I play garbage in my next match, a good first week won’t count for anything.” Still, as they trade breaks in the first set, one has to wonder if Murray could submit to the curse of hubris.
The somewhat muted atmosphere of the men’s draw seems a petty quibble to raise indeed when examining the carnage wrought in that of their female counterparts. Seeds fall left, right and centre, but few take notice, due both to the fact that the top ten seems to change every week, and also lack of interest, brought on by a perceived lack of quality among many. The latter view certainly accrues more validity when one considers that Dinara Safina, World Number 1 a year earlier, lost in humiliating fashion, 6-0 6-0, in the first round. Like the men’s game in the early 2000s, the fact that a player can rise to and fall from such a traditionally exalted position without trace indicates that something is rotten in the state of the game.
Murray is not one of these unknowns; he would have crushed the Moyas, Kuertens and Kafelnikovs of yesteryear. He takes the first set 6-2 against Melzer, speeds through the second even faster, and yet one remembers his tears, almost a year to the day, and remembers, “I can cry like Roger, it’s a shame I can’t play like him.”
For Federer and Nadal are battling it out down the years like Wellington and Bonaparte. Either Roger or Rafa has been been the victor in all but two Grand Slam finals since this time six years ago. Such a rivalry, altogether greater than Agassi playing Robin to Sampras’ Dark Knight, has never been seen since the days of Borg and McEnroe, two names as inextricably entwined in history as those of the sorcerous Swiss and the ebullient Spaniard. One intruguing fact about these modern colossi, however, is that they seem to be a curious mélange of what has come before, both in terms of their character and in terms of their tennis. Federer’s general sense of reserve on court, down to the last minim of his pinpoint symphonies, recalls the Swedish Iceman in his prime. By contrast, the sheer fire that Nadal exudes, the way he makes the screen itself seem to sweat, conjures the memory of the roiling, boiling McEnroe of ’81.
When, however, one analyses their tennis, one comes away with another picture. It is Nadal, with his quite unfathomable amounts of topspin, that brings back Borg’s relentless Scandinavian batteries of the past, while McEnroe’s shot-making, a trumpet-call in the cathedral of the game he loved, is created anew in Federer and his eternal pursuit of perfection. It is a contradiction that makes this era most engaging of all, since something as good as the old and yet new can only be a greater spectacle than something the same, however incredible.
It is something, however seemingly unreachable, that Murray nonetheless aspires to. He wants, so desperately to win a Grand Slam. He tears through the Austrian, a mere barrier, in the third set, to cruise through, to the quarter-finals 6-2, 6-1, 6-1. He has never looked so good. Will he ever be good enough? Could he?