The Era of the Master

Despite being an incorrigible late riser, the unearthly 2.30 am IST start to the US Open men's singles final did not seem to matter to me. The fact that I had had a painful tooth removal barely 12 hours ago did not seem to matter as well, although the jaw hurt dully when I was awakened by the alarm. The clock showed 2.35 am. I switched on the telly. The match had just started, the score reading 1-1. Thereafter, everything stopped mattering.
It was only Him, the Master, lording it over the Arthur Ashe arena, holding it spellbound with one of the most aggressive displays of tennis I have seen in recent years. It was not the brutal kind of massacre that Rafael Nadal uses to butcher opponents, it was like a surgeon going to battle. It was understated effrontery, a luxury which is available only to Him. You could almost feel for poor Andy Murray. A Grand Slam final involves the presumption of a contest. Here, he was reduced to a mere participant. Oh yes, he also had the best view in the stadium, to watch Him at his lucid, poetic best. The inside-out forehand, the beautiful backhand, the feline movements, it was tempting to call it perfect.
The man has now won 13 of the last 22 Grand Slams, reaching the final in 4 of the remaining 9, and the semi-final in 3 of the balance 5. Has dominance ever been more complete? Has there ever been a more enchanting backhand? Has there ever been a more vicious inside-out forehand? Has there ever been a humbler Champion? And lastly, has a Champion ever had a successor worthier than Rafael Nadal?
Ye all, we are fortunate to be living in the era of Federer.