Faith goes on trial, and is redeemed by The Master

Something to ponder for all the faithfuls, whatever be your faith. When faith itself, if it can be, is put on trial, at what point do you start questioning your faith? At what point do you start feeling that it really is not worth it, all the blind following? And what is your response then? Do you turn your back, unable to bear the sight of your faith being breached? Or are you brave enough to rough it out, willing to stand by your faith till the very end?

These questions must have gnawed at the heart of every Roger Federer fan, as he was almost ousted in the first round of the tournament that he very rightly can call his own, having reached the final for the last seven years, and having won six of those seven finals. 

He had lost the first two sets to unheralded Alejandro Falla,  who must have reminded him of a certain Rafael Nadal, as he kept peppering Federer's backhand repeatedly, till the beautiful backhand degenerated into ugly shanks and started finding the net more often than not. The Master has never been down two sets to love at Wimbledon. This was hitherto uncharted territory for him. 

So was it for my mother. Her champion, the reason she started watching tennis, had almost been dethroned. This was the point at which her faith started showing cracks, as she stopped watching the match. In the third set, I did not tell her that the score read 4-4, 0-40 on the Federer serve. (She did not resume watching till he was on match point)

Two sets to love down. Facing three break points in the third. Moments like these separate the champions from the rest. Despite playing some of his ugliest tennis ever (he never admits that in press conferences, does he?), Federer somehow found his game to take the set 6-4. When Falla served for the match at 5-4 in the fourth, even my faith stood on extremely shaky ground. This was it. The end. Finito. But Federer broke back. When he took the tie-break 7-1, he had turned a corner.

The Federer that played in the fifth set resembled the one that lost the first two sets only in appearance. The ugly shanks gave way to the beautiful backhand, the laboured movements gave way to the ballet and the violinist in him started playing those cross-court notes once again. The win was celebrated with the realisation that he had lived on the edge all through the match, and narrowly avoided falling off it. The holder of 16 Grand Slam titles must have never been more relieved to reach the second round.

And we, the fans, have had our faith redeemed. For another day. Is He slowly coming towards the end of his glorious journey? We'd better start getting used to regular trials of our faith.

An ode to The Master

So it won't be a record 24th consecutive Grand Slam semi-final for the Swiss Master. Robin Soderling has brutally broken his run which, though destined to be broken someday (he is human after all, despite all the evidence to the contrary over the years), had already assumed impossible proportions. 23 consecutive semi-finals is ridiculously freakish. That is almost six years of domination at the highest level. That the next best in the list is 10 goes one to show the magnitude of Roger Federer's achievement. And suddenly, one wishes to express his gratitude for having seen history being created for six glorious years.

So its time to let loose today. Let loose all the emotions that have been building up over the years that feared such a day as this.

O Absolute Master, this does not mean that you are on the decline. Even if the razor sharp consistency has waned over the years, you are still someone who the tennis world is fortunate to have. It is you who are still one of the greatest to have ever picked up a racquet. And thank heavens you did, for otherwise we would have been deprived of witnessing the magic that you produce, so regularly and so enchantingly. You, who in this age, when brutal muscular power is the norm on court, have the gall to play that most delicate of drop shots, you who pick the half volley as if you were picking a fallen leaf, you who have that frustratingly vulnerable and deliciously beautiful backhand, watching which is almost like getting a visual orgasm. You who unfurl that cross court backhand like a violinist producing another soft note, you who do the ballet on court, you who bring grace to the men's game which even the women's game lacks (as it is pummeled into oblivion by its Williams double act).

The crowds refuse to believe their  own eyes when they see you losing. They will you on even when they know you have all but lost, because they can't bear to see you lose, they cry with you, they laugh with you, they are enthralled by you. When you are down and almost out, and yet find the time to produce the magic of a precise drop shot when your opponent expects a booming passing shot, the crowd know what they are seeing is something that goes beyond winning and losing. What they are seeing is man at his very best, man creating something that transcends, that endures.

And know then, O Master, that you have elevated the art of hitting a tennis ball to a plane where it feels all surreal. Know also that you will always be loved and revered, no matter what. And lastly, also know that despite all the powerful one dimensional hitters that this age is condemned to witness, there will only be one Roger Federer. And that is the way it will remain. For all eternity to come. Take a bow, Master. And do not be too hard on yourself. You have had just one off day in six years.