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.