Federer went into tennis and quickly stuck in the audience’s head as the new benchmark of a sportsman. Before that, we had only seen in athletes strength, precision, toughness, endurance. Together with Federer, elegance and grace entered the court, changed the sport, added a new concept to the sport, spreading what sport often lacks, which is beauty. In London, Paris, New York or anywhere, in the sunset, the most glorious moment of the day, to see Federer swing his left hand, like painting a genius brush in space, must be a pleasure for any person. , whether the person is into tennis or not. That’s how Federer paints people’s imaginations.
Before Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart there were many musicians, before Vincent Van Gogh there were many painters, before Jean Jacques Rousseau there were many thinkers. Just like before Federer, there are thousands of professional tennis players. But what do they have in common? They bring enlightenment in their field.
Any standard is always a target to attack and destroy. This is not negative at all. Records are born to be broken, standards are born to be surpassed, that is the argument of development. Rafael Nadal appeared to satisfy that desire. And those who love Nadal are also not negative.
Nadal brings new dimensions to tennis. Devilish spins, non-textbook stances, over-the-head swings that challenge every joint in the body. God skillfully arranges pairs of natural enemies. In order to overcome a comprehensiveness, an extraordinary, unprecedented in books is required.
Nadal appears to be the driving force for Federer to upgrade himself. But in that upgrade journey, despite the bruised body, despite the psychological torture through the defeats of the opponent, Federer was determined not to give up the beauty in his play in exchange for other means. In other words, you cannot give up beauty. Or in other words, beauty refused to leave him. It’s in your instincts, in your DNA, clinging to your soul.
On the tennis court, Federer is the thief of time, Nadal is the thief of space. Fast, fast, fast like an express train is his signature. Boom, one more hit, boom, score. On amateur tennis courts, they are called “missing the ball” shots. Just recently, the ball is gone.
What about space boss Nadal, his cross-court twists or long-string strokes are beyond the expectations of his opponents. It sends the ball into spaces where the opponent can only watch helplessly: “How can you put the ball in there? How can you twist your back like that?”…
And then, the same God, once again, molded Novak Djokovic to defeat both Federer and Nadal, not by the specifics of space, not by the characteristics of time, but by the two things mixed together, with the tendons. strong as a coil of rope. The ball to Djokovic is like going to a wall. And the wall is rarely wrong. The harder he hit the ball against the wall, the stronger it bounced back towards him.
Even so, Djokovic’s followers are only seen as “fans of the movement”, sorry to have to say that. Because before Djokovic went up, most tennis lovers had already chosen one of the two poles, either Federer or Nadal.
Looks like a tennis fan is quite different from a football fan. Or, it’s the same guy, when he’s cheering for a tennis player it’s different than when he’s cheering for a team. For the air, of course, the louder the football field, the better, coming to stretch out his chest and scream. As for the tennis court, as quiet as possible, hold your breath to perceive each ball, and do not distract the athlete.
For the purpose, of course, he came to the football field with a mission to cheer for the community, the locality and the country. Tennis individual courts don’t carry those things. Naturally, it must be. Isn’t it said that the older we get, the smaller the football we like. When we were young, we liked intense and noisy subjects, when we were older, we wanted to find quieter places ourselves.
When he supports a football team, he can freely downplay, tease, tease, mock the rival team. Because that team is a collection of dozens of individuals, it is not aimed at any specific individual. Because the players are quite messy and have a lot of thorns in their personalities (he’s talking compared to the tennis players). But those dozens of thorns still collide with each other every day.
As a tennis player, if you want to get to the top, you can’t do that. It has to be said that tennis is a game of pressure of things like: never making a double serve, never hitting a bad one too easily, having to go out there and fight alone, having to get over injuries to win. continue to fight because no one can replace me, have to move alone from one country to another, have to strive week after week to climb up each position on the rankings.
He couldn’t go to the bar tonight and still hope to beat another competitor the next day. He can’t lead a lifestyle surrounded by beauties while still aiming to be in the top 200, top 100, top 50.
Football has a level of licentiousness that tennis can’t have. It is shown right in the scoring of the game. In football, when his team dominated, shot over the crossbar 10 times, the score was still 0-0. In tennis, you overwhelm the opponent, you hit the outside 10 times, then you lose 10 points, you are far behind. Then he became more and more depressed, his body seemed to be pressed by a thousand mountains.
Because of the above, cheering in tennis is very different. Although he is crazy about Federer, it is also difficult for him to joke and mock Nadal. And vice versa. Even Nadal’s rather strange manner, hooking his pants and wiping his nose, was once the object of ridicule, but then not many people find it uncomfortable anymore. Because it looks familiar. And because of that, it’s a kind of ritual for Nadal, and he always does it with reverence, an infectious reverence.
A Federer supporter like me, began to rejoice at the beauty of his play, with his track record, with his records. Then disappointed with his losses against Nadal. Then, with a bit of enthusiast naivety, also put himself in Federer’s shoes, to find a way to neutralize Nadal’s gong loops that bounce 2 meters high into Federer’s backhand. Then more skepticism that Federer’s records will one day be broken.
In satisfaction there is pain, in love there is a hint of disappointment, in affirmation lurks doubt, in infatuation there is a germ of wickedness. I watch Nadal more, to cheer on his opponents, one game at a time. The desire for Federer to raise my records is equal to the desire for Nadal not to reach for the trophies. But gradually, the latter’s will is stronger because of age, more and more heat is blowing on the back of Federer’s neck.
Then years later, that day also came, Nadal and then Djokovic surpassed Federer in each achievement category. Am I disappointed? A little bit. And now, absolutely not. I grew up with Federer’s tennis. It’s tennis that teaches us all records can be broken, but beauty is permanent. It teaches us to perceive limits, and in beauty there is always imperfection, there can be no flawless beauty. It teaches us not to try to trade everything for victory.
I still want to watch Federer play again, watch his calm, delicate, magical swings. But at Wimbledon, he didn’t show up. Then the day he announced his retirement from the field had come, earlier than everyone expected. But I’m not sad. Federer has been with me through the years of my youth, and many others, and now it’s time for him to take a break. I guess it’s not just to take care of your billion dollar fortune.
I sat there imagining, standing on the football field, stepping on my right foot, turning my shoulder to bring the racket back, lowering my body, then pulling the racket to draw an arc in the sky, the ball going diagonally to the end of the court. A pure left shot. Pure tennis. Federer’s smile flashed through my mind. Adrenaline (hormone with effects based on sympathetic nervous system activity, produced by the body when people have feelings of fear, anger or a feeling of happiness, excitement …) emanates from the back of the occipital neck. me, a small but satisfying moment that I always want to return again, again, again, again. I picked up the phone and called my workout buddy…