Game, Set and Match Nadal?

So, Roger Federer figured out Rafael Nadal at the recent ATP Championships. But the Spaniard still deserves to be called the greatest ever. Now, bring on the rotten tomatoes

Placing sporting greatness in the context of history is an act fraught with risk, satisfying only those who make sense of their world through sweeping generalisations. But at the end of arguably the most incredible tennis season in recent memory—one in which Rafael Nadal won three Major titles on three different surfaces, a feat never before accomplished—I have reached a profoundly aggravating conclusion: the Spaniard has surpassed Roger Federer and Pete Sampras as the finest tennis player ever.

Until recently, whenever the ‘Greatest of All Time’ debate arose, many like me used to be firmly ensconced in the Federer camp. Such was the conviction of his shot-making, such was the grasp he held of the game for six years. The aesthetic appeal of Federer’s game is a luxury that fans especially value. He does not perform self-consciously for mere applause (although Federer once wryly admitted in an interview that he’d not been above showboating in the early stages of his career). It is who he is, a manifestation of his supremely uncluttered mind.

Be that as it may, this does not end the all-time greatness debate. There are many parameters to consider. Where there is doubt, there is debate. At the very least, I am no longer certain of my faith in Federer’s primacy, for although Nadal—the current world No 1—has yet to match Federer in terms of longevity, his tennis has of late hit spikes that seem beyond the reach of even Federer’s gifts.

Doubts about Federer’s status are neither premature nor radical. From Laver to Sampras to Nadal, the modern era has seen a procession of men who might be regarded as the greatest of all. Each has enjoyed the briefest reigns before passing on the mantle. It is reasonable to believe that this status quo persists.

We invest respect in geniuses of the past out of a sense of nostalgia. Such nods to tradition are also an acknowledgement that present greats stand upon the shoulders of giants. In cricket, Sachin Tendulkar has made more runs against a wider range of teams stocked with better bowlers and fielders than the ones Don Bradman encountered; it is nevertheless considered bad form to speak of them in the same breath. The reluctance to displace Bradman from the top of the hierarchy of cricket greats has much to do with our subconscious inclination to equate 100 with perfection, the mystical value of his batting average of 99.94—so far ahead of the nearest competition—and the fact that it has stood the assault of time. But it also has to do with indulging romanticism.

Tennis, which divides its history more explicitly than cricket does into amateur and professional eras, has no equivalent number in its mythology. Many outstanding players, male and female, linger in memory, but there was no forceful presence. Not even Don Budge, who in 1938 became the first player to win the Australian, French, Wimbledon and US titles in a single year, comes close to capturing what Bradman or Babe Ruth have come to symbolise in cricket or baseball.

Comparing Budge or the great Bill Tilden to Nadal—across the divides of professionalism, racquet technology, workout quality, and even prize money—feels unfair: there are too many extraneous elements that give Nadal a meaningless advantage. Caveat in place, it is obvious that modern professionals are willing to work harder in the gym and on court, and that the level of intensity has risen consistently since the time gentlemen wore trousers and ladies wore skirts that fell to the ankles.

And really, nobody glares more intensely at an opponent than Nadal. The case I’m making for Nadal over Federer rests only fractionally on their overall head-to-head record (Nadal leads 14-8, 10-2 on clay, 5-2 in Slam finals), because numbers do not always tell you the whole story. For instance, John McEnroe won three of the last four Slam finals he contested with Bjorn Borg and split their matches 7-7, but few would automatically place McEnroe over his great rival. Similarly, it would be dangerous to draw conclusions about Federer and Nadal on the basis of any single parameter.

For the record, Andy Murray, the underachieving Scotsman, is the only top-10 player besides Nadal to boast a better win-loss record against Federer, but he isn’t part of this discussion (at least, not yet) for obvious reasons. Greatness demands the reinforcement of a series of actions until we come to expect an adherence to the highest standards on a routine basis. Evaluating a player’s claims to greatness involves checking many boxes: beyond the standard requirement of winning a minimum of half-a-dozen Majors, we must consider the overall quality of their game, their weaknesses, how they have dealt with setbacks, the influence they have wielded on subsequent athletes, and whether they have reshaped the sport.

At 24, Nadal is still evolving; the former teen prodigy is hitting his peak only now. Given that he is naturally right-handed, it is astonishing to see how much he has improved his lefty serve in recent times. His second serve especially, once an easy target even on the clay courts of Paris, has grown into something more cunning; he backs it up with fantastic anticipation and great reaction shots. The reluctance to approach the net early on in his career has been replaced by a reassuringly soft feel for the volley. This confidence, first gained on the increasingly slower courts of Wimbledon, has translated onto other surfaces. Over the years, Nadal has erased weaknesses one by one and willed himself to become an all-court player, which distinguishes him from the great Spanish clay-courters of the past.

His long-term gameplan against Federer has proved remarkably successful: whip loopy forehands to Federer’s backhand, force Federer to aim closer and closer to the tramlines. When you compare Federer and Nadal at their peak (which is all that matters), to me it appears Nadal’s bloody-mindedness ultimately settles the issue. Nadal has always been more threatening in Wimbledon finals against Federer than Federer ever was in French Open finals against Nadal. He has overcome everything from banged-up knees to his parents’ divorce. This is a man who sticks to a singular  purpose. If indeed Federer were the greatest, how is it that he is only second-best at the art of mental disintegration in his own era?

The healthy competition between Borg and McEnroe, full of mutual respect, may come closest to teaching us something about how the Federer-Nadal debate might turn out. McEnroe, an old style serve-and-volleyer, relied on his skill and deftness of touch much in the manner of Federer (whose volleying, it must be noted, is nowhere as accomplished as McEnroe’s). And, like Borg, Nadal has triumphed over the limitations of a primarily baseline game to enjoy significant success at Wimbledon while holding a tight rein on Paris. In his autobiography, Serious, McEnroe writes that he gradually lost some of his own motivation after Borg retired prematurely in 1982, having won 11 Slams by the age of 25. It will be intriguing to see whether Federer’s dipping levels might impact Nadal—who appears oddly more vulnerable while playing lesser players like Mikhail Youzhny, than Federer does—in any way.

Bear in mind Nadal has enough to chase: he still needs eight Major trophies to overhaul Federer’s 16. My pronouncement might also seem counter-intuitive given Federer’s recent surge at the ATP World Tour finals in London. And needless to add, Federer’s own claim to ‘greatest of all time’ status certainly has merit.

Over the years, the Swiss player has turned in many classic performances against the likes of Nadal and Andy Roddick, especially in Wimbledon finals, but none so compellingly dominant than on a muggy London afternoon in June 2006 when he dismantled Richard Gasquet—a gifted Frenchman possessed of perhaps the finest single-handed topspin backhand his generation has seen—in the first round at Wimbledon.

That might sound like an odd citation in support of all-time greatness, but Gasquet is not the average floater content to push a top seed to the limit: he would lose to Federer again the following year, only this time in a semifinal, and promptly rise to No 7 in the rankings. On that particular day in 2006, Gasquet was inspired, but against Federer, then 24 and still approaching the peak of his powers, ‘inspired’ wasn’t enough. Federer’s movement, based as much on precision as prescience, ensured that anything Gasquet threw at him was anticipated and returned with interest. That great liquid whip of a forehand (as David Foster Wallace put it) clipped the line, volleys angled away coyly, smashes peppered the T. Two weeks later—the night Zinedine Zidane was ejected from the World Cup soccer field—Federer went on to win his fourth Wimbledon title, having suffered the loss of only one set—to Nadal in the championship match.

Federer’s reliance on athleticism rather than muscularity is a throwback to an earlier time. As we age, the knees begin to creak a little for most of us and much more for someone like Nadal whose game is built on chasing balls down. Federer, on the other hand, continues to move with the speed and grace of an ice skater. For him, economy is everything. He has played fewer tournaments, suffered fewer injuries, and lasted long enough to dominate players ten years younger.  The quality of future players might wax and wane, but there is no threat of tennis regressing to the point of doing a Benjamin Button on its audience. The game is only going to get more physical. William Renshaw playing like William Renshaw of the 1880s could never have defeated Anna Kournikova, much less Serena Williams. In that sense, Nadal’s pre-eminence does a disservice to the sport. Future potential-greats like Juan Martin Del Potro are already taking physical strength to absurd levels.

Whether we will ever see another player of Federer’s style and calibre is hard to tell. And in truth, the win over Nadal at the season-ending championship in London offers only moderate hope for the rivalry’s resurgence. While reports of his demise are greatly exaggerated, it is safe to say that Federer is—at long last—in terminal decline with only a few poignant triumphs to hope for.

If Federer has shown us that tennis can be beautiful, Nadal has succeeded in challenging the hegemonic definition of beauty. Seeing how hard it is to make judgments across eras, it is indeed a privilege to be able to contrast Nadal against a contemporary of comparable greatness, and to watch this rivalry define tennis for future generations.

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