A certain calming order has returned to the tennis world. One might even say some larks have rediscovered the wing, as did the snail the thorn, while God takes up the comfy armchair in heaven, and Browning may even be fooled into thinking the world's not such a bad place after all.

I refer, of course, to Roger Federer nailing his place on top of the mantelpiece with the win at Roland Garros. The win may even set his career carefree, with very little left to prove to himself.

He may even stop uncorking the tap of tears that has become such a feature of post-final presentations. Talk about climate change.

There remains the minor trifle of not having beaten Rafael Nadal at Paris, but I wouldn't be too unhappy if his career ended like that. It could be his 99.94, giving us something to debate for the rest of lives. No one should be that perfect.

***

Switching sports for second, I'm very happy that Rohit Sharma has moved to the top of the Indian batting order. He answers my prayer for a modern-day batsman who can oozes grace like an Arab oil pipeline from the 1960s. Batting first means his playing time is more predictable. Who else can you really watch?

***

Back to the clay. I had missed Fernando Gonzalez's astonishing backside play, and found a video online. It is simply the most crazy thing I have ever seen on a tennis court (or on its sidelines). Here is the human eraser:

Rafa-chakkar

That year the hogs will fly,
not just when the Black wins the White
but when the astonishing happens
and the Pink loses the Orange.

:: from Les Prophecies Retrospectif

When I got home last night to find out Rafael Nadal had lost at Roland Garros, I wanted to know why I hadn't felt the shock. Why didn't this register on the Richter Scale? No wonder North Korea's getting away with a bomb or two.

Though Nadal's form had been iffy and his retrieval under the weather, not even seers with 20/20 vision knew this was coming. It's a tribute to the man that he's taken it on the chin. To use Nadal's Tarzan-esque English, "he indeed play bad".

No one really knows what to do with a Nadal-less second week at the French. The pressure may just have doubled on Federer (if so, it is showing - as I write this, he's teetering 2 sets down to Tommy Haas despite not losing a single point on serve until the first set tiebreaker). I have a feeling a certain strange-haired Scotsman will open his Grand Slam score on a surface that has much in common with his hair.

If somehow Federer were to haul himself up to win this one, it would be worthy of a year in which porcine aviation made its mark. Federer holding the French, Nadal holding Wimbledon. What next? Cristiano Ronaldo elected Professor of Modesty at the University of Lisbon? Stan Laurel berating Oliver Hardy for getting them into a mess? Sherlock Holmes pleading Dr. Watson to "tell me, how did you do it"?

Roger Federer, my new Tendulkar

For a period beginning from the earlier part of this century to about a couple of years ago, my viewings of Sachin Tendulkar batting went like this. As soon as the great man walked in, a stomach-full of butterflies danced their unholy steps - so keen was I for him to do well and to prove each detractor (death to them!) wrong. Sometimes, it came off, but many times, it didn't. The only positive was that the butterflies would immediately vacate said space to leave a brief emptiness.

Until a Zen-like realisation dawned that allowed me to accept and appreciate whatever Tendulkar provided each minute in the middle. Subject sometimes to the moods of the jealous sporting gods. Irrespective of large or infinitesmal.

It worked, because now, it doesn't matter all that much. And he's enjoyed an 'nth' Australian summer.

For the greater part of the last tennis season, Roger Federer became my new Tendulkar. It was painful to watch, not because he was hitting balls into the net, but because a figurative string had snapped in that divine racket. The most recent illustration came on Sunday, when Tomas Berdych walked in and snatched two sets without leave or license. The butterflies ordered some more nectar and boogied away.

Hard to say exactly what impression the next three sets had. The man who played, nay sweetly horsewhipped, Juan Martin del Potro today had absolutely no effect on my stomach, apart from causing satisfaction that I doubt even a gourmet meal at The Ritz would come close to matching. The second set - the first of two bagels of the match - was sufficiently sublime for us to congratulate del Potro on managing to take three games in the first set.

In fact, let's digress to pay a tribute to del Potro, the recipient of a sympathetic near-apology from the man on the other side. Those very same sadistic sporting gods chose you because someone had to be on the other side of the net. No one deserves that. Despite your own lux-quotient (you are #6 in the world, remember), the light at the other end was a pleasantly blinding experience. You are more than someone who had to serve every other game, more than a straight man in the wrong kind of act, more than a hula hoop for a God. You deserve to star in your own YouTube videos, rather than a hapless cameo in someone else's.

Yes, I'm getting 'kinda' cocky. Blame it on Roger Federer, who even chose to head a ball across the net than merely accept yet another point won via happy slaughter. Who knows, I might even hex him in the semis. But the mood he was in today was a return to the days that made grown tennis players want to speed-dial their moms so that they could weep into their laps.

Naturally, it's appropriate that his semi-final opponent is Andy Roddick.

Matchless for Life

I wanted to call last night's match gazookilaciplyditabinctionatious. I don't know what it means, but _you_ tell me if you have one legal word that can do justice to what we say yesterday, spread over eight hours. However, our vocabulary has been further graced: joining Federer-esque (adj. "carrying out something with exquisite finesse and supreme elegance") is Nadal-esque (adj. "unreasonably relentless")

Tennis needs draws. The first time I felt this sentiment strongly was in the Hamburg Masters last May, watching two men drill holes in each other, only to keep coming back for more. If yesterday's Wimbledon Gentlemen's Singles Championship Final (this is one occasion when you deserve to call it by the full name) had been a boxing match, one would have had to invoke the Geneva Convention. My head's as dizzy as it was at 2 am earlier today.

I suppose it's fair reaction to what was easily the best tennis match I have ever seen. In fact, I will go so far as to say that it was the best single sporting encounter I have ever witnessed in my life. One reason why was that there was no finite boundary, no final whistle, no ships to catch. This could have gone on for ever. It seemed we would be there until Tuesday, at 50-50 in the final set. Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal would have been squatting exhaustedly on the by now completely bald turf, serving underarm and breaking each other's serve just by the other making four double faults per game. If we didn't have draws, we'd all still be there.

Coming back from my little flight of absurd fancy, one would agree that if it came to a final coin toss of a point, Nadal deserved it. He broke Federer four times in the match, while the 2003-2007 champion broke the Spaniard just once. If there had been a last set tie-breaker, he might've prevailed. We need draws. I can't be pacing and bouncing up and down at 1:30 am again.

The parallels with 1981 were so striking that I half expected to wake up to Federer retiring. Whew. He's still got a lot to achieve, especially powered by that keen sense of history. Roy Emerson's 14 is easily within reach, even if not Sampras' Seven. It's easy to see this as a signal of Federer's descendancy - it may be so, but not by much. The man made two Slam Finals this year, and is playing (along with his vanquisher) at a plane that we're lucky to be able to witness, leave alone comprehend. Centre Court seemed to surreally expand in width and length each time one of the finalists wanted it to, a combination of intense will-power and a never-before display of skills providing the ductile force.

What does this mean for men's tennis and Roger's place in the scheme of things? Perhaps more interesting will be how Rafa deals with finally being at the summit (ATP rankings be damned)? I'm too scared to speculate. What we have in front of us is almost ethereal, and perhaps the spell is in danger of being broken by mundane meditation. Let's dwell on some of the geometry-defying angles, the gravity-embarassing retrievals, the traitorous net cords, the Riemannian down-the-lines, the passes of the seasons. My one line summary of the match: Federer had to keep coming back, while Nadal never left. That was the crucial difference. The good news is that surely we'll never be tormented like this next year. The bad news is pretty much the same: that nothing we ever see will be like this.

Perhaps in the year 2020, the BCCI will have, in its latest acquisition, have taken over both the ATP and AELTC. In its first order of business, it will display an uncharacteristic and rare sagacity and overturn the result of this match to a draw (a annual tradition that began in 2008). Do you have any challenges left to that?

BVHK is much more in control of his emotions in his reaction.

A Poet Is Cornered

There was a baker named Roger
They said he baked by magic
He served up golden bagels
And many a brown breadstick

He thought they were quite sweet
His customers begged to differ
"Your produce is beautiful", they said
"But God! it tastes so bitter"

"Moo!" said Roger
in his white jacket
"I score great music here"
"not an infernal racket"

And then came Paris where
Some Muscles from Mallorca
Dished out his own dough
It was called A Special Rafa

"'The bagel's acerbic", said Roger
"The breadstick too, I'll pass"
"My medicine doesn't taste too well"
"Should I try eating some grass?"

Roger Federer, ATP artist, can still write better on-court poetry than I can with words. But of late, the symphonies have been unfinished and the notes have jarred. Now, I don't think this is the beginning of some long-term decline, for we're still talking about a World No. 1 who made the finals of the last three most important tournaments on his least favourite surface. But it's the manner of the approach (literally) that should send a twitter down some Swiss shoulders.

Nadal's come back strongly from injury; Djokovic's been tracking the top two with the intensity of a Serbian Defensive Dog - these you would expect. What you wouldn't expect is how certain aspects of Federer's game have become entangled with the mind, which at times, just seems to be milking Alpine cows.

The mind as mental barrier
In Fredric Brown's short story "Arena", the central character (Carson) finds himself fighting an alien being - one who wins will guarantee victory of his species. But neither can get to each other: they are separated by am invisible barrier that turns out to be purely a mental creation, one that the conscious mind cannot get through. It's an apt metaphor for Roger Federer's problems at the tennis net.

At the more visible barrier, he's fumbled. He's smashed and caressed balls into the wires. He approaches the tape with all the enthusiasm of a lamb to the slaughter. Even against the likes of the lowly Monfils, he was visibly reluctant to surge ahead. Cerberus guarding the doors of hell would have been easier to get by.

At any rate, this presents a challenge worthy of a champion. If and how Federer does tame these devils will be worth watching. Like Carson, it'll involve both sweat and creativity. Surely, the memory of that bitter breadstick and bagel at this year's Roland Garros final should keep him piqued.

Normal Service Resumes

Ricky Ponting scores a 100. Michael Hussey and Andrew Symonds take a routine stroll past 50. English cricketers complained of missing heartbeats when they heard this.

Manchester United won. Ronaldo didn't do much in a big final. Drogba behaved himself.

The French Open has begun. In the Hamburg Masters last week, Rafael Nadal imposes his will on Roger Federer despite being 1-5 down in the first set and with barely a right leg to stand on. Tennis should have draws.

Bertie, the toothless Beast, and the Raves

Bertie and the Beast
In "The Code of the Woosters" by P.G.Wodehouse, Bertie Wooster encounters an unusually confident and strident Gussie Fink Nottle. The newtophile was traditionally the most diffident male in all recorded history, in whom bravado could only be artificially injected via heavily spiked orange juice. Eventually Bertie wheedles out the secret of Gussie's newly acquired spine, finding a rather brilliant stratagem from Jeeves behind it all: Gussie has been surreptitiously maintaining a notebook filled with bold observations about those who would otherwise have caused his knees to knock and melt. For instance, his father-in-law-to-be's soup-slurping skills remind him of the Scottish Express rushing through a tunnel. This drains the enemy of his villainous aura reducing him to a life lower than a debauched salamander, allowing the fish-faced friend to become the 'bossee', so much so that Gussie could emasculate that black-shorted gorilla Roderick Spode as a perfect perisher in footer bags.

Now, the reason why I invoked the honourable Plum is because I have a sneaking feeling that that once obnoxious trundler Sreesanth may have been similarly Roderick-ed. If you are going to strut about providing code-violating malayaalee-accented snorts at your opposition, you cannot be seen to be sobbing as if someone swapped your multi-coloured flannels for Binny shorts. Sreesanth, poor fellow, has defanged himself for life. Anyone who has seen that sorry sight will never ever be able to take a Sreesanth sledge seriously. Even Andre Nel must have been embarassed.

More seriously, I agree almost entirely with Jayaditya Gupta's analysis of the darwaazaa-e-thappaD. This was on the cards and the BCCI is a little lucky that only Indians were involved. Anyone who saw how the under-19 players went about their business a couple of months ago would noted the bad (but condoned) habits of the senior team having rubbed off on them (that some of the juniors were probably seniors themselves is a different but equally disturbing matter).

Shane on you
My IPL viewing depends mainly on whether one person's involved, a certain Shane Warne. On display are the full range of skills - bowling, batting, strategy, and captaincy. It's an absolute treat to watch. I'm sincerely grateful to the IPL for allowing me to watch a little bit of Warne each week. Harish and Aniket would approve.

The shock at the end of the wire
And Aditya Gadre would approve of how much I have followed international club football in the last three months. Each week's EPL has thrown up corkers of matches. Saturday's results were perfect for a neutral. Now, I'd like Man Utd. to go back and claim what is theirs. But for the Champions League (I have dragged myself through part of the night for this as well!), as long as Chelsea lose, I don't care. But a little more of Messi would be nice to see.

Roulette-coaster
And to round off this sports-crazy post, the tennis status quo briefly asserts itself this week, with Federer and Nadal returning for their annual date at the final at Monte Carlo. You know it's been a strange year for Federer when the only title win of the year has been on clay, and it's already April. But he wouldn't quite complain if the topsy-turviness results in wins at Roland Garros and at Beijing - the two most important crowns missing in what must be a massive mantelpiece in his Basel chalet.

Footnote: I was trying to look for some images of the weeping Sreesanth but found it interesting that Google Images turned up nothing. The restrictive media norms by the IPL seem to have resulted in this, so Mr. Modi - your diktat is working!

Paes Maker?

It's a strange drop volley from India's Davis Cup captain. A superhero based on Leander Paes is reportedly going to feature in a TV cartoon series, who will carry the message of an active and healthy lifestyle to children. I'm not quite convinced Paes has the stature among kids to pull this off (he's no Tendulkar or Dhoni, surely), but the intentions are undoubtedly noble.

Still, it can all get pretty interesting if it turns out that the character is called Ball Boy ("gawky ball-boy turns into shorts-wearing superhero at the call of 'Mine!'") and chest-bumps the evil forces of super-villain Patty Hesh who, along with his roguish henchmen, LightNectarine and BowBrother, manages budding tennis teens into rebellion and weak service actions. Ah, what a smash that would be!

The ascendancy of men's tennis

The ascendancy of men's tennis

We won't have a Golden Slam this year for Roger Federer. I was a little disappointed, depressed even, with his Australian Open loss today. But in the overall context of men's tennis, this is great news. Players like Djokovic have grown up and we will now see much more intense competition in the next couple of years in the circuit. Federer, generalising what he said after his record-equalling Wimbledon triumph last year about Nadal, has snapped up as much as he could in the last few years before these kids came up roaring. Making Grand Slam wins will be tougher now, and perhaps even sweeter.

I don't know how much of today's loss was due to the new, slower Plexicushion surface, but characteristically, Federer did not bother with excuses. Like with the Australians recently in Test cricket, the end of a streak should also be accompanied with wonderment at the fact that the streak lasted that long.

Cassius 'Tsonga' Ali v. Super-Novak should be superb to watch.

Perth Perch and a Federer freeze

Perth Perch and a Federer freeze

A fine day for sport. Federer sums it up best: "What a great battle. This is where you get grey hair early in life."

Spectators of both matches would agree. I'm glad I didn't see the last hours of both matches, it would have driven me crazy. I thought I was going to have a nervous attack when Federer was trailing after the first set. 10-8 in the last, phew. The dream of the Grand, nay Golden, Slam is still alive. After Djokovic, another Serb in Tipsarevic impresses greatly.

Far away to the west on the same continent, the India cricket team pulled off what many are calling their best ever Test victory. I disagree: for me, the best will still be Calcutta 2001. This would be among the best overseas victories for sure, with competition from that astonishing chase in Port-of-Spain in 1976 or the more recent Headingley victory in 2002. But this is easily the best all-round team performance ever: it had to be, with not a single century or 5-wicket haul.

This was also a match where the Aussies had rare tactical failures. Reading the pitch incorrectly led to them picking the wrong 11, which then led to a slow-over rate, which compounded the huge loss of Hayden. The fort has been breached, but let's not forget their astonishing streaks, not only of 16 straight wins again, but also of never having lost at home in 5 years.

Cricket moves on.

Pointing out your mistakes

Pointing out your mistakes

Referalls in tennis, though not so shrilly debated, are interesting to observe. Today, in an Australian Open match between Patty Schnyder and her 2nd-round vanquisher, Casey Delacqua, there was a rather curious incident. Schnyder put in a first-serve, which was duly returned by the Australian. However, Schnyder did not attempt to hit it back. Instead, she chose to call for Hawk-Eye to appeal a fault off her own serve!

She was right and the point was replayed. Schnyder spoilt the minor victory by crashing the next serve into the net.

Bucknor and Federer

Bucknor and Federer

Now that Bucknor ain't going to Perth, Harish imagines a visit to Melbourne where he umpires a Federer match. Heh heh.

Can't tie him down

Roger Federer picks up another. It is worth noting that once again, he takes sets in tie-breakers, when it matters the most. Is it that he is unable to break his opponents regularly or is unwilling to do so, secure in his miles-ahead record in the tie-breakers? (typically, he does win with scores such as 7-2, though today was an exception).

To illustrate what I'm saying, this year he won the 1st set 7-6 (7-2) at the Australian Open, 1st and 3rd sets at Wimbledon in that classic match, and now two more tiebreakers in the US Open. Plus plenty other 7-6ers in the rest of the matches.

Like bagels and breadsticks, do they have a name for it? Croissants?

French finale stays on course

Canas is gone, and we breath a sigh of relief. The only man to have taken out Federer twice this year was vanquished by Davydenko, who has never won a match against the Swiss number one. Please let it stay that way.

The other semi-final, between Nadal and Djokovic, could be a thriller if Djokovic steps up. He's been catching the eyes in the last six months and has been rated to go very high. Stirring stuff is expected.

Clayfeet no more

Organisers of the French Open were thrilled to bits yesterday: Roger Federer launched the best possible advertisement for the event for free, by serving up a reminder (I had forgotten) that the Last Baseline begins next week. He did so by winning the Hamburg Open beating Rafael Nadal in the final. This was an event that registered on the Richter scale, not so much because the clash was on clay, but because of an unusual 6-0 drubbing in the final set. As Nadal (gracious as usual in his losing speech) would imply, that was quite something.

The outcome has naturally sent everyone into a tizzy. It didn't seem that way in the first set yesterday, when Federer seemed unable to send a ball into play and seemed Roddick-esque (sorry Andy) against the Rafa serve. The first game of the second turned out to be the decider: Federer hung on grimly, at times appearing to lose it all in a blaze of frustration, and then just about holding serve. From then on, inexplicably, the hamhanded demon of Federer's play and the efficient angel resident in Nadal switched places. Federer went after Nadal's forehand, and the unforced errors for the Spaniard raced past the meister's. Perhaps it has been a long clay-court season already for the younger man.

But remember this was only a 3-set affair, and breaking Nadal over 2 weeks and 5 sets will be the ultimate test for the all-time-greatest-in-waiting. Federer will know that from last year, when he came within a set of doing the improbable. The only worry now is whether the script will hold true. My suggestion: play the tournament but irrespective of whether Nadal or Federer win or lose their preliminaries, put them in the final. Please, oh please. The good thing is that I'm sure neither player would even consider such a rubbish suggestion, preferring instead of slide the hard old-fashioned way.

Triple Duet Tuesdae

The one without the racoon hair is Ben Miles.

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The Dada on the right is Jaideep Sahni, who wrote movies such as Company and Khosla ka Ghosla. The resemblance is even more pronounced than the photo may suggest.

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The easiest one. Just adding for the sake of, as they say, completeness.

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On previous daes: Triple Schezwan Sundae, Veg Triple Mondae

The sweetest bagel

It was the 25th of January, 2007. I had risen very early that day, at 5 am, in order to catch a train. Back home, the inevitable respects were paid to cable, and the last fragments of Sharapova's Australian Open semi-final were seen. A surprise: the first men's semi-final, featuring Roger Federer and Andy Roddick, was to be played at 2:30 pm IST the same day, and not on Friday. That meant the end of a salubrious afternoon nap.

The pre-match speculation was all about how Roddick, in concert with Jimmy Connors, had improved his game, while Federer was making loaded statements saying he didn't practice (or was it just the ultra-cheerful Wilkins-Amritraj joDii that read too much into it?) that much. The gap had seemingly been reduced. OK, let's see, one thought.

Set one. I was watching something else, and before I could get back, Federer had broken Roddick to go 1-0 up. But Roddick broke back later in the set, and we went: "ah, here's the contest we've been promised for years" (BTW, head-to-head Roddick was 1-12 before the match, I think, with the one on his side having last come in 2003.) Federer didn't look all that menacing, but was still good enough to take the first set 6-4, having broke A-Rod once more.

Then it began. Roddick served. Somebody had fiddled with the time-controls. The ball was coming back probably even before Roddick had served it. He would make outrageous angles, only to see the ball whizz back at angles that Euclid had never imagined. Federer picked up a half-volley from the baseline to send it crosscourt past Roddick - a Roddick who has been on the receiving end of many a sublime Federer stroke, but the consistency and length of the conjuring trick was the magic here.

It got so bad that Roddick, like a befuddled kindergartener, was looking up at Connors after almost every shot, with trembling lips. But even if Connors' had taken the premium correspondence course from Yuri Sharapov, he wouldn't have been able to do much. You felt really bad for Roddick. As Harish implied in a post, Federer is creating new and despairing patients for sports psychiatrists.

Eventually and after some apologies from Federer for being so good, it was all over. Not surprisingly, the set had been won 6-0. I cannot recall having seen a more soul-affirming/destroying (depending on which side of the net you are) set than that.

This, that, bile, guts and wet, wet water

Suffering from an unusual (for me) ailment of having the stomach rebel against all input last week meant a keen desire to curl up and wanting to never hear the word "food" or any variants, sub or super, thereof. The mind's ability to conjure up emotive associations and cause corresponding somatic reactions in a jiffy is quite impressive. But books, movies and the World Cup diverted it some what, and I got through, didn't I? *** A massive pile up of mail and blog items was inevitable. I usually like to answer my email as soon as I can, so it was a little jarring to have a week of pending responses. An absent-minded click on the top of the Bloglines tree proved to be an inadvertent balm to the second problem. In one instant, I had all the unread posts vanish. What a weight off the shoulders! Recognising the signs, I have signed off some of the high volume and continue to ignore loooong post-happy blogs for now. If this is turns out to be a loooong post, you know what to do. *** Those die-hard SRK fans who despaired of their star's performances in the likes of Swades, and to an extent in Paheli, need not worry. The man is back if the trailers of KANK are any indication. Only he could exaggerate a limp such that members of the Porcine Association are again complaining of intrusion into the ham production business. *** And we have Krrish which just about manages to have a syllable more than that strangulated Ssshhh. Judging by reviews, it seems to be more of a sequel to Kaho Naa Pyar Hai than Koi Mil Gaya with its Hrendition of the all-singing/dancing/romancing/skiing/fighting "hero" being augmented with the all-flying/leaping "super". *** The music of KANK is strictly ok on overall impact. Predictably, it is almost isomorphic to the songs of Kal Ho Na Ho. *** After a lull, the monsoon (I hope no one gets here looking for Sushma Reddy - the horror!) has revived. It belted out some of its best hits in the last couple of days with such gusto that the lyrics of "giilaa giilaa paani" don't seem too incongruous right now. *** "Teri diwaanii" from the album Kailasa is featured in a very impressive video, with the image of the dancing femme in silhouette framed against silent fireworks being very striking. The other videos for songs in the album, on the other hand, are amateurish to the point of being hilarious. Still, it seems an "honest" effort (whatever that euphemistically implies). *** When someone is accused of being "shallow", what does that mean? The shallowness quotient has been a mystery to me. The conundrum was revived when a character in a book I'm reading currently ("Past Mortem" by Ben Elton, who's famous for being a co-writer of "Blackadder" and "Mr. Bean") was described as such. *** This is the season when everyone reminisces about their first football world cup. Mine was 1990, the Italian one. Wimbledon (which I had started to follow the year before) was also on. Just like that year, this year will also see a June Sunday with a Wimbledon men's final as well as a World cup finale. That year, my favouritism for Boris Becker translated into an affection for Germany (apart from England who lost to the Germans in the semis). Becker lost an epic 5-set final against Edberg that year, but the Germans held on on the other grass field. Unsurprisingly, Graf won again that year, so there was 2 out of 3 for the Deutschlanders. The prizes are likely to be more spread out between the nations this year.