Post by tall_one on Nov 23, 2005 0:25:04 GMT 3
Mr Congeniality gets the crown - Safin is the charming champ as home hero falls at finalhurdle
by Rohit Brijnath
MELBOURNE, JANUARY 30: Only Marat Safin can be clasped close to a nation’s heart after he has broken it. Only he, all lumbering greatness, whose timing is as exquisite on the backhand as it is with his comedy, can raise a smile from a disappointed nation.
The charismatic Russian won the Australian Open last night, defeating Australian favourite Lleyton Hewitt 1-6, 6-3, 6-4, 6-4 with shot-making that was all muscular poetry, and it was a pivotal moment. A champion who had lost his way had found himself, a man dubbed the Headless Horseman so often did he lose it had kept himself together finally, and it was hard not to be moved. He is some story.
Over time the fearless US Open champion of 2000, who dissected Pete Sampras with a cool disregard for reputation mostly found in the young, has dissipated amidst the echo of breaking rackets. For five years tennis’ most splendid talent, till a fellow called Roger came along, inexplicably did not win a Grand Slam title, and we shrugged as he did at his inability to harness talent and discipline his mind. People said, so he revealed yesterday, that he could beat anyone and lose to anyone, and he believed it.
Safin was charming but not a champ, he owned the best quotes in town but not the best record. With him, you did not come to see a match as much as find yourself witness to an opera. His racket hit every note, low and high, he theatrically beseeched himself to play better, called to the Gods, walked like a mourner between points, always more a performer than a mere player.
People were taken to him because he dared to express his humanness. At one point yesterday, overcome by Hewitt’s dogged ability to return everything, he asked plaintively: ‘‘What can I do?’’ Other players might feel the same, but display only granite faces where no emotion registers.
People loved him, too, because he lived life with a stylish extravagance, his players’ box replete with blond Safinettes, but people also wondered if his mind should occasionally stay with tennis. Coaches came and went, his back hurt, his wrist complained, and success refused to befriend him.
Safin is 25, almost at tennis’ middle-age, and he exists in the world according to Federer, where Grand Slams are that much harder to find. Perhaps he received the message that history, alas, judges men only on titles won not spectators pleased, for last year he discovered a harmony of mind and body once elusive.
He reached the final of the Australian Open, won two Masters Series tournaments late in the year, and most importantly hitched a ride with Peter Lundgren, Federer’s former coach, of whom he yesterday said: ‘‘I never believe in myself before, until I start to work with him.’’
Through this tournament the impassioned soliloquies have continued and rackets bounced, but he has been more collected than chaotic. As Hewitt said: ‘‘I think through the whole tournament, he loses it now and then, but it doesn’t really worry his actual play.’’
Yet despite his consistent courage against Federer, the final was seen as beyond his mental reach. After all, he walked through an honour guard of Australian flags, into an Australian stadium, against an Australian hero, in the centenary of the Australian Open, with the memory of two Open final defeats (’02, ’04) sitting in the forefront of his mind. It was enough to induce a tremble in the boldest of men, let alone this man.
He was nervous, he said, and it showed, as Hewitt, a moving ball machine with an Energiser bunny’s vigour and a heart out of proportion to his small size, spun him around the court. The first set went 6-1 and he was admittedly ‘‘depressed’’; but he found his nerve for the second, lost his composure when 0-3 down in the third and then, as his epitaph was considered, revealed a self-belief only he knew he had.
His serve rocketed, he hit so many lines it seems they were moving to accommodate him, he hit a short backhand pass that should hang in an art gallery, he advertised cleanly every wondrous skill he has ever owned. Hewitt talked about his ‘‘amazing strength’’, but there is no winning of such titles without spirit.
Yesterday he called his 2000 US Open win a ‘‘mistake’’, for he was too innocent, he owned no pressure then, and even a loss would carry no stain with it. But this win is sweetest, for he had begun, he admitted, to believe he would never win another grand slam title, that he couldn’t handle the pressure. But he has, and he did. The Russian, always a character, yesterday finally found some.
by Rohit Brijnath
MELBOURNE, JANUARY 30: Only Marat Safin can be clasped close to a nation’s heart after he has broken it. Only he, all lumbering greatness, whose timing is as exquisite on the backhand as it is with his comedy, can raise a smile from a disappointed nation.
The charismatic Russian won the Australian Open last night, defeating Australian favourite Lleyton Hewitt 1-6, 6-3, 6-4, 6-4 with shot-making that was all muscular poetry, and it was a pivotal moment. A champion who had lost his way had found himself, a man dubbed the Headless Horseman so often did he lose it had kept himself together finally, and it was hard not to be moved. He is some story.
Over time the fearless US Open champion of 2000, who dissected Pete Sampras with a cool disregard for reputation mostly found in the young, has dissipated amidst the echo of breaking rackets. For five years tennis’ most splendid talent, till a fellow called Roger came along, inexplicably did not win a Grand Slam title, and we shrugged as he did at his inability to harness talent and discipline his mind. People said, so he revealed yesterday, that he could beat anyone and lose to anyone, and he believed it.
Safin was charming but not a champ, he owned the best quotes in town but not the best record. With him, you did not come to see a match as much as find yourself witness to an opera. His racket hit every note, low and high, he theatrically beseeched himself to play better, called to the Gods, walked like a mourner between points, always more a performer than a mere player.
People were taken to him because he dared to express his humanness. At one point yesterday, overcome by Hewitt’s dogged ability to return everything, he asked plaintively: ‘‘What can I do?’’ Other players might feel the same, but display only granite faces where no emotion registers.
People loved him, too, because he lived life with a stylish extravagance, his players’ box replete with blond Safinettes, but people also wondered if his mind should occasionally stay with tennis. Coaches came and went, his back hurt, his wrist complained, and success refused to befriend him.
Safin is 25, almost at tennis’ middle-age, and he exists in the world according to Federer, where Grand Slams are that much harder to find. Perhaps he received the message that history, alas, judges men only on titles won not spectators pleased, for last year he discovered a harmony of mind and body once elusive.
He reached the final of the Australian Open, won two Masters Series tournaments late in the year, and most importantly hitched a ride with Peter Lundgren, Federer’s former coach, of whom he yesterday said: ‘‘I never believe in myself before, until I start to work with him.’’
Through this tournament the impassioned soliloquies have continued and rackets bounced, but he has been more collected than chaotic. As Hewitt said: ‘‘I think through the whole tournament, he loses it now and then, but it doesn’t really worry his actual play.’’
Yet despite his consistent courage against Federer, the final was seen as beyond his mental reach. After all, he walked through an honour guard of Australian flags, into an Australian stadium, against an Australian hero, in the centenary of the Australian Open, with the memory of two Open final defeats (’02, ’04) sitting in the forefront of his mind. It was enough to induce a tremble in the boldest of men, let alone this man.
He was nervous, he said, and it showed, as Hewitt, a moving ball machine with an Energiser bunny’s vigour and a heart out of proportion to his small size, spun him around the court. The first set went 6-1 and he was admittedly ‘‘depressed’’; but he found his nerve for the second, lost his composure when 0-3 down in the third and then, as his epitaph was considered, revealed a self-belief only he knew he had.
His serve rocketed, he hit so many lines it seems they were moving to accommodate him, he hit a short backhand pass that should hang in an art gallery, he advertised cleanly every wondrous skill he has ever owned. Hewitt talked about his ‘‘amazing strength’’, but there is no winning of such titles without spirit.
Yesterday he called his 2000 US Open win a ‘‘mistake’’, for he was too innocent, he owned no pressure then, and even a loss would carry no stain with it. But this win is sweetest, for he had begun, he admitted, to believe he would never win another grand slam title, that he couldn’t handle the pressure. But he has, and he did. The Russian, always a character, yesterday finally found some.
