Akascribe A personal blog covering all manner of subjects

I love Roger Federer.  There, I’ve said it.  I’m out of the closet and proudly so.  No, I don’t mean that kind of closet but my love of Roger does go much farther than a garden-variety man-crush.  And judging by the behavior of other tennis fans, I’m not alone.

What is it about this guy?  The tennis part is obvious, although certainly worth detailing:  the brilliant shot-making; the elegant, seemingly effortless, footwork; the consistency; the respect and passion for the game; the records.  Those records are almost too numerous to consider, but for tennis cognoscenti one stands out: 31 consecutive Slam quarterfinals appearances (and counting).  It’s a mind-boggling statistic, certainly never to be matched, and when finally tallied will occupy the same lofty stratum as Joe DiMaggio hitting safely in 56 straight games.

But it’s so much more than the tennis that earns Roger my heart.  His style can only be described as panache – a refined elegance just bordering on mannered (recall the embroidered white and gold jacket he wore onto Centre Court one year).  He isn’t the most handsome or hunky tennis pro (Rafael Nadal causes the girls to swoon with his bulging biceps and flared nostrils), but he carries himself in a way that brings to mind George Clooney or Cary Grant.  A bemused self-confidence, telling us that he knows what we’re thinking and he’s genuinely flattered to receive our attention.  And win or lose, he won’t dishonor that by acting aloof or otherwise behaving boorishly.

That said, Roger is human enough to show his emotions.  A small fist pump or “Come on!” reminds us that he really wants to win.  And the shedding of tears after a big match (in tough wins as well as losses) betrays how much effort he gives and how much it means to him.  I believe those are all to the good, but I especially love him for his (minor) shortcomings – the barely discernable arrogance (when he psyches out an opponent in a pre-match interview, it’s with polite praise just bordering on the faint), the rare glimpses of poor sportsmanship (once citing a nagging injury after tough loss at Wimbledon rather than merely congratulating his opponent).  He is not perfect and I would have him no other way.  But he is virtuous enough to deserve my love.

How do I know if he is truly virtuous?  Maybe his happy family life is a façade and he is out chasing skirts on the side, as his erstwhile friend, Tiger Woods, was discovered to be doing.  But I highly doubt it.  He would never have married Mirka if he were like that.  Say what?  Let me explain.

The press seemed to enjoy Roger’s budding friendship with Tiger in the pre-scandal days, two handsome sports superstars with everything they could seemingly want:  attractive wives, cute young children, trophy cases spilling over with hardware, and multi-million dollar Nike endorsement deals.  But in Tiger’s case, it turned out, he wanted something else, or at least was compelled by his demons to seek it.

Could anyone have predicted which of these men was the more likely to fall?  I venture yes.  As attractive as Roger’s wife is, she seems a genuine match for him, not the beautiful, blonde trophy wife than Elin Nordegren was for Tiger.  I don’t know these people personally but my conjecture is that Roger wasn’t attracted to Mirka Vavrinec for her looks alone (she is quite full-figured, nothing like the svelte fashion models who populate the spectator boxes of most male tennis pros), rather for her similar background as a Swiss tennis player.  Mirka didn’t make much of a dent in the rankings when she played on the woman’s pro tour, but it must be a tremendous asset to their relationship that she understands what it’s like to prepare for a match … and to lose.  Not that Roger does very much of the latter, but it’s a part of sports and a singularly defining aspect of most tennis tournaments:  one loss and you’re out.  Flying from tournament to tournament and living out a suitcase (albeit in a luxury hotel suite) must be a lonely business, and the smile on Roger’s face speaks to not just happiness with his game but with his personal life.  A man who has that doesn’t need to prowl bars looking for extra female companionship.

How lucky is Roger that he chose the vocation he wanted in life and he turned out to be the best in history at it?  Very lucky.  And we are equally lucky to be witnesses to his exploits and his virtue.  Sometimes, when I watch a match on TV with my son, who is very passionate about sports (both playing and watching), I remind him how fortunate he and I both are to have been alive in the Federer era.  Future generations will have to watch recordings of Roger’s matches but Collin and I get to witness the Swiss Maestro in real time.  We even saw him in person at Indian Wells, both on the practice courts and in competition.  I have rarely observed Collin awestruck, as my son is an extremely confident10-year old, but he was humble in the presence of such greatness.

Speaking of humility, Warren Buffett aka the “Sage of Omaha” famously deflects credit for his financial success and instead cites his having hit the genetic lottery:  being born in (white) middle-class America in 1930. Roger similarly often says how lucky he feels, to the point where it’s clear he means it.  I don’t think I’ve heard many superstars stay that with sincerity.  Sure, it requires a lot of hard work to achieve Roger’s level of performance (further evidence of his worthiness of my love!) but without the lucky circumstances it wouldn’t be possible.  He truly gets that.

Roger’s courage also earns a large measure of the love I feel for him.  It is no easy thing to go onto a tennis court in front of all those people and engage in a form of hand-to-hand combat with a skilled opponent.  His rivalry with the great Nadal is a perfect example.  Critics of Federer like to point out that Nadal leads in the head-to-head total, making the Spaniard putatively the greater player.  Whether or not he is (I believe my own opinion on this matter should be obvious), Roger neither shirks from the battle nor seeks to diminish his rival; rather, they seem to relish the competition and have forged a genuine friendship off the court, based on mutual respect and camaraderie.  Roger has even enlisted Rafa to donate time and money towards his personal foundation, focused on education in Africa.  Roger’s extensive charitable giving – way beyond the pro forma stuff we’ve come to expect from sports professionals – is further testament to his character.

Roger does not suffer fools gladly (a virtue in my book, I must confess) or passively accept his own mistakes, but he has too much perspective to get derailed.  If you watch closely in a match, a flicker of disapproval will sometimes pass over Roger’s face, as if he is witnessing something unpleasant, then he will quickly return his focus to the matter at hand.  I admire John McEnroe his tennis skills – he was a magician with a racquet, especially at net – and his intelligence and passion for the game as well as life are evident from his television commentary, but his fatal flaw as a player was taking it all so seriously that he regularly lost his head.  Of course everyone gets a bad call or two, or misses some shots they know they should make, but the stakes aren’t worth making an ass out of yourself.  Sure, Roger has gotten upset – it’s hard to believe but he’s even tossed a racquet – but I don’t think we’ll ever see him become unhinged and scream at an umpire the way Johnny Mac did.  At least I hope so.

But what if Roger did?  I might be disappointed, but I’d stand by him.  That’s what true love is.