The Fed Express hurtles towards greatness- Roger Federer makes it eight Wimbledon men's single Final victories- What a player!
In the end class told quite delightfully. On the richly green if slightly dusty baselines of Wimbledon, Roger Federer beat Marin Cilic quite comprehensively. Federer made it look absurdly easy. In fact there was a long period in this Wimbledon men's singles Final when Federer could have closed his eyes, gone to sleep, finished off the Sunday Times crossword and then gobbled down a punnet of strawberries such was the Federer supremacy, the Federer hypnotic hold he seems have to cast on Wimbledon throughout the years.
Sadly for the Wimbledon crowd the manner of Federer's victory was heavily tinged with a dreadful sense of anti-climax. When Cilic pulled up with the most critical of injuries half way through the match, those enthusiasts who were willing Cilic on regardless, must have sighed with extreme displeasure, a feeling that the match would be cruelly cut short because Cilic's foot had finally betrayed him and the mobility that had hitherto sustained him would be his downfall.
For the best part of fifteen minutes during a break in play, Cilic's medical staff and coach huddled around their man anxiously, strapping and then replacing the afflicted foot with yet more bandages. Cilic buried his head in what looked like an umbrella of white towels, tears quite possibly reddening his face and then realising that at even now psychological battles were being lost and defeat could only have been a matter of time.
Roger Federer continued to cruise and glide through the match as if this was just a practice match behind closed doors. Federer is a model of coolness, composure, of intense concentration, a man in the zone, controlled, steady, unaffected, totally unfazed by events around him. In much the way that Bjorn Borg simply waltzed his way past Jimmy Connors and John Mcenroe, Federer exerted an almost complete mastery over Cilic and then roughly one and half hours and three straight sets later, Federer whipped the most destructive ace down the centre of the court to beat a now outclassed Cilic. The third set had been wrapped up 6-4 and Cilic, although battered and bruised, had done his utmost to battle against the overwhelming odds.
Under the circumstances Cilic did remarkably well to take Federer as far as he could but this was just another day at the office for Roger Federer, business taken care of in the bat of an eye-lid and it had clinical professionalism written all over it. In fact most of the formalities had been undertaken well before the beginning of the third set. Federer had finished off the paperwork in rather less time than he was hoping. Nobody likes to see a sportsman injured but when Cilic almost retired with his debilitating injury, your heart dropped and your sympathies were heartfelt.
Once again that immaculate former Wimbledon champion Rod Laver was watching admiringly and you knew that here was a man who'd seen it all and done it all. Four time Wimbledon champion Laver has become almost a yearly observer at SW19. Laver would have deeply identified with Cilic's predicament but then privately acknowledged that when your opponent is Roger Federer there is very little that can be done when, most significantly, a tragic injury hampers your progress.
Suddenly your thoughts went back to Wimbledon yesteryear when rackets were wooden but the play certainly wasn't. You remembered the days when there were no chairs in between games and players simply had to wipe off the sweat while standing up. Your mind was cast back to those late evenings in the gloaming when five-set thrillers between Borg and his opponents would last for an eternity. By the end of those games the neutrals were pleading for more and more. But then darkness set in and even the umpires and ballboys were having difficulty in seeing the ball.
The Hall of Fame players were like the sweetest jar of honey with a hint of molasses and cinnamon just to make the occasion even more special. There was the aforementioned Laver, tidy, graceful and wonderfully athletic reaching for shots he had no right to return. There was the extraordinary Ken Rosewall, one of the great technicians of the game, hair always neatly combed, spring heeled and flexible, utterly assured with both forehand and backhand.
And then the 1970s came along and just spoiled us. We weren't expecting this banquet of talent but it came at us relentlessly and aggressively. Jimmy Connors was all attitude, bravery, bolshiness and mischief. Bjorn Borg, the soulful Swede, gave us five Wimbledon victories of effortless ease, swashbuckling assurance and total domination. There were the gallant heroes who just fell short such as Ivan Lendl who never quite made the transition to grass courts. Ilie Nastase had fun and games at the crowd's expense and tomfoolery was never far away. And then there was John Mcenroe, another player who snarled and growled, rebelliousness personified and never short of what seemed like some childish, petulant outburst.
When Mcenroe arrived on Centre Court, barricades, fortresses and protective shields were required but how the Wimbledon loved to hate him, or just adored that explosive temper. Mcenroe won Wimbledon on a number of occasions and even now we can still hear Mcenroe in our dreams, ranting, raving, expostulating and generally kicking up a fuss. Still Wimbledon will always have a place in its hearts for the bad boys, the seemingly objectionable ones who don't know when to stop. A Mcenroe match perhaps carried a Government health warning but how we fell for that naughtiness, that air of anarchy whenever he stepped onto Centre Court.
And so we move back to the Wimbledon men's singles Final and the Roger Federer masterclass for that was the nature of Federer's victory against Marin Cilic. In fact as the match became more of an exhibition with every stroke and every point you thought of the artist's paint brushes or the baton that a conductor uses for the BBC Proms. With every passing minute Cilic began to slowly crumble and crumple, vanishing out of sight and wishing he could have been a thousand miles away from Wimbledon.
Federer began with his usual body language. There were the brief twiddles with his racket, hawklike eyes ready and waiting for the Cilic serve. Federer spent just over an hour, wiping his hands and fiddling nervously with the collar of his shirt or flicking away infuriating beads of sweat from a gently perspiring forehead. Then there was that cruel bombardment of shots. The Ferrer shots. The Ferrer ammunition, that repertoire of artistry, the fluidity of his game, that canvas of beauty that became more and more picturesque as the game moved towards its inevitable conclusion.
Then the shots became harder, more decisive, more punishing, more damaging, more heartless, stronger and then absolutely merciless. There were those mighty, whipped forehands that sailed past Cilic's defences, booming, crashing, thundering, crushing, flying across Cilic like the proverbial missiles. There were the deep forehand returns that were executed with care and precision, the winners down the line that left Cilic almost leaden footed and perplexed. There were the backhands with slice, deceptive spin, shots that seemed to hang in the air and then drop over the net with demoralising frequency.
Once Federer had set himself up for the day Cilic may have been well advised to stay at home and not bother to turn up. When genius and greatness put on their most elegant coats there can be no explanation, discussion or argument. Federer simply tore into Cilic like a tiger attacking its prey, moving easily from one side of the Centre Court and then pulling Cilic from side to side, taunting and wearing his opponent down remorselessly with the speed of his movement and the most velvety touch.
For a man now in his mid-30s Federer simply defies the passage of time, eagerly picking up on his opponents weaknesses and fallibilities with those gorgeous rolls of the wrists. Federer must have the most supple wrists in world tennis and shows no sign of burning himself out. Federer comfortably won the first set 6-3 with the kind of returns of serve that were almost beyond superlatives and adverbs. From the back of the court, Federer simply scurried to finish a stunning cross court forehand. The cross court forehands became a central theme and feature of his game. You could only gasp with wonder at tennis that bordered on perfection. Then you knew that in Roger Federer we were witnessing much more than perfection. Federer was now going through the motions.
By now a sadly injured Cilic had now plausible answer to the powerhouse that was Federer. The shots were whizzing past the Croatian and you were reminded of a man chasing a looming shadow. Apart from one or two moments of occasional resistance from Cilic, the plaster on his ankle became an almost painful metaphor for the match. Sometimes sport can be unfair, a pain in the neck and there are the days when you just want to pack it all in and never pick up a racket again. Poor, traumatised Cilic was now sobbing profusely into his towel knowing that the game was well and truly up. The second set was just devoured by Federer 6-1, who just ripped his opponent's game to shreds.
The third set had by now assumed an air of the Greek tragedy. Cilic was slouching, sullen, helpless, exhausted and the shoulders were now slumped dejectedly. You spend your whole life-time smashing that yellow ball with all your heart, powering and punching the ball vigorously across the net and hoping that after Queens in June, Wimbledon will become your ultimate lifetime achievement. Never for a moment do you think that fate will intervene and a foot injury will hit you on your biggest day. You cry and cry and weep and weep again because nothing has gone according to plan. Never mind Marin Cilic. Your day will come but only if our Andy Murray decides otherwise.
The truth is though that the country that has given us cuckoo clocks, Toblerone chocolate, lovely cheese and that clock in Leicester Square in London's West End, has finally appeared on our sporting consciousness. Yes Switzerland's Roger Federer has notched up his record breaking, phenomenal eighth victory at Wimbledon and nobody can take that away from him. Wimbledon can rarely have produced a more engaging and approachable champion. Federer's relationship with the Wimbledon crowd is well documented but you began to wonder whether the march of time may catch up with him sooner rather than later. When brilliance visits a sporting arena it is time to find that red carpet and make it extremely welcome. The Fed Express is unstoppable.
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