He smiled engagingly, apologised sheepishly when his opponent slipped on the Wimbledon grass and then just got on with the business of just thrashing the man from Italy as if it were just another day at the office. For a while we were just flabbergasted by the brilliance of the man from Switzerland, the classical beauty of his tennis, the almost instinctive genius of the one tennis player whose global renown and lofty stature may never be surpassed.
Roger Federer, for whom Wimbledon may well have become his spiritual home, blew away Matteo Berretini of Italy in a phenomenal, record breaking time of one hour and !4 minutes and by the end of it all even some of Federer's most avid fans must have wondered at the sheer futility of the exercise because some of us might have been inclined to believe that poor Berretini shouldn't have been anywhere near a tennis court. Still, as they say in footballing parlance, you can only beat what's put in front of you and the Italian looked completely out of his depth.
The truth of course is that this was a terrible mismatch and we all know of course what happens to sub standard, inferior tennis players when they meet one of the greatest the sport has ever produced. They look to the skies, look totally bemused and then look for a hole in the ground. At times Federer seemed to simply float and glide through the match, barely breaking sweat for most of it and then treading all over Berretini with Swiss panache, a graceful and gracious sportsman whose nerve and composure on Centre Court will now always bear comparison to that cool Swedish master blaster Bjorn Borg.
With bandana securely plastered on his forehand, towel in hand and an air of almost effortless assurance about him, Federer, tanned and still as a fit as a flea, smoothly strolled out to Centre Court with that understated modesty and a genuine air of humility that has never really left him after all these years. That rather dashing waistcoated track suit may have gone but the flair, the ruthlessness of those all powerful ground strokes and the sheer likeability of the man can never be denied.
Not for the first time there was something very commanding, poised and utterly controlled about the Federer, the most complete Wimbledon champion of champions. There was a quiet charisma about the Swiss legend, a man totally unflustered by world events around him, confident in the belief all the while that nobody should ever have the audacity to beat him at any time in his illustrious career. In fact he may be deeply offended if anybody should ever snatch a point off him at any stage in any match. There is a steeliness about him, a complete detachment from the turmoil around the rest of the courts at Wimbledon.
After a whirlwind first set which lasted 17 minutes, Federer blasted his Italian opponent into outer space with another extraordinary display of power hitting, dynamic cross court winners and the kind of tennis that the likes of Bjorn Borg, John Mcenroe and Jimmy Connors would probably have envied. Then Federer indulged in those glorious party pieces that have now defined him. There was the nervous racket twiddling, the brief bout of shirt tugging, eyes completely focussed, shoulders crouched forward excitedly and then there was the reluctant acknowledgement that there was indeed another man on the other side of the net just waiting to receive a first serve he would never return.
Then there were the punishing forehands, another sequence of whipped shots that arrowed across and beyond Berretini as if Centre Court were some kind of firing range. Federer went through the whole repertoire that almost comes to him as second nature. There were the sliced backhands, the beautifully faded and perfectly executed chip and charges to the net, the bewildering speed off the mark and those ferocious, thumping aces that flew past the Italian with lightning fast rapidity.
But for a man now in his 30s there was the movement and energy of a player who perhaps may be privately contemplating retirement. What is it about Federer that keeps going, keeps embracing the big occasion, keeps coming back for more of the same? Surely it can't be the money, the financial incentive to maintain the standard of living to which his family are now accustomed. But then you glanced across at his immaculately dressed wife and children and knew that the Swiss tennis giant just wants to make them even happier than he already is.
Yet more embarrassment was heaped on Berretini when Federer smashed and demolished the Italian as if he was simply invisible. There was the perfect volleying from preposterous angles, the miraculous returns of serves from the back of the court and the stupendously timed drop shots that almost seemed to creep surreptitiously over the net when least expected. Federer chased everything persistently but then realised that there was no need to because the game was all but over for Berretini. Several Federer backhand volleys almost left the Italian in another postcode.
Finally, there was the declaration of peace and defeat from the Italian. The third set for Berretini almost passed him by, as if he'd just imagined it. There were of course the comical gestures fuelled by the certainty that this was no way of spending a summer's afternoon in South West London. Admittedly he had shamefacedly snatched three points from the match but this was merely a training session for Federer. Perhaps he was saving himself for more taxing assignments or merely looking forward to an early tea.
Once again Wimbledon had offered its paying customers another afternoon of tennis that reached new levels of excellence, tennis of the very highest quality and tennis of sustained attractiveness. When the Pimms, the champagne, the strawberries and cream set had packed away their picnic hampers, the bottles of wine and the traditional fripperies that have always been associated with Wimbledon. we saluted a man who just treated the day as if it was some trivial chore that had to be done. Switzerland have every reason to believe that Federer may just have another trophy on his mind.
Not for the first time there was something very commanding, poised and utterly controlled about the Federer, the most complete Wimbledon champion of champions. There was a quiet charisma about the Swiss legend, a man totally unflustered by world events around him, confident in the belief all the while that nobody should ever have the audacity to beat him at any time in his illustrious career. In fact he may be deeply offended if anybody should ever snatch a point off him at any stage in any match. There is a steeliness about him, a complete detachment from the turmoil around the rest of the courts at Wimbledon.
After a whirlwind first set which lasted 17 minutes, Federer blasted his Italian opponent into outer space with another extraordinary display of power hitting, dynamic cross court winners and the kind of tennis that the likes of Bjorn Borg, John Mcenroe and Jimmy Connors would probably have envied. Then Federer indulged in those glorious party pieces that have now defined him. There was the nervous racket twiddling, the brief bout of shirt tugging, eyes completely focussed, shoulders crouched forward excitedly and then there was the reluctant acknowledgement that there was indeed another man on the other side of the net just waiting to receive a first serve he would never return.
Then there were the punishing forehands, another sequence of whipped shots that arrowed across and beyond Berretini as if Centre Court were some kind of firing range. Federer went through the whole repertoire that almost comes to him as second nature. There were the sliced backhands, the beautifully faded and perfectly executed chip and charges to the net, the bewildering speed off the mark and those ferocious, thumping aces that flew past the Italian with lightning fast rapidity.
But for a man now in his 30s there was the movement and energy of a player who perhaps may be privately contemplating retirement. What is it about Federer that keeps going, keeps embracing the big occasion, keeps coming back for more of the same? Surely it can't be the money, the financial incentive to maintain the standard of living to which his family are now accustomed. But then you glanced across at his immaculately dressed wife and children and knew that the Swiss tennis giant just wants to make them even happier than he already is.
Yet more embarrassment was heaped on Berretini when Federer smashed and demolished the Italian as if he was simply invisible. There was the perfect volleying from preposterous angles, the miraculous returns of serves from the back of the court and the stupendously timed drop shots that almost seemed to creep surreptitiously over the net when least expected. Federer chased everything persistently but then realised that there was no need to because the game was all but over for Berretini. Several Federer backhand volleys almost left the Italian in another postcode.
Finally, there was the declaration of peace and defeat from the Italian. The third set for Berretini almost passed him by, as if he'd just imagined it. There were of course the comical gestures fuelled by the certainty that this was no way of spending a summer's afternoon in South West London. Admittedly he had shamefacedly snatched three points from the match but this was merely a training session for Federer. Perhaps he was saving himself for more taxing assignments or merely looking forward to an early tea.
Once again Wimbledon had offered its paying customers another afternoon of tennis that reached new levels of excellence, tennis of the very highest quality and tennis of sustained attractiveness. When the Pimms, the champagne, the strawberries and cream set had packed away their picnic hampers, the bottles of wine and the traditional fripperies that have always been associated with Wimbledon. we saluted a man who just treated the day as if it was some trivial chore that had to be done. Switzerland have every reason to believe that Federer may just have another trophy on his mind.
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