R for Roger Federer, R for Redemption!

It was pitted as the greatest Grand Slam match of all time. It was built as the greatest Grand Slam final of all time. They even said it had the talent, history, and persona to be the greatest match in history.

The build-up was lionized. Rightly so, it had to be. Records were on the line. So was pride. Comebacks had to be vindicated and withdrawals needed to be justified. The chance to become the greatest player in Brad Gilbert’s list of the best tennis players in history was a greedy incentive as well.

Then again, Brad who?

Nothing else mattered that day. Nothing else could come even remotely close. Presidents could have resigned and aliens could have landed, but nothing would have made the world stop from what it was doing and take notice. Because all eyes were at the Rod Laver Arena where two of the greatest tennis players to have ever graced the court were set to lock horns in yet another engrossing battle.

It was the ninth time that Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal were playing in a Grand Slam final. The first time since the 2011 French Open final and the first time at the Australian Open since the 2009 epic. Nadal was looking to become the first man in the open era to win all four Grand Slams twice. Federer, on the flip side, was looking to be the first man in history to win 5 titles at more than two Grand Slams.

The amount of numbers being flashed on screen was painfully perplexing. The magnanimity with which those numbers were being talked about didn’t help either. This match was that big. It was Federer versus Nadal afterall. The same Federer and Nadal who tore hearts and bored holes in logic when they wrested each other deep into dusk at the 2008 Wimbledon final – The greatest tennis match in history.

Federer, playing his unprecedented 28th Grand Slam final, was cooler than the icy -30 degree celsius winds back home in Switzerland. So cool that during the pre-match photo he had the nerve to ask the mascot whether he was feeling nervous getting his photo clicked? The audacity of that man!

“Are you nervous,” asks Federer?

Umpire James Keothavong looks shocked. The mascot looks bewildered. Federer just smiles. That’s the confidence he has heading into this match. Six months out of action and just one warm-up tournament before Melbourne hasn’t dampened his spirit one bit. If someone gave him a bongo and put him on camera at this very instant, there’s a 90% chance that he would not back away from beating the life out of those things in the same manner in which he beat men half his age en-route to the final.

That’s what makes Federer more than just a player that people support and want to win. It makes him a player that people see themselves in. It makes him a player who connects with them to levels that weren’t palpable before he stepped on the court. This is who he is. This is what he stands for.

He knows that this match could be his last chance ever at a Grand Slam title. This match could be his last shot ever at beating Nadal in a Grand Slam final. Ah Nadal, the arch nemesis. The palladium to my Iron Man. The kryptonite to my Superman. The outside-off ball to my Virat Kohli. The same Nadal who made Federer cry at this very venue after this very match 8 years ago. The same Nadal who hasn’t been able to win another Australian Open title ever since that doomed night in January.

This is Nadal’s 21st Grand Slam final. He’s won 14 of them. He seems to have been stuck there for ages now. Since 2014 actually. Another title would take him above the great Pete Sampras. The same Sampras who couldn’t win on clay and kept winning on grass. The same clay on which Nadal made his legacy and the same grass where Federer has his only Grand Slams final wins (2) against Nadal. Come to think about it, it’s really wondrous how things fall perfectly into place when history comes into play.

“Time,” says the chair umpire.

There’s pin drop silence. Time starts to tick away as the players move to take their positions behind the base line. Tick tick tick. Every second can be heard. All watches synchronized. Time seems to have slowed down. The match hasn’t even started yet. Tick tick tick. Nadal looks up, bounces the ball. Federer looks ready. Then again, he was born ready. He looks possessed. Full passion, full spirit. Finally, Rafa makes a sound. He serves. And that marks the start of a special match. A match that would be talked about 30 years from now. Make that 50. No, make that 100.

This is it. No turning back now. It’s real!

They say greatness doesn’t age. They said right. Federer is 35, Nadal is 30. And they’re still producing greatness out there. This isn’t 2007 anymore. It’s 2017. Yes, time has lapsed. Yes, people have grown. Yes, people move on. Yes, people forget things. But everyone remembers the last time they saw these two stalwarts battle it out on a hard court in a Grand Slam final.

“God, it's killing me,” sniveled Federer that day. He couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t too. There’s nothing more disheartening than too see someone you respect and idolize break apart right in front of your own eyes. Tonight, he would be crying again. Definitely. But it could be for a different reason. Or maybe not.

4-0 down in the second set and Federer is down a double break. He’s already won the first in exemplary manner. Routine stuff for him. Nadal’s just another player out there tonight. Federer’s aggression is ridiculous. Ridiculous for 35-year old father of two sets of twins. But Nadal is in no mood to let this go that easy. He’s roared back in dominating manner. Carlos Moya, the latest addition to the Nadal camp, looks disturbed though. He’s been on the receiving end of Federer’s wrath one too many times. 7 times if memory serves me right. He knows that one can’t take Federer lightly. Not tonight, not any night.

With a chance to take the second set as a bagel, Nadal starts serving to go 5-0 up. But Federer produces some magic that has made him who he is today. 0-30 down Nadal gifts Federer a juicy backhand winner with the court wide open. It’s like gifting a shark a titillating piece of meat in open water. All that needs to be done is to bury the teeth deep inside the flesh and taste the goodness of purity. Only Federer nets his backhand and sends painful shrieks out every household in the world. Meh! Just one of those days.

Nadal takes the second set. He had to win one. Then Federer takes the third. Just a matter of time before the king would finally ascend back to his thrown, I think. Nadal has never beaten Federer after being two sets down. Surely he can’t rewrite history tonight. Especially with so much already on the line.

But then, Nadal takes the fourth set to take this match into a decider. This is getting too close for comfort now. We’re going the distance. And there’s nothing more in this world that can take this away from me now. When you start tweeting about every point, you know greatness is in action. And that’s exactly what these two legends are.

Nadal breaks Federer in the first game of the fifth set. This after the Swiss maestro took an extended medical time-out after the fourth. Damn! How did this happen? This strategy worked wonders against Wawrinka in the semifinal. What went wrong today? Ivan ljubicic is tensed. Federer fans would hope that the sweat on his bald and shiny head would maybe reflect light and cause a distraction for Nadal. Hey, anything at this point to make Federer win. All is fair, right?

But that doesn’t happen. Nadal races to a 3-0 lead. He can smell it. It’s that close for him. Mirka Federer looks unimpressed. She’s calm as a mountain here. She’s been through too many of these nerve-wrecking moments to lose her composure. She knows what’s about to happen. She smiles, she’s ready!

Down 3-1 in the decider, with his legs rickety and already treated twice by the doctors, Federer decides to rally on. Swaying along the edge of disaster, he produces pristine winners that changes the course of the match. His forehand has been a disaster tonight. But he’s made up for that with his legendary backhands. A backhand so flawless that it makes people reach for cushions to keep under their jaws, which would otherwise break after dropping down with mesmerizing awe.

It’s match point now for Federer. Scratch that. It’s championship point. Nadal’s already saved a couple of them. Damn his defiance. But the Spanish matador’s only delaying the inevitable. It’s just a matter of time before the truth hits everyone. Federer serves. That serve that’s troubled thousands. Nadal returns. Federer’s already at the net. Serve and volley 101. He volleys the ball for a crushing winner. He raises his hand in disbelief. The crowd starts to go wild. I almost throw the remote in jubilation. But wait. What’s happening? Nadal’s challenged the call. Hawkeye time. He’s still trying to delay the inevitable.

Damn, his defiance!

Federer was a break down when the world lost hope, but he believed. Everyone thought that he had left the arena, but he stuck around. Everyone had written him off after the fourth set, but he seemed to be writing his own script. Everyone thought that he didn’t have it in him to reach another Grand Slam final, let alone winning one. But, he came, he saw, he fought, and then finally he got that ‘Number 18.’

"Tennis is a tough sport. There are no draws. If there were, I would have been happy to accept one and share it with Rafa,” said Federer during his victory ceremony.

Sorry Roger! No turning back now. It’s real.

The Bold, The Brave, The Beautiful

The year, 1986

“Good morning, gentlemen. The temperature is 110 degrees.”

“Holy shit, it's Viper!”

“Great, he's probably saying, "Holy shit, it's Maverick and Goose."

Tom Cruise in the movie Top Gun played the role of a nonconformist, free spirit pilot. Such was his aura that his call-sign ‘Maverick’ became an instant hit with eccentric souls worldwide.

People wanted to dress like him. People wanted to walk like him. People wanted to talk like him. Heck people even wanted to cry like him. Girls loved him. Guys idolized him. He was probably the first man to defy the rules and follow something as ‘petty’ as his instincts. Atleast that’s what the world thought.

He wanted to be everywhere. He wanted to do everything. Best of all, he wanted to be seen doing it as well. His decisions irked people. His results pissed them further. But in the end it was his charismatic demeanor that made him stand tall. He wanted people to follow him. To be drawn to his persona.

The audacity of that guy!

The year, 1997

Max Verstappen is born.

The year, 2016

“Jesus Christ! And you think I’m reckless. When I fly, I’ll have you know that my crew and my plane come first.”

Verstappen seemed inconsolable following his team Toro Rosso’s decision to not let him pass teammate Carlos Sainz Jr. on the grid. ‘Strategic decision,’ they said. ‘Stifling character,’ they never said.

For someone who’s just 18 years old (2 of which have been in Formula 1), it was indeed unbelievable. Why wouldn’t they let him fly? Was it because of his age? Maybe! Was it because of his boldness? Let’s hope not. Or maybe it was because they wouldn’t let him have a driver’s license till last year.

It’s true. Max’s father had to drive him to work in a car just so that Max could race in one. Imagine a father driving his own son to a Grand Prix where he could race in a 300 kmph supersonic speed-craft so mercurial that one can experience the line where life meets death.

Seems twisted, doesn’t it? Not to the Verstappen household apparently.

Max Verstappen was taught how to drive before he could walk. His foot would fit an accelerator much better than it would fit into a new shoe. He could put a car into reverse in his sleep and his steering wheel maneuvering prowess would have saved the Titanic from those freaking icebergs.

But who cares about that anyway? Rules are rules, right?

A team is always supposed to favour their No. 1 driver. Schumacher over Barrichello, Alonso over Fisichella, Vettel over Webber, Hamilton over Rosb…. Ahem, excuse me!

Carlos Sainz Jr. is Toro Rosso’s No. 1 driver. He drives safe races. All energy and effort needs to be put in helping him thrive. Not only that, Sainz also outranks Verstappen. Not just in terms of age, but also in terms of “Dad Experience”. Sainz Sr. trumps Verstappen Sr. and therefore the same rule will be applicable to their sons as well.

Wait. No. That’s not right!

If anything Sainz Sr. never even drove in Formula 1. Verstappen Sr. on the other hand has 2 podium finishes. Also, did I write Sainz Jr. drives safe races before? That would have been an amazing asset had we been handing out trophies to just finish races.

While one can’t argue that Sainz Jr. is definitely more ‘safe’ when it comes redeeming those no claim bonuses on car insurance, Verstappen is subliminally more supreme in all senses. His driving is as serene as the clicking sound a seat belt makes when things fall into place.

It’s bold, it’s brave, it’s just that damn beautiful!

No offense to Sainz Jr., but when a team such as Toro Rosso, which seems to always be in the shadows of big brother Red Bull, is given minimal resources then one just does not have options other than firing all cylinders.

Case Point – United States Grand Prix 2015

“You’re everyone’s problem. That’s because every time you fly, you’re unsafe. I don’t like you because you’re dangerous.”

“That’s right, Iceman! I am dangerous.”

For those who are regulars on the circuit, it is a well-known fact that one just does not mess with Kimi Raikkonen. After all they call him the ‘Iceman’ for a reason. He is a stone cold driver and can scorch even a wet track beyond recognition. Everyone fears him. Everyone bows down to him. People assemble at his behest.

Everyone except Max Verstappen!

Verstappen, racing for the first time ever in Austin, seems cool. He’s calm, he’s composed, and he’s all over Raikkonen. For a circuit as erratic as the Circuit of the Americas Max has everything in control. Sushine? Check. Rain? Check. Pitstops? Check. Tyre management? Check. Fending the iceman? Check.

For the last 5 turns Kimi has put up failed attempts to overtake Verstappen. Kimi tries the outside route at turn 7. He knows that it’s a long shot. But he sees an opening. Max, however, is too fast to block him. Too fast for a minnow like Toro Rosso. Why doesn’t he fly like that all the time? How’s he doing that?

Turn 8 up next. This is it, thinks the Finn. He tries the inside route now. He implements a textbook maneuver to shove that pesky rookie off track. But Max won’t be shoved around. He might be a rookie, but he’s pulling off blinders on those hairpin turns. It’s as orgasmic as watching Kohli hit a cover drive.

Turn 9 sees Kimi make up some ground. He’s back on the outside though. A natural disadvantage for drivers. But not for him. He’s used to these situations. He’s the king afterall. These jesters stand no chance of withstanding the wrath, fury, and sorcery of the iceman. Something is up, it’s a trap!

For the next three turns Kimi stays on the outside. He’s not doing much it seems. He’s waiting for the 0.62-mile stretch between turns 11 and 12. This is more than just racing now. This is dogfighting at its best. Like a cheetah skillfully prowls in the bush waiting for its prey, Kimi has set Max up beautifully.

Time for DRS to do its thing. Zoom go the cars. Just a matter of time before the rookie is shown his rightful place. If this was some other driver, he would have stopped the car by now, turned off the engine, prepared a speech on Kimi’s greatness, and then probably retired from racing.

However, good ol’ Max had other plans.

He sees what’s happening. He’s on top of it. He read Kimi. He read the iceman. This isn’t natural. This is something new. Is this even possible? Three-fourths of the stretch and a full DRS later Kimi is still on Max’s tail. This is unconstitutional. This is tyranny. This is supersonic evasion. Why won’t he fly again?

“You were in a four G inverted dive with a MIG-28?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

“Lieutenant, what were you doing there?”

“Communicating. Keeping up the foreign relations. Giving him the bird.”

“So, you’re the one?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

If Max Verstappen’s repulse against former world champion Kimi Raikkonen was not a racing equivalent of showing him the finger then what happened a minute later at turn 12 definitely was. Kimi has had enough. He’s completely weathered. This is unchartered territory for him. It should be the other way.

He tries too hard to overtake and BOOM! Wheels bang, wings break, gravel flies, and Raikkonen finds himself beside a barricade. How did this happen? Well atleast it’s over. The dogfight has finally ended. There was no winner. There won’t be any awkward glances in the pits now. The pride is still intact.

If only!

Raikkonen looks up to steal a glimpse at Verstappen. It would be good to see the spoils of the enemy war craft. Only Max isn’t there. He’s nowhere. Nowhere in near sight. Wait, where is he again? He’s driving an impeccable race enroute to finishing fourth on the grid. World champions for breakfast!

‘Max’imum power, ‘Max’imum brutality!

The season-opening Australian Grand Prix too had its share of ‘maximum power’ moments. From ripping the qualifying session apart to stalling two-time defending world champion Lewis Hamilton during the main race. Max was everywhere. Max was what made sense.

Four laps to go in the first race of the season. Max is right on Sainz Jr.’s tail now. He’s burning more rubber every second than ever before. Maximum force, maximum power indeed. He’s on fire, atleast figuratively! Toro Rosso has been fitted with last year’s Ferrari engines. This is not the time to play it safe. This is not the time to go for that single point.

“Tower, this is Ghostrider. Requesting a fly-by.”

“Negative Ghostrider! The pattern is full.”

Sainz Jr. seems to be winning this war against Max without even participating in it. Verstappen can’t believe it. He knows he has a better chance than his teammate to overtake the Renault in front of them. But right now he’s been told to hold back his position.

Three laps left. Why wouldn’t they let him fly?

He’s spun. Max has just clipped Sainz Jr. on the back. Disaster has struck. The boss will be angry. Sainz Jr. races away. There’s no damage to his car. Max, on the other hand, has just effectuated a doughnut. Round and round and round he goes. Maximum power, maximum frustration, maximum doughnuts!

“I’m losing control. I can’t control it.”

“Mayday, Mayday!”

There we have it. That answers the question. He’s still too young. He’s still too immature. He should have just listened. He could have bagged an easy point. Now he’s losing seconds. Sainz Jr. has taken a 4-second lead over his teammate now. Make that 5 seconds. Now 6. There’s no coming back. Just two laps left and a healthy lead. Time to think of a good excuse and hit the showers a little early.

But wait a minute. What’s happening?

Who’s that behind Sainz Jr.? Surely it can’t be him. But it is. It’s him. He’s back. He’s flying. He’s reduced the lead back to 1 second. How is this happening? Is this for real? How could he have gained so much so soon? Maybe Sainz Jr. slowed down. Are we sure that his car wasn’t affected? No, his car escaped unscathed from that collision. The lead’s now less than 1 second. It’s the final lap. Can he? Will he?

“Damn, this kid is good..”

Why ‘SanTina’ is not a Fluke!

“Our fairy tale continues…”

Following the Australian Open victory, Martina Hingis chose these words when asked to describe her prodigious partnership with Sania Mirza. Needless to say, she said it all, she said it right!

There’s something really defining about this merger. It’s quick enough to draw attention, intriguing enough to watch, charismatic enough to enthrall, and mesmerizing enough to make people gasp for breath. It’s kind of like a modern-day fusion between old-school dexterity and new-age audacity.

It’s solid, it’s stellar, and it just works!

Sania Mirza and Martina Hingis have been through a lot in life. They’ve basked in the glory of eminence and have scuffled with the horrors of society. They’ve scaled the peaks of success and have struggled with the dooms of failure. They’ve learnt the meaning of the phrase “Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” the hard way and have learnt to take things in their stride. Which is why when we combine the two, we get an impeccable combination that just cannot stop winning.

Till now, their staggering run includes a world record 36-match winning streak, has seen them win 12 titles (including 8 in a row), and has seen them bring home a hat-trick of Grand Slams. Compared to the 2014 season where each won just 3 titles with their respective partners, ‘SanTina’ indeed has enjoyed a fairy tale run.

However, with great power comes great responsibility!

While the exploits of Sania and Hingis have made them the top doubles pair in the world right now, the flip side states that the pair also has a bullseye on their heads as the prime target to take down. Andrea Hlavackova and Lucie Hradecka did come close to ‘dethroning’ the Indo-Swiss duo but could not get the job done. In reality, though, it might be quite some time before someone actually breaches the defense.

It’s not that Sania and Hingis are unbeatable to such an extent that it will take someone pulling off a “Djoker” to beat them; it’s that they’re so unmatched in terms of conviction and self-belief that beating them right now is next to impossible. The aura that they possess is something that many have tried and failed to achieve and their unique ability to complete each other’s game is beyond legendary.

Sania has power, Hingis has finesse. Sania has a forehand, Hingis has a lob. Sania has charm, Hingis has grace. It all complements each other so well that the points just beg to be taken away. The chemistry that they share is appealingly pure and it shows not just when they play but when they talk as well.

Their philosophy is pretty simple. They come, they play, they win. Period! They keep it meek and rely on their instincts. Instincts so adept that one just can’t help admiring the genius in them. They win matches on the court and they win hearts off it. Purely because they are that damn good!

Haters will always try to find reasons to hate them, but they won’t find any. Adversaries will always try to find chinks in their armour, but they won’t find many. Critics will write nonsense just because they need something to do, however SanTina is like a force that will just keep rolling through!

People need to understand that SanTina is not a fluke. They’re not even close. They’re not even in the same room were fluke stays. Unless of course the definition of fluke is a group of individuals who exploit their talents to the best of their abilities in order to get aboard a juggernaut that just thunders through and tramples anything and everything in its path. Then maybe!

In reality tough, they’re just an awesome amalgamation of skill, flair and poise. For their good and for ours as well, let’s hope that no one comes even remotely close to derailing their winning bandwagon. They give us something pretty to watch and something pristine to follow. The tennis fraternity owes them big time for their contribution towards the sport.

Sania was recently conferred with the NDTV Sportsperson of the Year award where she said, “If in a billion people a few thousand don’t like you, it doesn’t matter.”

Game, set and match Mirza on that one.

My dream, as a sports enthusiast, is to have a society where people cherish the immense sacrifices that Sania Mirza and Martina Hingis have made rather than just keeping talking about their past.

My dream, as a sports enthusiast, is to have a society where people respect Sania Mirza and Martina Hingis for what they have achieved rather than go out of their way to find flaws and bog them down.

And finally my dream, as a sports enthusiast, is to have a society where people feel proud of Sania Mirza and Martina Hingis for their never-say-die attitude in life irrespective of their winning streak.

Maybe one day. Maybe someday!

Djokovic Rules, but Stan’s the Man!

The mood was set, the ambience was lit and the Philippe-Chatrier court was buzzing with excitement. For only the second time in 10 years would the prestigious Roland Garros be devoid of a certain Matador contesting in the final. His conqueror, Novak Djokovic, though was all set to script history.

Who is Novak Djokovic, you ask? Novak Djokovic is a beast, I reply.

He’s so much of a beast that the name “Djoker” does not suit him anymore. He’s dead serious on court, there’s no room for recreation and a lapse in work ethic is frowned upon by him. Gone are the days when a match was followed by an ebullient episode of mimicry. Gone are the grins, gone are the smirks!

It’s all down to brass tacks nowadays with him and his jovial smile seems to have lost its melodic charm.

At the other end is Stanislas Wawrinka. Who is Stan, you ask? Stan’s the man, I reply. Period!

All eyes are on this match. Mostly to see 8-time Grand Slam champion Djokovic complete his career Grand Slam. Roland Garros is the only tournament missing from his prodigious portfolio and what better way to get it than to tame the king of clay en route to it. Rafael Nadal fell to Djokovic’s wrath in the quarterfinal. Andy Murray was a victim in the semifinal. Who finer than Djokovic to win this one?

As Novak warms up on the court, we get to see the graphic on screen that shows his achievements during the year. Australian Open, Indian Wells, Miami, Monte Carlo, Rome. Too much of text to fit in one small aston on screen. Almost taunting the opponent in the most intimidating manner, it seems.

Then comes Wawrinka’s graphic. Chennai Open and Rotterdam. That’s it! Reaching the French Open final was a brilliant way to mark his erratic year. Winning it would be a dream come true for the Swiss.

Wawrinka did lose to Djokovic in the Australian Open semifinal earlier this year - a match that truly tested the fortitude of both players. However, today was a chance to negate the Melbourne heartache and scribble some Paris ecstasy. To do so, Wawrinka would have to derail the Serbian juggernaut.

“Time,” says the chair umpire and both players head towards their respective ends. The people at the court for the first time ever are not sure who to support. The last time when Nadal missed out, the crowd knew who they were backing. But, today, they’re torn! June 7th was the day in 2009 and June 7th is the day today. Federer completed his career Grand Slam that day. Would it be Djokovic’s turn today?

The second point of the first game shows a glimpse of what both players are made of. A 39-stroke daunting rally gets the 2015 final underway and promises some heart-stopping action in the sets to follow. Consistency is what made Djokovic who he is today and he displays a fine sense of flawless forehands. Wawrinka, meanwhile, just proves that he is an epitome of power-packed precision.

An unlucky error from Wawrinka gives Djokovic the break who then serves out the first set. He tries hard not to smile. “Not yet,” he thinks. Coach Boris Becker, whose immense aura has transformed an artist formerly known as ‘Djoker’ into an exhibit of beastly immorality, agrees. There still is a lot left to do.

15-40 in the second game of the second set and Djokovic was set to break Wawrinka early. The concealed smile on the Serb’s face was as revealing as the red clay on court. Grand Slam number nine was in reckoning. More importantly, Djokovic could smell the shoal of legends he would be a part of.

But little did Djokovic know that he would be smiling for a whole different reason 14 games later.

Never before has it happened that Djokovic has been on the receiving end of himself. But it was happening suddenly in front of the capacity crowd in Paris. Not only were Stan Wawrinka’s one-handed backhands ‘orgasmically’ scintillating, but they were also infringing Djokovic’s consistency with ease.

At 4-5 in the second, Djokovic starts to serve to stay in the set. Seemed like a pretty ordinary thing to do at the time. But Wawrinka was in no mood to let this one go the distance. Being 30-0 up, Djokovic throws the ball in the air and connects well. He feels good. His mind tells him “Good serve. Now rush to the net to finish this one off.” Djokovic does that only to be slapped in the face with a colossal backhand down the line.

“It’s ok. There’s still time to regroup,” thinks Djokovic. He serves again and this time Wawrinka’s stunning forehand down the line triggers Djokovic’s earthward plummet. “Bring it on,” murmurs Stan to himself. A jittery Becker adjusts himself in his seat. Things just got serious. It’s often a case of one big game that turns a match around and Becker somehow knows that this is that game for the Swiss.

In no time it’s set point for Wawrinka. After a rally that seemed to be ongoing till eternity, Djokovic finally hits his shot long. “What?” Djokovic asks himself while he tries to put up a show by spinning his racquet. Becker couldn’t help but stare helplessly into the abyss of oblivion.

Wawrinka turns back and looks towards his coach Magnus Norman. He points a finger to his head almost in a manner to acknowledge an intellectual regime that outsmarted the World No. 1 in stupendous manner. This was tennis at its cognitive best and no one could have executed it better.

To beat a person as grand as Novak Djokovic, one needs to fashion a strategy that is indeed very special. Of the three matches that Djokovic has lost this year, all came to men with one-handed backhands. Not only does that shot constrict the genius of Djokovic’s concrete defensive tactics, but it also creates an angle that is unmatched in supremacy if effectuated perfectly. And that is exactly what Wawrinka did!

Wawrinka’s “Come Awwnn” chants were beginning to get on Djokovic’s nerves. It was more than just a chant now. It was sheer passion. This is what a sport that is so close to one’s heart does to you. One could get the sense that deep down Djokovic knew that Wawrinka was unstoppable as everything that the Serb was throwing was being returned with unrivalled precision.

Drop shots were being destroyed with devious deft, forehands were being barraged with piercing backhands and future tennis players were being given a new video to learn the immaculate execution of a “down-the-line” shot. 14 games after the second game of the second set the smile on Djokovic’s face was back.

Only this time he knew that it was over. He knew that his dream was shattered.

Stanislas Wawrinka simply overpowered World No. 1 Novak Djokovic at the Roland Garros. That’s a line that has never been used against the 8-time Grand Slam champion.

Never!

Wawrinka did to Djokovic what the Serb has been doing to the world as of late. The 2014 Australian Open champion dictated points in a manner that even the great Roger Federer would be proud of. Being powerful and consistent is what lifted Djokovic to the pinnacles of success, but little did the world know that Wawrinka would exploit the same qualities to push the great man to the brink of a total blackout.

One can’t say that Djokovic did not deserve the Roland Garros title. In fact, the prowess of skill and constancy that he has displayed this year can still make him one of the greatest of all times. Unfortunately for him, Wawrinka was unreal and disturbingly good on Djokovic’s most important day.

In 2005, Djokovic was playing in a meager qualifying tournament for the Australian Open and Wawrinka won the Boy’s title at Roland Garros. 10 years later while Djokovic is a beast winning the Australian Open title for the 5th time, Wawrinka, in one of the greatest finals in French Open history, proved that Stan’s the Man!

Things will never be Red again!

“You always remember your first. But no one ever talks about their last. The last time you lace up your boots. The last time you walk out the tunnel. The last time you celebrate with your fans. I’ve always given everything. Every season. Every game. Every minute. I’ll do that one last time.”

It’s a day that everyone knew was coming. But no one quite knew how to prepare for it. Of course there was the traditional celebration planned - the guard of honour, enormous banners, colossal posters, strategic synchronization of placards, etc. But nothing could give justice when it came to commemorating the career of a staunch superstar.

Nothing could come even remotely close.

After 17 years, 708 games, 185 goals and 10 trophies, Steven Gerrard was set to make his 354th and final Anfield appearance. Tears would flow. Emotions would flare. And of course, a crucial link between Liverpool and its past would be severed. A link so priceless that even the Koh-I-Noor diamond seemed insignificant in front of it.

As the players lined up in the tunnel before the match, one couldn’t help but notice that there wasn’t a speck of emotion on Gerrard’s face. The intensity in his eyes looked the same as any other week. Those eyes locked tightly on the wall in front and the mind tearing apart the game plan for the match. Whether it was an inconsequential Premier League match or the second leg of the Champions League semifinal, the vigour in those eyes never diminished.

Only today was the last time ever.

Today was Gerrard’s day. It was a day when the whole world would acknowledge his immense contributions to the club where he grew up to be a legend. But that surely did not mean that a compromise was in store when it came to beating Crystal Palace. Work came first. The club came first.

As always!

Both teams, sans Gerrard, made their way out to the field. Good ol’ Stevie stayed behind. Not because he wanted to, but because he was told to. He takes this time to click some final photos with his daughters in front of the Liverpool badge. Perhaps the last time at Anfield the girls would see their Dad in the full red suit of armour.

So red that it was hard to tell whether the colour was from the dye or from his heart bleeding.

Day in and day out Gerrard has bled the kind of red that epitomizes Liverpool Football Club and all that it stands for. You cut his veins and you won’t find the conventional red. You’ll find Liverpool red. The kind of red that radiates the essence of love and endearment towards the fans, the club and the game itself!

The announcer finally says those two magical words that send the crowd in frenzy. “Steven Gerrard!” Gerrard walks down the steps amidst roars of applause and while walking out touches the “This is Anfield” sign - a momentous gesture that means the world to him. Something he does every time he walks out. Something that has been ingrained in him like a flashy black tattoo on white skin!

Only today was the last time ever.

For close to two decades Gerrard has been a wizard living among less-blessed mortals. True that his final season in the Premier League hasn’t been  one to remember him by, but the Kop knows that he needs to be “judged” for the blood he’s shed for 17 years rather than just a couple of unfortunate seasons.

There have been numerous instances when it was Gerrard’s sheer tenacity to not accept defeat that lifted the Reds from the abyss of annihilation to the pinnacles of prestige. Olympiakos, Istanbul, West Ham to name a few! But instances like the infamous slip that cost Liverpool the Premier League title and the red card after just 38 seconds against Manchester United nonetheless have really dented his image.

Meanwhile, Gerrard walks out to the Anfield turf amid a guard of honour. Only last week was he giving one to champions Chelsea at Stamford Bridge. It must feel awkward to him to change sides in just a week’s time. His youngest daughter, in his arms, covers her ears with both hands to shield herself from the deafening roar that engulfs the stadium. A roar so loud that it would even give the mighty Super Bowl the blushes!

The fans always have something or the other to cheer about when it comes to Steven Gerrard. They always appreciate the precision that he demonstrates with his passing. They always applaud the aggression that he exhibits when playing rivals. They go ballistic when he scores those incredible screamers. And they always have found a suitable reason to make their captain courageous feel special.

Only today was the last time ever.

Gerrard’s life can be looked upon as a constant struggle to overcome obstacles and being prepared for whatever strange bounces life threw his way. He might not have been an emperor at Anfield, but during his time there he truly proved that he was without shadow of a doubt worthy of being called one.

He belongs to a rare clan of footballers who have proved that, despite the impediments, they have what it takes to get the job done. He has proved that not only does he thrive at every challenge thrown his way but that those challenges made him better than if he had never faced any adversity at all.

As the game progressed, nearly after 30 minutes of play, Adam Lallana’s eyes scanned the whole stadium. He knew what he was looking for; it’s just that he couldn’t find it. The ex-Southampton winger had just scored Liverpool’s opening goal and was now looking for Gerrard to celebrate it with. Probably doing his bit to honour a legend from whom he draws inspiration. Gerrard couldn’t be more jubilant.

For years Anfield has seen the influx and exodus of footballers who have played with Gerrard and have celebrated goals together. They know that he is never shy to celebrate a goal. He’s never under the pressure to think about the consequences of an erratic celebration. The camera-kiss at Old Trafford created quite a stir, but who cares. He’s always the first to celebrate with his teammates at Anfield.

Only today was the last time ever.

Gerrard might not be the greatest ever Red to have graced the footballing fraternity. But there truly was no one more passionate than him. He could have abandoned us for another team just for the sake of laurels and glory. But just like a true gentleman who never deserts her lady, Stevie chose otherwise.

When it came to hunger towards playing the game, there was no one better than him. When it came to undying dedication towards the club, there was no one better than him. Steven Gerrard was the heart of the team. He was the glue that held everything together. Things made sense when he was on the field. A match was never over until it was over when he was on the field. No one counted us out when he was on the field and no one, no matter how big, dared to write us off when he was on the field.

Things at Anfield will never be the same because Gerrard will never walk that tunnel again. Things abroad will never be the same because Gerrard will never deliver us from doom again. Things in the dressing room will never be the same because Gerrard will never give a pep talk again. Things at Melwood will never be the same because Gerrard will never train there again.

And lastly, but most importantly, it’s sad to come to terms with the fact that things at Liverpool Football Club will never be ‘Red’ going further because Steven Gerrard will never bleed his heart out for us again!

Man for All Teams, Man for All Seasons!

It’s a rowdy evening at the Stamford Bridge stadium where the clock has just stuck the 90-minute mark. The wind blows gently as Eden Hazard looks at the giant screen at the corner and sees 2 minutes come on as stoppage time. The Blues have been “boringly” shielding their 1-0 lead ever since half-time and it’s now just a matter of time before the club celebrates its fourth Premier League title in 11 years.

It was only logical that Hazard, Premier League’s best player this season, scored the winning goal that would gift Chelsea what would be termed by pundits as the dawn of a new “old era” under their prodigal son Jose Mourinho. The confetti is about to engulf the pitch. The same pitch that strived endlessly to see a league title celebration before the “special one” turned the club’s fortunes in 2004.

The crowd is going wilder by the second. The pre-party jollifications seem to have started quite some time before the final whistle has actually blown. Jose, in a move termed as “spite” by foes, chooses this moment to take Hazard off to a resounding ovation. It’s only natural! Hazard deserves every bit of it.

“Another ploy from Jose to waste time,” I think. “This is going to rob the Eagles those precious seconds to equalize,” adds the Liverpool freak in me. Maybe! But then again, who was I kidding? If not today, Chelsea would have won the title next week - the weekend when they play the Reds at home. I don’t think I had it in me to see Chelsea win “something” at our “slipping” expense two times in a row.

The truth is, however, Chelsea have had a solid season and downrightly deserve all the glory. They’ve led from start to finish and never showed even remote signs of slowing down. They’ve had starlets in every department and a skipper whose stellar persona is something that every club and fan envies.

Back at the Bridge, eyes were fixated more on the referee than on the action on the field. In this case referee Kevin Friend’s whistle is getting all the attention. In a move that some think to be ridiculously unpardonable, Friend teases the fans by taking the whistle to his mouth and then back down. He gives a smile to reiterate that while they might be winning the title, he’s still the law. Truly Webb-esque my Friend!

Chelsea’s legendary striker Didier Drogba can’t help but laugh thinking about the journey that he’s had with the club. After he grabbed them by the throat on a zealous May evening at the Allianz Arena and hoisted them to their first ever Champions League title, the striker just like the club has had an erratic journey. However, despite the ups and downs Drogba is back where he belongs – among winnings ways!

Finally Friend takes the whistle to his mouth. Even though it was just the one whistle whose “tweet” had the power to end the match, the fans had other ideas. In an act of staggering unison some 40,000 whistles tweet at the same time thereby ending a four-year wait for the prominent Premier League title.

All I could see next was a barrage of confetti covering the air above and a horde of players running amok on the ground below. It had finally happened. With three games left, the Blues had sealed the title. It was a time to celebrate. It was time to freak out. It was time to shut the critics up. And most importantly, it was time for “boring ol’ Chelsea” to party like compelling champions.

Only, one man had other ideas!

Amidst the entire hullabaloo, a reporter somehow manages to get hold of Chelsea skipper John Terry for a candid one-on-one. After the procedural questions and the diplomatic responses, Terry says something that might be etched in the hearts of every football fanatic for a long time to come.

“I would like, on behalf of myself and everyone at Chelsea, to send our condolences to Rio Ferdinand and his family.”

Almost immediately, in one of those impulsive spine-chilling moments, Terry managed to add yet another fruitful dimension to his glittery persona that makes him one those few stars that teams would pay millions to have in their ranks. Not just because of the immense talent that he possesses, but because of the manner in which he perceives the beautiful game and gives it his all in playing it.

For a team like Chelsea whose dominating presence can be “villainous” at times, John Terry is one of those few indispensable valiant knights who will always rescue the club from being inundated by undesirable mirages. Because no matter how much one hates Chelsea or loathes their Russian moolah, one just can’t hate a player like Terry who will embody true competitive spirit till the end of time.

Having the highest scoring defender in Premier League history in their ranks is without doubt a matter of great pride for Chelsea; however, to have a rugged stalwart like him, whose irrefutable dedication towards his club and job is the stuff that legends are made of, is truly what they can bet their fortunes on.

From literally taking a boot to the head in an FA Cup tie to making a silly penguin dive at the international circuit, Terry’s commitment when it comes to keeping the ball out of his keeper’s reach is a remarkable example of unquestionable diligence. Time and again Terry’s perseverance has been tested to the core, but his unequivocal ability to “fly mask” the trauma and play the game is what matters the most to him.

His passion to give it his best has driven him to play every minute of every game for Chelsea this season and has reaped valuable results as well. Come to think about it, John Terry is an epitome of “doing-what-you-love-and-let-the-results-do-the-talking” quite simply because of his impetuous instinct.       

Captaining a team to four Premier League titles not only consolidates his position as one of most influential players of all time, but also puts his critics in their place. What Rafael Benitez and I have in common, other than being Liverpool fans, is that we both thought Terry was done and dusted in 2013. However, from that time, Terry has roared back into the thick of things in unimpeachable manner and his prime touch makes him one of the greatest English defenders of all time to have surged out.

With the whole Anton Ferdinand saga and the Wayne Bridge fiasco under his belt, John Terry clearly does not have the best of images in the eyes of people. But it’s at times like these that a player should be judged for his knack and on-field performances rather than events that make for good theatrics.

Whether it’s those notorious chants against their own or that applaud that honours their special ones, the crowd at Stamford Bridge always has something or the other to cheer about. But the chant that will matter the most for times immemorial is the one cherishing the heart of their team. It’s the chant that signifies the heroics of their stoic leader. The chant that taunts the world that the man for all teams and the man for all seasons is and forever will be a “Blue Baron”.

Haters Going to Hate, Players Going to Play!

Sania Mirza just cannot stop winning. The past one year has been a testament of her talent and, keeping in mind the events that have rocked the tennis fraternity, if she was a game show host then she would by now be pointing towards a fanciful door on a pretense set shouting “all Sania haters, come on down.”

 She would be laying down the red carpet on the choppy Indian roads and be personally handing out “Who’s your daughter-in-law?” pamphlets to all those who doubted her and never believed that she could be where she is today – touching the pinnacles of success and that too with unmatched charisma!

Instead, Sania has let her racquet do all the talking, has made her country touch the heights of glory and is now almost on the verge of becoming the first ever Indian woman to scale the world no. 1 rank in tennis.

All this despite being looked down upon with judgmental eyes and being let down one too many times!

Don’t get me wrong but our country is never supportive when it comes to underperforming athletes, especially women. What good is a floundering Sania Mirza when we’ve had the audacity to make a certain Sachin Tendulkar endure ignominious headlines like ‘Endulkar’? What good is her undying dedication when we’ve had people question the heart that Baichung Bhutia put into the game?

From the infamous ‘Jama Masjid’ controversy to her ‘legs pointing towards the Indian flag’ fiasco to the ridiculous ‘cannot play wearing shirts and skirts’ claptrap, Sania has been amidst the center of storm far too many times. However, what’s even more baffling is the appalling fact that she never gets the credit she deserves when she manages to weather that same storm through her wondrous achievements.

True that she’s had her share of controversies and has let her emotions get the better of her at times, but let’s be honest that the flame in her when it comes to playing the sport she loves, for the country her heart thrives for, is truly beyond doubt inextinguishable and essentially the only thing that matters

Ever since Mr. Laxman’s invigorating comments, Sania’s bandwagon has been on an impressive roll showing no signs of derailment whatsoever. For India’s good, let’s hope it stays on that path for a long time. Apart from being runners-up in 2014 at Indian Wells, Canada and China, she won the US Open, the WTA Championships and helped India bag a bronze and a gold medal at the Commonwealth Games.

On the contrary, many think that the reason for her recent success on the circuit is Mr. Laxman. Now I understand that coming from a country that is dramatically ruled by the “chutzpah” of a certain organization called “Bollywood,” majority would be inclined towards that explanation. However, if I may be allowed to shatter this whole idiotic fabrication, Sania Mirza has always been one great tennis player.

The fact that she has represented us internationally for so long consistently only speaks volumes of the talent that she possesses. This after the sore fact that our country boasts of a population of 1.2 billion. Not only has Sania Mirza been India’s face globally when it comes to women’s tennis, but she must also be given credit for putting us on the map.

So to all those haters, who have nothing better to do than just submerge her in their bucketload of nonsense, it’s time to come out and smell the sweet aroma of your own foot lying deep inside your own mouth. It’s time to show some appreciation towards a world class tennis player rather than just sit back and wait for her to mess up and then trash her. Because no matter how positive we say we are, we have to come to terms with the ugly truth that it might actually be quite some time before we could have the privilege of walking tall among the tennis powerhouses.

Hence, if you want to judge her then judge her by her immense forehand and not by the legs that she displays while sporting a skirt on the court. A forehand so strong by the way that even the great Serena Williams had trouble braving her adroitness on a sunny afternoon at the Rod Laver Arena.

If you want to judge her, then judge her by her immaculate on-court presence of mind and not by her off-court marriage to another human being. A mind so technically sound when it comes to tennis acumen that hitting a deft drop shot even made his majesty Roger Federer stand back and applaud.

If you want to judge her then judge her by her prodigious baseline angles and not by the fact that she likes to click selfies and upload them on Instagram every now and then. Some angles so acute that even the best of the best – Swiss legend Martina Hingis – could not help but appreciate the genius in her.

If you want to judge her then judge her by her phenomenal winners and not by useless nugatory comments that she made on ‘safe sex’. Winners that are so staggering in execution that Svetlana Kuznetsova was left stunned in the middle of Wimbledon’s prestigious center court.

And finally, if you want to call her names, then call her by her own one and not by farcical slangs that disrespect her. Because quite frankly the name “Sania Mirza” says it all and is just that damn good!