Tennis' Symphonic Era

The time of the Big Four was a glorious medley of classical styles

With the extraordinary events in SW19 this week, one senses the end of an era. This is not to say that Federer is finished, or that Rafa’s career is on the downward slide. They are still competitors and I would be unsurprised if they added to their trophy hauls. The indicator that things have changed at the top of the men’s game is this: the final we want to see in any given tournament (on a purely unpatriotic, non-partisan, neutral level) no longer involves Federer or Nadal. We want to see Djokovic vs Murray. In short, the tennis world seems to be changing, and it is perhaps time to reflect upon the era which seems to have drawn to a close.

Of late, John McEnroe has been talking of his era – what he calls the era of “Personalities”, about which Martin Amis has written so vehemently. At any rate, the era of Connors, McEnroe and Borg was a time of rock stars. Connors was a maverick who screamed rock-and-roll; Borg could have easily been in ABBA, and McEnroe, whiny, self-involved but brilliant, would have been very successful as an Art Garfunkel impersonator.

If that was the tone of the era between the 70s and 80s, then what we have just experienced has been nothing short of classical, symphonic delight. First there was Federer, who was Mozart, effortlessly producing super-human works of artistry and driving Andy Roddick (his Salieri) to distraction. Then came Beethoven, in the form of Rafael Nadal – brutish, bold, loud, brilliant, and almost certainly doomed to have his career hampered by a debilitating injury. His comeback this year from injury to win 43 of his 45 matches, and claim an historic 8^th French Open crown had something of the 9^th Symphony about it – joyous, magnificent, and created in defiance of his body failing him.

The antidote to all of this is the violence and bombast of a Wagner - a man whose work is brutal and often stirring, and carries on at tremendous length. Enter Novak Djokovic, the Serb whose abilities in defence are unbelievable. I have seen players hit a ball that has forced Djokovic into full stretch on his backhand just to return it, leaving his opponent, the court at his mercy, to send the ball to the same extreme on the opposite side, and Djokovic gets it back every time. Watching Djokovic play tennis is like watching Mike Hussey bat. You begin to lose any belief that you can get anything past him, and then, as your frustration is reaching fever pitch, he unleashes a violent blast that scorches its way past you.

This leaves us with Andy Murray. 2012 was his breakthrough year, but he has not yet really found his tone as a champion. A second Grand Slam title will see a character more clearly develop, but he seems to have something of Dvorak about him. Thrilling and strong, he shows flashes of Wagner’s fire and brimstone, but tempers it with an edge of elegant splendour.

Murray and Djokovic have hitherto been defined by Federer and Nadal’s pre-existing rivalry. It seems that Federer’s star is waning and, regrettably, Nadal is going to struggle with injuries. The next era is going to be defined by Djokovic and Murray. One wonders how they will be changed by what will follow them.

The Trouble with Writing

The trouble with writing is that from the first stroke of a letter you have limited yourself. The blank page is a screen upon which your mind’s eye can project the infinite possibilities that your head can conjure. Any given blank page can end up containing anything.

“She exhaled a cloud of smoke that caught the blue light as it rose away from her perfectly imperfect face, whilst the sound of the music swirled between them, conjuring all manner of fantasies of what might be; of common joy and exquisite despair in equal measure.”

Or:

“The Gredunkadunk was a miserable creature. Long and fat in form, and stood upon four squat legs, riddled with humps and bumps and warts, this twisted, sweaty monster, stared at the boy, snarling its aggression at him with all the venom of its own self-loathing, but the boy stood still, fearlessly deflecting the nastiness of this beast with a simple kind-heartedness that did not admit to any instantaneous negative reaction.”

Or:

“His feet flew across the cobbled streets, the intermittent pain of the stones jabbing through the soles of his shoes only spurring him on and on, never once looking round at his pursuers, or ever letting his grip on the briefcase loosen as he sped into the night, white lights casting his flailing shadow onto the wall.”

Or:

“She fell, and Emily watched her. Her: Emily never knew the woman’s name, but Emily never forgot her curled brown hair float around her head as the air rushed past her, as that youthful body executed its terminal dance with gravity with increasing speed and terrible beauty.”

Or:

“ ‘One more, vicar?’

James had never cared for Antony’s humour. Studying Theology at university was a decision he had made from a misguided valuation of what was expedient to him at the time (all petty estimations taken from half-considered snapshots of what-was-what), but merely on the level of enquires as to his career ambitions, it had not been worth it. If he’d had a penny for every time some wag had asked him whether he was seeking a life in the cloth, any eventual vow of poverty would have proved rather difficulty to take.”

In short, the possibilities are endless, as is the desire to compose and to share. It is thus very hard just to pick one.