PARIS — There is a little park near the Roland-Garros stadium,
it is a good habit to go there and take it easy. It has an enclosed
playground for very small children, graveled alleys that wind their
way around the lawns, an interesting variety of trees and plants,
being not far from — an annex, in fact, of — the larger botanical
garden next door. There are few visitors, perhaps that is why there
are likely to be two or three pairs of young — or not so young —
lovers sitting close together and saying quiet ordinary things to
each other, though to them they are anything but ordinary.
You must take it easy after the emotional tension of the French
Open, as you would after a Game Seven or a big fight or a Masters.
It has been going on for two weeks, and the last match in the
Gentlemen’s Singles, after the elimination of 136 of the world’s
very top athletes, just to make things a little more excruciating,
has been delayed overnight due to rain. Rain and chill — in fact,
this weather is so unusual in Paris at this time of year that the
last such delay occurred in 1973 (Ilie Nastase vs. Niki Pilic). To
be fair, you can count the time in 1994 when the final of the
Ladies’ Singles (Mary Pierce vs. Arantxa Sanchez) was played on the
next day, preceding the Gentlemen’s, due to weather.
You should be fair to the fair sex. I think it is scandalous the
way women are considered second class in many societies. Also,
TAS must admit to a wild and inexcusable howler the other
day, in that the ladies’ championship trophy was given the name of
the one reserved for gentlemen. In establishing her career Grand
Slam on Saturday in a totally dominating match against the Italian
fireball Sara Errani, the Florida Ice Queen, forgive the oxymoron,
took possession of the coveted Coupe Suzanne-Lenglen, named for the
French legend of the 1920s and '30s who was known as “the Divine
One.” The one Rafael Nadal and Novak Djokovic dreamed of during the
long wait between Sunday evening and Monday afternoon is called the
Coupe des Mousquetaires, for the foursome that made French tennis
famous and feared, René Lacoste, Jean Borotra, Henri Cochet, and
Jacques Brugnon.
But in truth, what do I know what they dreamed of? Did they
remember the verses of the man of the Mancha? At least half of
Europe is thinking exactly this way, if not with these words
exactly, as national teams compete in Gdansk and Donetsk in the
Euro 2012 football championship, the transition sporting event
between the French Open in Paris and the Olympics in
London.
To dream the impossible dream
To fight the unbeatable foe
To bear with unbearable sorrow
To run where the brave dare not go
More likely they did not dream at all, just focused on the
morrow. These are not romantic dreamers, but the best in their
field, they know how to concentrate their minds on the job they are
called upon to do. And yet, sports fans ask themselves, if their
favored players and teams can make them dream, surely they dream
too.
At any rate, the FFT puts on quite a show for the finals at the
Internationaux. You are supposed to dress formally for the
occasion. A few of us did our best to comply, but it must be
admitted informality is on the rise even here. You cannot fault the
organizers, who keep the environment as classy as they can. The
brass band of the Republican Guard, resplendent in fine blue dress
uniforms and shining helmets, comes out and plays rousing marches
while the flags flap in the wind way up above the last row at
Chatrier’s center (and only) court, the Stars and Stripes looking
very fine. No Americans on the court, I am afraid. Americans never
have done especially well here — too few opportunities to train on
clay, is the usual explanation, but Americans should never complain
and never explain but just get the job done. Mr. Pleszczynski and I
considered the idea of calling Sharapova an American, what with
living in Florida and all, but that would have been wrong, and they
played the moving and beautiful Russian national anthem when she
took the trophy, and good for her. She was fantastic in this
fortnight, and coming back from shoulder surgery and refusing to
listen to the naysayers and elegant and nerves of ice — an
altogether worthy descendant of Suzanne Lenglen, who played with
bare arms and calves.
So the match resumed, although without the band this time, since
the band only plays before the finals. The clear message, not only
from Sunday afternoon but from the whole two weeks, is that for
whatever reason, the mighty Novak Djokovic takes his time to get
into the match. Whether this has to do with the clay surface or is
a matter of deliberate strategy, no one knows. He has not said. But
the clear implication was that Rafael Nadal must take the battle to
him quickly and maintain the pressure, which is what he had done in
the first two sets before the first rain delay wrecked his momentum
and allowed the Serb to reverse the trend. However, with the score
2-1 in the fourth now, on Djokovic’s serve, Mr. Pleszczynski
expressed the opinion that it would be uphill for the man of
Majorca.
But Nadal broke on a bit of luck, a long forehand tipping the
tape and falling short on the other side. The unbelievably fast and
athletic — but they are all, all unbelievably fast and athletic —
Djokovic caught it, but was able only to push it back over to the
waiting Nadal, who easily hit it past him. The two men then held to
5-5, when the sun suddenly comes out and after ten days of this rot
it is spring again and for this Nadal can breathe a sigh that he
did not allow the ump to call a delay 20 minutes earlier when it
had started drizzling rather seriously, bringing out most of the
umbrellas. Rafa knows he must not, under any circumstances other
than the worst, allow his élan to be interrupted. Both have been
hitting steady long groundstrokes from the baselines, waiting for
chances to hit cross court and then kill the return, if return
there is, to the opposite side, and this tactic, on the whole, has
been working for Nadal who has not permitted Novak to break him
again since that first game.
Serving at 5-5, Nadal gets into the only serious argument he has
had in this tournament — that I know of — about a line call,
finally accepts a call that in fact did look kind of questionable,
but who knows. He is still 30-15, but an emboldened Djokovic seizes
the chance to take advantage of Nadal’s irritation and get the
score even with an attacking forehand smash. The crowd, perhaps
wanting a fifth set, has generally been cheering him on, though it
is not unmindful of fine plays by Nadal. Surprisingly, however,
Djokovic returns the next service shot out of bounds and it is
Nadal’s turn to capitalize on a mental lapse. He executes a perfect
drop shot — there have been very few in this match, about two each
in the previous day’s sets, all of them gems — but, sure enough,
the speedy Serb catches it — and lobs it out of bounds! Nadal has
held, crucially, and now needs one last break.
Djokovic stays ahead on serve, 30-15, against a cautious Nadal.
Deliberate tactic on the Spaniard’s part? At any rate, he suddenly
returns with more force than ever and evens the score, then attacks
again with a forehand smash that wrong-foots the great Novak. It is
match point.
Djokovic’s first serve is so far out of bounds that we are not
sure what he is doing — another trick play? Well, if it is, it
falls short — the second serve flies out, just off the inside line
of the service box in mid-court. No one is quite sure it happened
— Djokovic has not doubled all day. But it happened.
Well, it got very emotional then, the exultant Nadal raising his
arms and lifting his eyes heavenward, then climbing, practically
springing, into the stands to race up to where his people sit and
hugging them all. The crowd, partisan (just for the sake of getting
a fifth set, my opinion), is cheering wildly and even Novak’s
people — he is sitting calmly with a towel on his shoulders on the
bench that the previous day he at one point threatened to destroy
during the frustrating second set, earning a ump reprimand — even
the Serb clan are clapping, visibly impressed. It was a great
clutch play, that last play when Nadal held, and if a double is
kind of an anticlimactic way to end the championship match, you
have to allow Nadal had guts to set it up by getting the game, set,
and match point with those two attacking shots when Novak was
leading 30-15.
These are both gentlemen, good sports, gracious and
congratulatory and thankful to each other as the trophies are
awarded by Mats Wilander, former champion, and the Spanish national
anthem is played to a visibly moved Rafael Nadal. He has the record
he sought, seven championships, and Novak Djokovic has reached the
final for the first time here. He is dignified and correct
afterward: “You do not ask what if. It happened. You go to the next
match.”
So you admire them both, you admire all those they beat to get
here and who were every bit as deserving of admiration too, and you
are pleased because you know there is always another match.
Or as it is written on a stone in that little park next door, in
a charming area called the Poet’s Corner, where verses have been
carved into rocks along the alley, a great line from Paul Valéry
—
In every atom of silence lies the promise of a ripened
fruit.
