International tennis Rome: the 2013 final between Nadal and Federer
At the end of one of the most disappointing games you remember, among the thousand of Federer, I went to rummage in the wastepaper basket to try to find my notes on the endings of the double and the singular feminine. never had they already thrown in the garbage that, as in Naples as never, recycling. I was already depressed enough about the defeat of the Sisters of Italy Errani-Vinci by the two Chinese girls Peng-Hsiehone from the Empire, the other from Taiwan, confirms not exquisitely tennis but, at least politically comforting.
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I was then very bored due to the modesty of one Azarenka which well represents the current average level of recent years, lacking the great generation of retired tennis players, the Henin, Cljster, Davenport, Capriati, Mauresmo. An Azarenka who had never bothered a Serena, so casual that, in the end, she addressed the public in Italian. And then I was certain again headed to the Central, in the usual show between Roger Federer And Rafa Nadal.
Now a classic, now in its thirtieth repetition, with nineteen wins to ten for the inventor of a new tennis, thanks to that gestures that have allowed explosions hitherto unknown. I did not even think that my Swiss was able to reverse the typical trend of the red fields, on which he led direct clashes for twelve to two. But I had recovered, thanks to contemporary technology, the story of one of the most famous events of the past, that of 2006, in which Rafa had survived the end of a real marathon, even saving two match-points. To think that similarity could somehow repeat itself was certainly excessive, also because, outside the Grand Slams, the finals are now played with the short formula. But the premises seemed encouraging.
Supported by less muscular knees and calves than ever, Rafa hadn’t always convinced me, with the exception of the match against a Berdych on a dubious day. As for Federer, I’d happily let myself be fooled by his daily night performances, in which he hadn’t really had to fight that much. Although I considered Nadal to be the favorite in perpetual convalescence, I had found the odds of the bookmakers excessive, which gave him the winner at 1.25, against Federer’s five to one. In short, I was expecting a victory for Nadal that was certainly not an easy one, but an exciting match nonetheless. As often happens to me, I was completely wrong, and unfortunately I realized it from the first ten minutes.
It was obvious that Federer was setting up an attacking match, less evident that he would try to win at every opportunity, like some players who are blind and in a rage. He thus won a first game of applause, but as soon as Rafa stretched the ball and raised his explosive parables, Roger insisted on prohibitive solutions, also for his talent. Such a beginning would have been a foretaste of the end.
It seems incredible that, for an hour and ten minutes, a champion like Roger has continued to rage in search of only one goal, the winning point. He thus committed masses of errors, craps, irrationality. I remember asking him once if his relationship with Nadal wasn’t troubled by looking for Freudians. He calmly replied that he did not know Freud. Perhaps it lies precisely in this, the explanation of today’s game.
by Gianni Clerici