Rafael Nadal’s forehand against Roger Federer is greatest tennis shot ever
Wimbledon starts next week. Rafael Nadal is having one for the road. This is my enduring memory of the Spaniard.
Rafael Nadal was so young he still had all his hair. His white shorts went below his knees. The knees were taped in the good old days when that was all the help they needed. His white top was a singlet I thought was forbidden by the dear things at Wimbledon. His white bandana was identical to the one being worn by Roger Federer in the 2008 final at the place where the grass is always greener: the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club.
I’ve never seen anyone play croquet there, but that’s beside the point. The match in question is about to unfurl the greatest single tennis shot I’ve ever seen. For the occasion, for the fact it came in the greatest match ever played, for the moment – 7-7 in a breathtaking fourth-set tie-breaker, thank you very much – and for the fact that no matter how many majors Novak Djokovic wins, these two blokes are the greatest who ever lived, and Nadal’s stroke will be forever seared in my memory.
To set the scene of the English garden party, Federer is the five-time reigning champ. He hasn’t lost on his backyard court since 2003. If James Bond plays tennis, here he is.
The past two finals have been between the beautiful Federer and the bludgeoning Nadal, and the beautiful Federer has won them both.
Play.
Nadal wins the first set, 6-4. Federer leads the second set, 4-1, with the air of someone providing a violin concerto, but Nadal rips through the next five games to go up by a couple of sets. At 3-3 in the third, Nadal has Federer at 0-40, the equivalent to a boxer having his opponent on the ropes. All you have to do is land one more on his snoz. Federer ducks, weaves and wins five straight points, leading 5-4 when they go off for an 80-minute rain delay.
Resume Play.
Federer wins the third set, 7-6, and the patrons are throwing their caps in the air and cheering so long and loud it may as well be the last furlong at Royal Ascot.
The great fourth set, featuring the greatest forehand, the greatest shot, the greatest players, the greatest match and the greatest court in the greatest tournament in one of the world’s greatest cities, is about to throw in one of the greatest tiebreakers for good measure. Only the 20-minute, 30-point breaker between John McEnroe and Bjorn Borg in 1980 can shade it.
Folks have their hands over their eyes. Their feet are twitching, their hearts are beating, they collapse on each other between points as if it’s all too much. They clutch at their chests, they laugh between points because it’s all so ridiculously good. They’re not really barracking for either player by now. There’s a sense of everybody cheering for everyone and everything.
Nadal clubs balls with a thick Babolat racquet. Thor with a hammer. Federer flicks his wafer-thin Wilson around like Chevalier de Saint-Georges, the gentleman fencer of the late 18th century. Nadal serves at 5-2. Championship on his hammer. He double-faults. Nets a backhand. He might die from the nerves right here on the spot. They move to 7-7. It has the feel of the final session on the last day of a cricket Test. Shadows are moving in, darkness is approaching, every ball and shot has ramifications. Federer’s wife, Mirka, white as the ghost of William Renshaw, clasps her hands, closes her eyes and whispers, “Please”.
It’s all so atmospheric and tense that it’s difficult to watch. You know that feeling? When you cannot look but you cannot turn away? Federer hits a serve from under Bjorn Borg’s nose. Borg is in the front row of the Royal Box. The serve skids to Nadal’s two-hander. Nadal loops a high and harmless return. Federer skips sideways to pistol-whip a forehand. The less backhands he hits against Nadal, the better. He goes crosscourt because the less forehands Nadal hits, the better.
Nadal shovels another backhand. Up the guts of the court of dreams. Federer is forever trying to work out when to pull the trigger against Nadal. When should he roll the dice by going flat down the line and rushing the net? He’s either unstoppable up there, or a sitting duck. It all depends on the quality of his approach. Federer launches into a scything forehand. Both feet are in the air. Full steam ahead. It’s deep and top drawer. Bold. So dramatic that between these shots of Federer and Nadal, a woman shrieks like she’s seen a corpse.
Nadal scampers to his left. He may be lucky to lay a Babolat on it. Federer has swooped to the perfect net position. Covering the down-the-line passing shot. Nadal takes six quick steps. Winds up. Cocks his left elbow and wrist like a baseball pitcher. The ball is about 10 centimetres behind him when he makes contact. He throws the kitchen sink, forearms, biceps, torso, knees, elbow, wrist, blood, bones, sweat and guts at it. Hits it absolutely 100 per cent cleanly. Problem being, his attempt passing shot is starting wide.
It’s going down the line and into the doubles alley. Nadal has to thread the needle so delicately to get past Federer’s extended arm that it’s nearly impossible. If the ball is going in, Federer can hit it. If Federer cannot hit it, the ball must be missing. When Federer thrusts his racquet to his right, it’s directly above the sideline. Meaning he can hit any ball he needs to, right?
Nadal, however, has imparted vicious sidespin. The ball is travelling down the doubles alley when it goes past Federer’s racquet. Then it swerves left-to-right like a boomerang, or a Mitchell Starc inswinger, or a frisbee, or the Golden Snitch in one of Harry Potter’s games of Quidditch, which are all pretty much the same thing through the air. It’s a forehand so thrilling that JK Rowling must have written it. Perhaps she’s in the crowd. Probably is.
You imagine the ball yelping with glee. The fun of this! It misses Federer’s racquet as if it knows it’s meant to. It swings back inside the court as if it knows it’s meant to do that, too. It lands comfortably in, and Federer is comfortably numb, and the crowd is going bonkers, and the commentator offers a delightful, “Oh! Stunning!”, and Nadal scowls and pumps a fist and flexes the biggest left arm since Popeye and/or Rod Laver, who were on a par, really. And if you fancy watching the shot on YouTube, you can. There’s a clip called “Best Rafael Nadal Wimbledon Forehands” that goes for about a million hours. It’s the second piece of footage. You get a wonderful angle of it.
Bravo to the patron, in the front row, who sees first what is happening. All others are on (the edge) of our seats. This guy leaps and raises two fists to the sky, on his own, while the ball curls, dips, giggles and somersaults like Warnie’s Ball of the Century to Mike Gatting. Magically enough, Federer wins the next point with a backhand pass only marginally less extraordinary than Nadal’s fearsome, fun-lovin’ forehand.
Federer wins the tie-breaker and the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club goes ballistic. The umpire’s chair is doing cartwheels. The net posts are clapping and Rufus The Hawk, whose job it is to scare away the pigeons, starts singing a song.
Nadal and Federer have stepped on to the hallowed turf at 2.35pm. At 9.15pm, in virtual darkness, with play to be postponed until the following day after one more game, Nadal holds serve to win his first Wimbledon title with a 6-4 6-4 6-7 (5-7) 6-7 (8-10) 9-7 triumph. Tennis and their unrivalled rivalry in all their pomp and glory.
Five-time champion Borg says, “That’s the best tennis match I’ve ever seen in my life. You cannot see better.” Seven-time champion Pete Sampras adds, “That match transcended the sport.”
About an hour later, Nadal says, “I’m a little bit tired.”
He was 22 when he hit his boomerang forehand and won his maiden Wimbledon final. Now he’s 38. Now he couldn’t reach that same ball. Now he’s having one for the road at The Championships.
Certain athletes bring a tear to the eye when they pull up stumps on their careers. For the elevated moments they’ve given us. For the entertainment. For the sincerity of their efforts. For the fact some of them are very good humans as well as great athletes. You get emotional not just for what they’ve done, but also how they’ve done it.
I shed a tear when the perfectly imperfect Warnie took his final bow in cricket and in life. I shed a tear when the dignified Ian Thorpe called it quits. Being a Novocastrian, I shed a tear when the larger-than-life Andrew Johns hung up his boots. I shed a tear when lion-hearted Mick Fanning walked away at Bells Beach. I’ll shed a tear if the beatific Stephanie Gilmore permanently departs. I’ll shed a tear when Paralympic powerhouse Ryley Batt plays his last game of wheelchair rugby. I’ll shed a tear when the wonderfully winsome Ellyse Perry has her final hit and giggle. And I know I’ll shed a tear when Nadal says goodbye to Wimbledon in the forthcoming fortnight. The dear thing. He’s very tired now.
Will Swanton will be covering The Championships at Wimbledon from Monday.
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