{"id":107144,"date":"2017-01-27T13:42:35","date_gmt":"2017-01-27T18:42:35","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=107144"},"modified":"2017-10-30T10:48:57","modified_gmt":"2017-10-30T14:48:57","slug":"are-you-experienced","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/01\/27\/are-you-experienced\/","title":{"rendered":"Are You Experienced?"},"content":{"rendered":"

On the 2017 Australian Open.<\/em><\/p>\n

<\/a>

Nadal defeated Dimitrov this morning in Melbourne.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

It\u2019s slightly past dawn and I\u2019m up. The sky is a dull, file-cabinet gray, the thick cold scouring down on the thin morning light. A few people hurry by under umbrellas, a few others loiter on corners up and down the street, bareheaded, waiting for a car or a bus, newspapers tucked under their arms. Listen closely and you can hear Manhattan\u2019s equivalent to cricket song: the floating sound of traffic when there\u2019s no traffic in sight. It\u2019s that time of year when winter is stretched so thin it becomes sheer, translucent, you can almost see through it. It\u2019s January and already 2017 is weird and tragic and beautiful. The book\u00a01984<\/em> is flying off shelves, real and virtual. American politics has taken the form of prime-time programming, trolling for clicks, vituperative heat checks on Twitter \u2026<\/p>\n

And here I am, groggy as hell, keeping up with news about tennis from sixteen hours in the future.\u00a0<\/p>\n

I\u2019m talking about the sweet middle-of-the-night siren song that is the Australian Open. During this long winter of discontent, I\u2019ve found it especially difficult to turn away from it. Nine at night. Eleven at night. Three in the morning. While avid viewers of the World Cup or the Olympics spend a couple of weeks every four years craning their necks around some godforsaken hour to catch a glimpse of their sport of choice, tennis fans have an annual rite of passage in this Open, the first major tournament of the year. The new season clears its throat in Brisbane and then sets right off at full throttle. When you miss live, competitive tennis enough to watch the matches as they happen, the time difference becomes a minor obstacle.<\/p>\n

Tennis is the game I inherited from my father. I\u2019m old enough to have played with a wooden racquet, but not old enough to have played seriously with a wooden racquet. I\u2019m also the age of perhaps the last generation of teenage champions. When I was a kid, seeing another kid win Wimbledon or the French Open was a big deal, but not unfathomable; difficult but not unthinkable; far from the earth-shattering spectacle it would be today, when players in their midtwenties are considered up-and-coming. In retrospect, I was part of a generation of latchkey kids whose favorite tennis players were teenagers, favorite rappers were teenagers, favorite doctor was a teenager (Doogie Howser, MD, of course). Tennis, in other words, fit seamlessly into my vision of the world as being low-hanging fruit for youth. And while Monica Seles lost some prime seasons because of having been literally stabbed in the back, and Michael Chang never again won a major after winning one at seventeen; while Steffi Graf retired at twenty-nine because she\u2019d already done everything she wanted, and Boris Becker played in a style that eventually drained every ounce of champion vigor his younger self had brimmed with; while Jennifer Capriati\u2014a pro at thirteen and a French Open semifinalist at fifteen\u2014learned to love the game after losing her way, what didn\u2019t change was the ode to youth that tennis proved to be. When you\u2019re in your teens, words like resilience<\/em>, endurance<\/em>, and perspective<\/em> aren\u2019t real. Sure, you know how to use them, but you\u2019re not quite sure what they would look like if you saw them in practice. Around 2000, when I\u2019d become invested in those words, I began to look at tennis differently. Sure, Becker was gone by then and Chang was a nonevent, but Seles and Capriati were back and almost as good as ever. And the very back end of the last great teen generation\u2014Venus Williams, Serena Williams, and Roger Federer\u2014well, they were doing okay.<\/p>\n

Among the men and women, three of the four singles finalists of the Australian Open went\u00a0pro before the turn of the millennium. Another semifinalist\u2014Mirjana Lucic-Baroni, who was defeated by Serena\u2014won the Australian Open women\u2019s double title at fifteen, in 1998. She was a Wimbledon semifinalist at nineteen. When Lucic-Baroni won her quarterfinal match and walked out to center court for a postmatch interview, her interlocutor, Rennae Stubbs, reminded her that she\u2019d won her first-ever match at the Australian Open against Stubbs herself, nineteen years ago. The story behind Lucic-Baroni\u2019s long journey back to the upper echelon of women\u2019s tennis has yet to be told in full, but the roots of it\u2014a difficult, damaging father\u2014are more a tennis archetype than the coverage would lead one to believe. Her resilience has become the best representation of a kind of antiaging trend at this tournament: a Federer final, a Williams-sister final, a rejuvenated Rafa, the Lucic-Baroni renaissance.<\/p>\n

The other men\u2019s semifinalist, the swashbuckling Grigor Dimitrov, seems to have freed himself from the yoke of expectations, to say nothing of the daunting moniker that follows him around: Baby Fed. He lost this morning, over five hours and five set\u2014the margin between victory and defeat membrane-thin. Federer himself is 11\u201323 in his career against Nadal, and the style of Baby Fed\u2019s defeat must have seemed familiar to those who have watched some of those thirty-four matches. Nadal, as is his nature, ground down Dimitrov over long points and across long hours, until in the final deciding moments he was there to take the spoils.\u00a0We\u2019re witnessing a seasoned winter vintage of Nadal: his stylish, belligerent game is like a long con. Even as you see it coming, you can\u2019t avoid getting snared in it.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Before this month, the last time Roger Federer was seen in a competitive singles match, he was exiting center court at Wimbledon, having lost the semifinal in five sets, a victim of an uncooperative knee and midthirties-ness. Easily the most nimble-footed player to ever play the game, Federer slipped on the grass in a decisive moment in the fifth set of that match: a slow death-of-the-idol-before-our-eyes event that recalled the forty-year-old Willie Mays playing outfield for the Mets. Federer took the next six months off to recover; his ranking dropped to seventeenth in the world. Now, playing as the seventeenth seed, he\u2019s resurgent in Melbourne.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s not merely the results, it\u2019s the sheer quality of his play. Federer has had to plow his way through the top half of the field. Each opponent, from Noah Rubin to Tomas Berdych to Kei Nishikori to Mischa Zverev to his good friend and fellow Swiss Stan Wawrinka, has presented a different set of challenges. Even the twenty-year-old Rubin, a Long Island native ranked two-hundredth in the world, is the type of fit, speedy counterpunching early-round opponent who could have taken the spring out of Federer\u2019s thirty-five-year-old step. Berdych and Nishikori are regular top-ten players; Zverev, not content with being merely a crafty lefty, has molded himself into a crafty serve-and-volley lefty, having dusted off the dark art of net play in this era of monochromatic exchanges along the baseline. The novelty of Zverev\u2019s old-school game left current world number-one, Andy Murray, so bewildered and without recourse that he ended up capitulating without much of a fight; Zverez would rush to the net and Murray would take on the horrified look of sketch being erased at the legs by some unseen author. But Federer, of an age to have grown up emulating the serve and volley game, sucked in Zverev like an ocean accepting a raindrop. Then there was the estimable Wawrinka, a three-time major champion and the author of the heaviest ground strokes on the men\u2019s tour. For all of Wawrinka\u2019s skill and prowess, though, Federer remains the big brother he can\u2019t beat. The semifinal marks the nineteenth time in twenty-two matches that he\u2019s lost to Federer, who was hardly the better player, although certainly the most opportunistic one.<\/p>\n

And this is what\u2019s been most eye-catching about Venus, Serena, Roger, Rafa: their ruthless opportunism. If you\u2019ve been following the Australian Open, even casually, you\u2019ve no doubt heard the expression \u201cCinderella Story\u201d used quite a bit. If Cinderella carried a shiv in her sock, this would be accurate. The elegance of the very best players distracts from the brutal simplicity on which many of these matches turn. These matches exemplify the hottest currency in professional tennis today: experienced experience. And hope.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Rowan Ricardo Phillips is the author of\u00a0<\/i>The Ground\u00a0and<\/em>\u00a0Heaven. He is currently writing a book about tennis,\u00a0<\/i>The Circuit,\u00a0which will be published in 2018.<\/i><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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