What makes Roger Federer a champion

So much has been written about the artist; of the whisper of his feet, the elegance of his strides and the beauty of his shots; so much has been written about the numbers, of the seventeenth slam, the seventh championship, the World No. 1 and the 286 weeks spent there. My facebook wall is flooded with Federer. Cleverly photoshopped pictures, emotionally written tributes and even some disturbing posters against Nadal and Djokovic.

On another day I would be enraged. I would question the audacity of Federer fans, mark it as spam and report it. But not today. Today I don’t have the right. I put myself in their place and realize, I wouldn’t have waited with them for over two years believing in him even as all evidence pointed to a lost cause. I would have rubbed my hands off a spent force and invested my precious sporting emotions on a promising younger player with swifter feet and stronger arms. They have waited. And while they celebrate, I will not complain even if the celebration gets a little loud, a little unruly.

Clearly I am not a fan, perhaps the farthest thing from it. I adored a generation of players that came before him and love a generation that has come after. On most occasions in fact, he was the ‘villain’ who denied my legends and stood in the way of my heroes. I even learnt the double handed backhand to model it after Djokovic’s while my coach insisted that I was getting a hang of the one-hander. I was afraid Federer would be mentioned in resemblance. If anything I loathed him. Yet I write today an article titled ‘What makes Roger Federer a Champion’.

This isn’t about the artist; this isn’t about the numbers either. I will leave that to the fans and I am sure they will more than do justice to it. This is about the twenty-nine months. The twenty-nine months that Roger Federer spent without a Grand Slam and the man he was.

In those unfamiliar times, it must have been easy for him to think of quitting. When Rafael Nadal came back from an Australian Open loss and an injury to dominate the rest of 2010, when Novak Djokovic played tennis in 2011 better than any player played any other sport, and he himself was struggling at times against players whom history won’t even mention on the same page, the thought of quitting must have crossed his mind. It must have been easy for him concede that he did not belong amongst the younger men with faster feet and stronger arms. He must have been beckoned by the promise of a quiet retired life with his wife and the beautiful twins.

He knew that the forehand that would once catch the line was now falling an inch apart. He knew that lethal backhand that once would find the corner of the court was now kissing the top of the net. The gift was fading and he knew it. What he also knew was that, if he chose to retire right then, he would still go down a legend, amongst the best to have played the game. Yet he chose to stay. He hung in there, and to me that’s a champion.

It was Lance Armstrong who said “Pain is temporary. It may last…an hour, or a day, a year…but eventually it will subside and something else will take its place. If I quit, however, it lasts forever.” A champion is Anil Kumble bowling with a broken jaw, not an Indian captain, whose name irrelevant, opting out of a Sri Lankan tour. Roger Federer fits this criterion nicely enough.

Do not believe everything that they are telling you. Roger Federer isn’t perfect. Far from it. When he used the four-lettered word at the flushing meadows, that was a terrible example for the thousands of kids watching him. When he wore the white jacket with ’15′ inscribed, on a day when Roddick’s broken heart littered the tennis court, that was indulgent, almost a show-off. He isn’t even the modest guy we are made to believe he is – when asked why he wins so many matches, he says, “There’s no secret behind it. I’m definitely a very talented player. I always knew I had something special.” True, but immodest.

Roger Federer isn’t perfect, but he at least doesn’t live behind a mask like Tiger Woods. He is a real person. He married his girlfriend whom he dated forever and she isn’t one of those blue-eyed blondes who litter the sporting horizon. He cries on court, waves to his kids and reveals to us his humanness. He doesn’t charm us with the commercials while he hides away the dark side behind. Like someone said of Tiger Woods, he at least doesn’t make us buy shirts while he takes his off.

He is a good guy who makes genuine mistakes. There aren’t many players who spend their Christmas, playing cricket at a shelter for Indian kids hit by tsunami. He did. He played soccer in the slums of South Africa and two days before the 2010 Australian Open, worked with organizers, requested players and arranged a charity match to raise funds for Haiti. His numbers brought him fame and he wore it well. To me that’s a champion.

In those twenty-nine months, more than Rafael Nadal and Novak Djokovic the battle was against himself. Ageing body, weakening will, slower reflexes and a tempting escape route. After his brilliant match-winning innings in Adelaide 2003, Rahul Dravid said: “You can’t concentrate for 10 hours, you switch on and off, you push yourself, your mind wanders, you bring it back, you steel yourself. That’s the real beauty, when you win the battle against yourself.” And Roger Federer wanted to win the battle badly enough. He did not give up. Champion.

I will not concede he is the greatest to have ever played the game. I will not even agree he is the best we have seen. But a champion, I will gladly accept.