I saw God play tennis - A tribute to Roger Federer

4-6, 4-6, 7-6, 7-6, 7-9. Federer netted the forehand and I didn’t come out of my house for two weeks.

It wasn’t about who had played better. It wasn’t about the five sets, the rain delays, the drama, the records getting broken, no. Around midnight, when I saw Rafael Nadal lift the trophy, I slept through one of the worst days of my life. It’s sad to know that your hero has fallen, it’s worse when you see it happen.

One often asks how someone can get so attached to a sport? Babolat says, ‘Tennis runs in our blood’. That’s how I feel about the sport today. It’s something I can give my life for.

I’ve had times when I’ve survived near break-ups, family fights and almost been fired for skiving off to watch a tennis match. The day my sister got married, I was more bothered about whether Agassi would win against Baghdatis in the US Open.

One of the main reasons I feel this way towards the sport, or understand the beauty of sport in the first place is because of Roger Federer.

I saw Federer play for the first time in 2005. Those were the days when he would knit points out of thin air with his racket. I watched him play the Wimbledon final, where he diced Roddick around like a fish in a frying pan.

My father watched the match and told me that one day, this man will be known as the greatest player of all time. I didn’t care. I knew I had watched something special.

It’s natural to support someone who keeps winning. To watch Federer play in his prime is something I’ll tell my grandchildren about, because let’s face it- he was perfect. He glided around on court like he was some kind of a mutant. He’d someone make the entire process of lining up for a ball look like ballet.

He exuded class while playing, and off the court. He was like Arsenal when they were invincible. How does one defeat someone who had the best game around. A service that piled aces like a vending machine. A forehand that no one will ever come close to seeing again. Net game, lobs, drop shots, our maestro proved that adjectives can only help to describe the sheer greatness of someone’s’ game so much.

I grew up with every Federer victory motivating me to hit an extra ball, run an extra mile and spin and extra slice. He was more than an idol. He shaped my childhood. He was the hero every fan of the game needed and deserved.

He never fell into any controversy, he never showed a hint of rudeness. As each piece of slam silverware collected, he seemed to mature, like whiskey in a barrel.

There have been moment’s when Federer’s hit shots that make you shut up. You just don’t know what to say. The tweener against Djokovic was hyped up. I thought that was flashy. There was one shot that every enthusiast would remember like it was carved in blood in their mind. It was the championship point Nadal had in ‘the tiebreak’.

For those who don’t know, it was during the Wimbledon final in 2008. Second set tiebreak. Nadal charged at the net after hitting a slice serve at championship point, Federer sliced back. Nadal whipped a forehand, which Federer hit for a clean passing winner.

It was incredible. That one backhand. A movie can be made about that particular shot. Just four seconds worth of a backhand looped again and again and again.

Not many people are privileged enough to see their idol play. I thank my stars I was. In Dubai, when Federer walked on court and took his racket out with that trademark flourish, I would have locked time. I knew his game inside out. I knew the exact angle of his serve. I knew how he’d crack the backhand, but nothing prepares you for the moment he actually strikes the ball. It’s like watching magic. One can’t appreciate the dimensions of a court till he’s actually standing near it. The television set does not do justice.

When you watch Federer practice, it’s a bit of a joke really. Murray, Nadal, Djokovic and nearly everyone else have a regimented hitting session. They’ll switch groundies to volleys, overheads and serve for a complete twenty minutes. It’s like a proper workout before the match.

Federer, on the other hand warms up like a kid who’s been asked to play around the court for a casual treat. He’ll hit with a continental grip, he’ll hit double handed backhands, he’ll slice rally for minutes at a time, he’ll play football with his trainer. Then he’ll hit about 20 services from each end, and hey presto, he’s ready to go and play a final. It’s unfair almost to be filled with the kind of talent he does.

When Federer actually plays in the match, and your own eyes are watching it, you will just come home with a hauntingly beautiful memory. The backhand – I kid you not, but that stroke of his is like a Monet painting. I always thought it’s a weak point, but it looks incredible. It’s like a wave.

He rises with the ball, the hand almost commanding the ball in whichever direction he wishes it to go. You will spend at least a good twenty minutes wondering what kind of muscle his forearm is built of.

The forehand was the stroke I had come to watch after waiting for nine years. It’s like a missile. There’s no better way of putting it. I’d feel threatened on the other end just seeing him bend his knees to hit it. Federer does this thing where he hits a winner and turns away from the net before the ball bounces the second time about three times out of five. He knows how good he is.

I was lucky enough to watch a match where Federer was playing at 70 per cent of his once imperious form. This was last year. He dismantled Del Potro. He dismantled Murray. People often ask me what would happen if they met at their best form. I’ve always said a silent prayer for the unfortunate person at the other end.

I’ve heard people saying his days are over. He’s battling time. He’s barely winning titles. I feel sorry for the ones who even question his command over the game. He’s 32 and in the top five. He ‘s achieved more than all the other players in today’s game put together, at an age which had the toughest competition I know off. At an age where the simple physicality of the game makes it brutal beyond ten years.

People add the word legend as a prefix to a player more as a simple adjective today. They don’t understand what adding the word to a players name means. It means he was so good, it’s almost unbelievable. It means he was supernatural in every aspect. It means he will stay in stories for the rest of eternity, even if his bones leave the face of the earth.

Happy birthday Roger Federer, you’ve made the world of sport a touch more magical from this very day, thirty-two years ago.