Roger Federer's spat with Stan Wawrinka is closest he has ever come to a scandal but it's a reminder he's still human
While fellow sporting titan Tiger Woods' reputation was long ago shredded by a trail of adultery and deceit, Federer has remained a species apart, writes Oliver Brown
He's only human: Roger Federer's row with Stan Wawrinka is a reminder that he is just like the rest of
So, the Swiss are at war. First time for everything. In the same way no one knows quite how the Swiss army knife came to include a nail file and a fish scaler, few can recall such consternation in the cantons as the past week’s outbreak of tennis strife. Given the place has been officially neutral for half a millennium, it has come as a jolt indeed to see Roger Federer, Mrs Federer, Stanislas Wawrinka and an unsuspecting French umpire caught up in a curious quadrilateral of quarrelling. One wonders what happened to the counsel of Saint Nicholas of Flüe – the Swiss touchstone for everything, from sport to global conflagration – “not to get involved in other people’s affairs”.
It is a teaching to which Federer has readily subscribed. His effortless hauteur has always seemed to elevate him far above the vulgar pettiness of our flawed world. Until, that is, his good lady chose to heckle Wawrinka as a “cry baby”. Within 24 hours, many of the time-honoured certainties that made up his universe of manicured perfection had dissolved.
First, he had been drawn into conflict with a man who was not simply a rival but a compatriot, his closest answer to a mate on tour. Second, Mirka, his one great constant and the silent choreographer of his empire, had been dragged into the mire when her jibe was picked up by a rogue microphone. And third, his illusion of indestructability, one that he had maintained through 60 consecutive straight grand slams and 1,221 matches without withdrawing from a tournament, came dramatically unstuck when he pulled out of last Sunday night’s O2 final to general astonishment. It was if nothing any longer made sense.
It is a neat irony that in this week of all weeks, as Federer seeks to seize the one piece of silverware he lacks at the Davis Cup final in Lille, the ties that bind his magisterial career have looked a bit more frayed. This might explain why he was so quick in trying to scotch the rumours of a rift with Wawrinka, posting a picture on Twitter of them joshing alongside captain Severin Lüthi in the Swiss team room. The idea that questions were starting to be asked of his status as sport’s supreme being was intolerable. ‘Brand Federer’ depends – as the Mercedes advert depicting him as “athlete, idol, dad” makes clear – on the image of the superhuman.
There has never been a career as purer-than-pure as Federer’s. It says much about his Mother Teresa-like levels of virtue that at 33, the Wawrinka row, if we can even call it that, is the closest he has ever come to a scandal. Where the reputation of his friend and fellow sporting titan Tiger Woods was long ago shredded by a trail of adultery and deceit, Federer has remained a species apart, marvellously aloof from the faintest imputation of a flaw.
Where Woods is lampooned as a bad tipper and even more miserly autograph-signer, Federer is celebrated for his endless generosity. At Wimbledon last year, he took several hours out to look after Beatriz Tinoco, a teenage cancer survivor from Maryland. Such stories sustain, for the army of Federer disciples, an unconditional love. Lesser mortals in the tennis realm would have been cat-called without mercy had they pulled out of a season-ending final – one where front-row seats cost £1,400 a throw – at an hour’s notice. Federer, though, in the same way he has often been cheered more loudly than Andy Murray in their matches together, was applauded. It takes a rare figure in sport to transform a corner of North Greenwich into Basel-upon-Thames.
Mind you, it is easy to see how Wawrinka might resent him. As the Australian Open champion’s asides to umpire Cédric Mourier about Mirka suggested – “She did it at Wimbledon as well!” – his relationship with Federer has sometimes been strained. Understandably, perhaps, given that his own slam glory in Melbourne last winter could have made him a national hero in Switzerland, had Federer not got there first with 17 of them. Martina Hingis once gave an intriguing insight into the potential for tension, saying: “That’s one of the reasons I moved to Florida. There’s more jealousy in Switzerland, because it’s so little and they don’t have so many athletes.”
A Davis Cup would, one senses, make Federer complete as he tentatively acknowledges the ravages of his advancing years. He used the expression “at my age” not once but twice in his apology speech to the O2 crowd. His solitary French Open triumph in 2009 filled one of the gaps that had been bothering him. So, too, did his Olympics gold medal in doubles in Beijing, the one other major prize he has claimed in the company of Wawrinka. One last ticking of the box would be apt for Federer, whose professional end-game has begun. It would identify him a feat of engineering as symmetrically perfect as his Rolex watch. Besides being as peerless on the backhand wing as the forehand, or fathering two sets of twins – one of each sex, naturally – he would confirm such perfect form as the player who won every trophy in the book.
It is oddly refreshing, however, that the narrative has not unfolded in quite the way we thought. This week was meant to be all about Federer’s quest for perfection – as his autobiography, not without coincidence, is called – but instead it has focused on some very rare blemishes. And yet, intimations of weakness somehow do not diminish him. If anything, they are just a comforting remember that he is human.
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Ronaldo rip-off was a disgrace
The heat map of Cristiano Ronaldo’s touches for Portugal against Argentina – a few shuffles here, a couple of half-hearted dribbles there – showed up the friendly at Old Trafford as an exercise of unforgivable cynicism. His own instinct of self-preservation, coupled with the intention of Fernando Santos, the coach, to wrap him in cotton wool, ensured abject value for money among fans who had paid £60 a ticket to watch his head-to-head with Lionel Messi. They had come to savour his mazy depredations down the flanks and were instead served up with a display of utter indolence and indifference that lasted only 45 minutes.
Granted, Ronaldo had an important Real Madrid match at Eibar to think about and club interests, as ever, meant that both he and Messi vanished at half-time. But to have charged hard-working families in Manchester the thick end of £200 to watch something so half-hearted was both larcenous and exploitative.
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Recall Bianchi amid the thrills
As Formula One sees out 2014 under the arc lights of Abu Dhabi, with every expectation of a second World Championship for Lewis Hamilton, it is worth remembering that not all its storylines reach such tidy resolution. For in Nice’s University Hospital, Jules Bianchi will continue his fight for life all through the off season and his fellow drivers’ long winter breaks. While it was reassuring yesterday to hear from parents Philippe and Christine that he had "made an important step" and was no longer in an artificial coma, he still requires around-the-clock care as his family search for a flicker of hope that the 25-year-old’s future is not lost.
It is a precarious situation. And in any reflections upon this F1 campaign – that it has been the most enthralling in years, that Hamilton’s duel with Rosberg has been the sport’s finest tussle since Prost versus Senna, that the V6 engines were not quite as alienating as everybody feared – we should not forget its central tragedy.
He's only human: Roger Federer's row with Stan Wawrinka is a reminder that he is just like the rest of
So, the Swiss are at war. First time for everything. In the same way no one knows quite how the Swiss army knife came to include a nail file and a fish scaler, few can recall such consternation in the cantons as the past week’s outbreak of tennis strife. Given the place has been officially neutral for half a millennium, it has come as a jolt indeed to see Roger Federer, Mrs Federer, Stanislas Wawrinka and an unsuspecting French umpire caught up in a curious quadrilateral of quarrelling. One wonders what happened to the counsel of Saint Nicholas of Flüe – the Swiss touchstone for everything, from sport to global conflagration – “not to get involved in other people’s affairs”.
It is a teaching to which Federer has readily subscribed. His effortless hauteur has always seemed to elevate him far above the vulgar pettiness of our flawed world. Until, that is, his good lady chose to heckle Wawrinka as a “cry baby”. Within 24 hours, many of the time-honoured certainties that made up his universe of manicured perfection had dissolved.
First, he had been drawn into conflict with a man who was not simply a rival but a compatriot, his closest answer to a mate on tour. Second, Mirka, his one great constant and the silent choreographer of his empire, had been dragged into the mire when her jibe was picked up by a rogue microphone. And third, his illusion of indestructability, one that he had maintained through 60 consecutive straight grand slams and 1,221 matches without withdrawing from a tournament, came dramatically unstuck when he pulled out of last Sunday night’s O2 final to general astonishment. It was if nothing any longer made sense.
It is a neat irony that in this week of all weeks, as Federer seeks to seize the one piece of silverware he lacks at the Davis Cup final in Lille, the ties that bind his magisterial career have looked a bit more frayed. This might explain why he was so quick in trying to scotch the rumours of a rift with Wawrinka, posting a picture on Twitter of them joshing alongside captain Severin Lüthi in the Swiss team room. The idea that questions were starting to be asked of his status as sport’s supreme being was intolerable. ‘Brand Federer’ depends – as the Mercedes advert depicting him as “athlete, idol, dad” makes clear – on the image of the superhuman.
There has never been a career as purer-than-pure as Federer’s. It says much about his Mother Teresa-like levels of virtue that at 33, the Wawrinka row, if we can even call it that, is the closest he has ever come to a scandal. Where the reputation of his friend and fellow sporting titan Tiger Woods was long ago shredded by a trail of adultery and deceit, Federer has remained a species apart, marvellously aloof from the faintest imputation of a flaw.
Where Woods is lampooned as a bad tipper and even more miserly autograph-signer, Federer is celebrated for his endless generosity. At Wimbledon last year, he took several hours out to look after Beatriz Tinoco, a teenage cancer survivor from Maryland. Such stories sustain, for the army of Federer disciples, an unconditional love. Lesser mortals in the tennis realm would have been cat-called without mercy had they pulled out of a season-ending final – one where front-row seats cost £1,400 a throw – at an hour’s notice. Federer, though, in the same way he has often been cheered more loudly than Andy Murray in their matches together, was applauded. It takes a rare figure in sport to transform a corner of North Greenwich into Basel-upon-Thames.
Mind you, it is easy to see how Wawrinka might resent him. As the Australian Open champion’s asides to umpire Cédric Mourier about Mirka suggested – “She did it at Wimbledon as well!” – his relationship with Federer has sometimes been strained. Understandably, perhaps, given that his own slam glory in Melbourne last winter could have made him a national hero in Switzerland, had Federer not got there first with 17 of them. Martina Hingis once gave an intriguing insight into the potential for tension, saying: “That’s one of the reasons I moved to Florida. There’s more jealousy in Switzerland, because it’s so little and they don’t have so many athletes.”
A Davis Cup would, one senses, make Federer complete as he tentatively acknowledges the ravages of his advancing years. He used the expression “at my age” not once but twice in his apology speech to the O2 crowd. His solitary French Open triumph in 2009 filled one of the gaps that had been bothering him. So, too, did his Olympics gold medal in doubles in Beijing, the one other major prize he has claimed in the company of Wawrinka. One last ticking of the box would be apt for Federer, whose professional end-game has begun. It would identify him a feat of engineering as symmetrically perfect as his Rolex watch. Besides being as peerless on the backhand wing as the forehand, or fathering two sets of twins – one of each sex, naturally – he would confirm such perfect form as the player who won every trophy in the book.
It is oddly refreshing, however, that the narrative has not unfolded in quite the way we thought. This week was meant to be all about Federer’s quest for perfection – as his autobiography, not without coincidence, is called – but instead it has focused on some very rare blemishes. And yet, intimations of weakness somehow do not diminish him. If anything, they are just a comforting remember that he is human.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ronaldo rip-off was a disgrace
The heat map of Cristiano Ronaldo’s touches for Portugal against Argentina – a few shuffles here, a couple of half-hearted dribbles there – showed up the friendly at Old Trafford as an exercise of unforgivable cynicism. His own instinct of self-preservation, coupled with the intention of Fernando Santos, the coach, to wrap him in cotton wool, ensured abject value for money among fans who had paid £60 a ticket to watch his head-to-head with Lionel Messi. They had come to savour his mazy depredations down the flanks and were instead served up with a display of utter indolence and indifference that lasted only 45 minutes.
Granted, Ronaldo had an important Real Madrid match at Eibar to think about and club interests, as ever, meant that both he and Messi vanished at half-time. But to have charged hard-working families in Manchester the thick end of £200 to watch something so half-hearted was both larcenous and exploitative.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Recall Bianchi amid the thrills
As Formula One sees out 2014 under the arc lights of Abu Dhabi, with every expectation of a second World Championship for Lewis Hamilton, it is worth remembering that not all its storylines reach such tidy resolution. For in Nice’s University Hospital, Jules Bianchi will continue his fight for life all through the off season and his fellow drivers’ long winter breaks. While it was reassuring yesterday to hear from parents Philippe and Christine that he had "made an important step" and was no longer in an artificial coma, he still requires around-the-clock care as his family search for a flicker of hope that the 25-year-old’s future is not lost.
It is a precarious situation. And in any reflections upon this F1 campaign – that it has been the most enthralling in years, that Hamilton’s duel with Rosberg has been the sport’s finest tussle since Prost versus Senna, that the V6 engines were not quite as alienating as everybody feared – we should not forget its central tragedy.
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