As the world No 1 heads to Wimbledon, writer, critic and Federer fanatic Geoff Dyer considers why, despite that cream blazer, his appeal transcends tennis You still meet people, in their 70s or 80s now, who recall the night they saw Jimi Hendrix as a defining moment in their lives, one of the things that made their lives worthwhile. That’s how I feel about Roger Federer. Last year, having watched him play just once before – sweeping aside a now forgotten opponent in an early round of Wimbledon in 2012 – I was courtside for every one of Roger’s matches on his way to winning the titles at Indian Wells and Wimbledon. It was a great achievement – my being there to see him, I mean. At Indian Wells, a friend and I attended the press conference after Roger had walloped Jack Sock in the semi-final. When he entered the room and we saw him up close for the first time, both of us – I was at the tail end of my 50s, my friend was 52 – gasped like adolescent girls catching a glimpse of Justin Bieber, or whoever the new Justin Bieber might be. Compared to some of the other hunks on the tour, and especially next to his long-time rival Rafael Nadal, Federer’s arms seem almost feeble. Up close, though, he looks like a Greek god – it’s just that his signature ease of movement on court distracts us from the physical strength that has powered that fluency and delicacy for all these years. Like a dancer, part of his talent lies in concealing the effort needed to make grace appear effortless. Continue reading...
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