BY TIMOTHY BERNSTEIN

In print | Published September 15, 2011

By now, you’ve probably seen the forehand return that Novak Djokovic (pronounced “Joke-a-vitch”) hit when he was down two games and two match points in the fifth set of his U.S. Open semifinal match against Roger Federer this past Saturday. Or, more specifically, you saw what appeared to be one on TV — a desperate stab at the ball, a chance flick of the wrist, and then a blur, over almost before it had begun.

Even if you still haven’t managed to watch it, you most likely know what happened next: Federer, who still had a match point after the phantom return, began playing like he had realized the symbolic meaning of that incredible and incredibly lucky forehand before it had actually acquired any, as if he knew that no one was going to return a serve like that with the match on the line and end up losing. On his second match point, he badly mishit a forehand of his own that failed to even clear the net, had his serve broken, and preceded to win exactly one point in each of the final three games of the match. It was, as everyone even tangentially associated with tennis noted afterwards, the second consecutive year that Djokovic had saved two match points against Federer to defeat him in a U.S. Open semifinal. And this time, it all began with the return. Or, as it will probably become stylized, The Return*.

*Hyperbole? Sure, but when you consider that Federer’s service game had not even ended before announcers had dubbed it “The Miracle Forehand,” suddenly “The Return” has a quaint simplicity to it, like the title of a Japanese horror movie.

But for me, at least, the tennis element was only a part of what that forehand can tell us. For me, at least, it was the immediate aftermath of that incredible play that may mean more than anything else. Once the point had ended, the crowd, more stunned than anything else, burst into spontaneous applause for Djokovic. The reaction almost seemed involuntary — how could it not have been? For three-plus hours, they had uniformly and unapologetically cheered on Federer as they always did, as just about everyone always did, with Djokovic resigned to playing the heel. But something like that, even coming from the villain, almost demanded applause from the crowd, and they gave it to him. Djokovic, up until now content to play his role, walked away from the baseline and towards the stands, arms extended, smirking in a way that left no doubt just how aware he was that the crowd had been rooting for him to fail all along. Oh, now you’re going to appreciate me? he seemed to say with the gesture. Is THAT what it’s going to take? The crowd exploded into full-fledged cheers. Federer, for his part, stood on the other side of the court, silently waiting it out.

Is there anything better than when it feels like a single moment can tell you everything? There was Djokovic playing the showman, embracing the moment both within it and slightly removed, while Federer steadfastly refused to break character. Djokovic may have his share of detractors, but he has his fans as well, and one reason why I believe they gravitate to him is because every now and then, he almost appears to think like we do. That is to say, he has always seemed aware of the bigger picture when he is playing, what people were seeing and thinking and wanting* when they watched his matches. This level of awareness, incredibly rare in any athlete, is almost unheard of for someone who might currently be the best player in his sport. For better or worse, you could never have said that about the stoic Federer; Rafael Nadal might be his starkest contrast when it comes to playing styles, but personality-wise, the Bizarro Federer was the guy who beat him on Saturday. As Djokovic faced the crowd and took in the first real applause he had heard all day, Federer looked like he was wondering when the crowd would go back to their default position of unconditional love for him.

*A particularly good example from this tournament came during his second-round demolition of an Argentinean named Carlos Berlocq, whom the crowd gave a standing ovation when he won his first game of the match — in the third set (final score: 6-0, 6-0, 6-2). Djokovic could be seen grinning broadly as the players changed sides, a sly acknowledgement of just how dominant his game is right now, and consequently just how eager the spectators were to see a chink — any chink — in his armor.

Even after the match had ended, the moment managed to persist by virtue of how consistent the two men were with who they had been on the court.

Federer at press conference: “Some players grow up and play like that — being down 5-2 in the third, and they all just start slapping shots. For me, this is very hard to understand. How can you play a shot like that on match point? You’ve got to ask him.”

Djokovic at press conference: “Yeah, I tend to do that on match points. It kinda works.”

There is a whole host of reasons why watching a tennis match between two elite players in person is preferable to watching it on television. With the camera’s set position behind one baseline, the third dimension of the court is lost, and with it the awe-inspiring quickness and physicality of the players. That said, what TV can do — especially in tennis — is shape a narrative and propel it forward. The twenty-two thousand fans sitting in Arthur Ashe stadium on Saturday might have been able to see where the ball actually went on the return (impossible on the broadcast without slow-motion), but it is unlikely that they could have seen where it was going to lead.
“Surely it won’t happen again,” one of the announcers said after the miracle forehand, referring to Federer’s parallel collapse the year before. But if the cameras told us anything — alternating between shots of a suddenly inflamed Djokovic, a shell-shocked Federer, and a crowd who had just been bullied into applause by the sheer brilliance of that shot — the announcer was correct. Surely it wouldn’t happen again. Because it just did.

Tim is a junior. You can reach him at tbernst1@swarthmore.edu

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