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I'm Chels. I blog about science, art, tennis, and my adventures in journalism. Officially, I'm a Science Writer at Brookhaven National Lab and I blog for them, too. Unofficially, I'm pretty awesome.

Or, you know, owsome.

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Posts tagged wimbledon

He can seem to forget he is special. He can seem to forget how singular his game is. He can stretch for a ball, sliding into a split, direct a difficult backhand up the line, and then find the strength to right himself and recover. He can run, sprinting and cutting and lunging for hours. He can cut off an angle and send a ball dipping along the sharp trajectory of his choosing. He can go for lines and hit them; he can nail corners when the safer shot would land a foot inside. It’s as if he forgets he believes in magic, forgets he’s a mystic, forgets to do something brave.

Then, sometimes, he remembers.

When All Men Doubt You  |  Grantland

This description of Novak Djokovic is so entirely dead on, and later in this piece, Louisa Thomas goes on to say such perfectly phrased truths about his Wimbledon win, that I almost wondered if she got inside my head (or, really, my heart) to see how I felt about it all, and then wrote it down. 

I was sorely disappointed in the idea of Federer losing this match right up until the moment Djokovic won. The sweet tears in his eyes, the humble way he thanked Roger for “letting” him win, and the profound sigh of relief he let out just won me over for him. When the final tennis ball bounced up off the turf, he looked almost surprised that he’d won, and he sank down and put a piece of the grass in his mouth. As if he had to actually taste it to believe he wasn’t dreaming. 

Wimbledon hired a hawk named Rufus to keep the pigeons off the courts. Here is his introduction

All of my favorite sports writers are in Brazil writing about a sport I could not care less about (soccer, I just do not get it), so I’m clinging to any piece of storytelling about Wimbledon that gets me grinning. This is the first thing I’ve seen that did it. 

His trainer did a Reddit AMA, and this little tidbit explains how he does his job:

Rufus has been trained at Wimbledon from 16 weeks of age (he is now 6 years old), and he knows exactly where his favourite spots are, but also where the pigeons like to hide, so every day he does whatever takes his fancy, but is never predictable! He likes to stay quite localised to me, as he knows I am his easiest food source, so although he can pop out of sight on occasion, he is generally back rapidly to check he will be fed!”

Other things I learned about this amazing creature:

  • Rufus was once kidnapped.
  • He also patrols Westminster Abbey.
  • He was named after King Rufus, who was red-haired and strong. 

He’s also stunningly gorgeous. Just watch the video. You’ll see. 

Surface Tension 

In the wake of the Worst Day Ever At Wimbledon, I found myself taking solace in an article on the changing nature of the playing surfaces of the Grand Slam tennis courts. I think I’ve lost it.
(But seriously, this was a fascinating read that convinced me that the top four men in tennis — who have won all but one of every major tournament in the last four years — might not be so dominant were it not for the changes taking place over the last decade. And also, that Federer might have been even more dominant, returning him, in my mind, to the place of all-time greatest.)

I keep thinking about the loneliness of tennis. You know what I mean? That sense that, like empires, tennis players have nothing to draw on but their own internal resources…Tennis players are their own little worlds. All I know is, and I’m sorry if this sounds gawkily romantic, when I look at the eyes of ex-great tennis players I tend to see something haunted, something one degree removed, that isn’t there when I look at old NBA stars or soccer greats…Think about Agassi’s loyal, wounded stare, or Sampras’s look of constantly tolerating everything. McEnroe’s restlessness, Borg’s airtight veneer. Of all the greats, only Billie Jean King strikes me as naturally plugged-in and happy. I suspect that the lovers of great tennis players are acquainted with the sounds of bad dreams.

There’s an obvious explanation for this: Tennis is uniquely individually demanding, requires endless, punishing, inward-focused practice, places the player’s skill in an unforgiving spotlight (no teammates, at least in singles; no coaching, at least by the rules). Tennis literally maroons you out there. The players who excel are the ones who figure out how to survive when they’re marooned. And for the ones who figure that out, it’s never the same when they go back to society.

There’s another explanation, though, which has been occurring to me more and more insistently since I’ve been going to the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club. And that is that tennis is a profound form of sanity. That its beautiful geometries, its exchanges that draw observers in, offer a way of experiencing the physical world at a lucid distance from the anarchy of culture or identity (or whatever). That most of us never escape that anarchy, or escape it just for brief moments with the aid of music or sports or art or drugs (or whatever), which is why we crowd the edges of tennis tournaments, pile onto the hill, watch giant video monitors. Why we buy Wimbledon-branded oven mitts, why we need the Apparatus.

But if you’ve actually played at that level? I mean, what would that look like? Again, I’m sorry if this is romantic, but I can’t help but thinking that, to the best players, it must feel as if they’ve approached some cold, beautiful, peaceful, abstract plane that melted away from them at the instant they touched it, leaving them marooned for a second time, so to speak. (Don’t castaways often miss the islands they’ve been saved from?) How can anyone else understand the experience of reaching out toward that plane? In this sense I imagine that being a great tennis player feels like being an astronaut who’s come back from outer space.

Federer touched that plane on Sunday. It was more than just winning the title.

Roger Federer, Andy Murray, and the Wimbledon Men’s Finals - Grantland

I’m sorry if you’re sick of the tennis posts, but I continue to be so engrossed by the still somewhat unbelievable events at Wimbledon. Brian Phillips’ final dispatch from Centre Court is lovely and you should read it and okay, I promise I’ll shut up about tennis. For now. 

ewilcox:

For the Federer fans out there, a great article by Brian Phillips.

Grantland has become one of my favorite websites, and articles like this are why. This is the best (and truest) essay I’ve ever read about Federer.

"Anyway, at bottom, beneath media narratives and stats and everything else, isn’t that why we love watching the best athletes? Because they take us into the forest and put us face-to-face with something mysterious? Admittedly, you have to strip away a lot of barnacles to get to that point, a lot of accumulated theme music, truck commercials, exploding football helmets, and so on. But there’s something underneath all that stuff, some deep-down fantasy thing we go to top-level sports to get — whether it’s reconciliation with the body or simulated tribal combat or the dream of immortality — and some athletes just make you see it. As if you’d started with the Google Maps view of what it means to be human and zoomed way down through the treetops until you found yourself staring across that pool, tigers lurking somewhere off-screen, freedom like an incandescent animal."

I’m not giving Phillips enough credit unless I also say this is probably the best thing I’ve ever read about sports. Ever.