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It would be understandable if the announcement of Roger Federer’s retirement failed to penetrate the blanket coverage of the mourning that has gripped Britain since Queen Elizabeth II’s death last week. However, whilst he never commanded a 4-mile queue through the capital, every summer the indomitable Swiss drew thousands of ordinary British people to queue through the night for the Wimbledon Tennis Championships. Like their counterparts lining London’s streets today, these brave souls withstood the British weather and a sleepless night under canvas. These hardcore punters had flocked from disparate corners of the world to camp in Wimbledon Park, but when reporters questioned their motives, they answered in unison:
“We want to see Roger!”
As in every sport, the debate about definitive greatness will rumble on. A triumvirate containing Federer, Rafael Nadal, and Novak Djokovic has dominated men’s tennis since before many Oxford undergraduates were born. Countless opinion pieces have been written about the strengths and, for want of a better word, weaknesses of the ‘Big Three’. Yet Federer’s career deserves an analysis that does not use the exploits of his two great rivals as a jumping-off point. It feels ridiculous to suppose that these titans of the modern game should, or even could, be ranked from best to worst. This crude exercise demeans their achievements and their legacies.
It is probably coincidental that Wimbledon’s organisers recorded a decline in attendance in 2022, the first year without Federer’s participation since the last millennium. Nevertheless, it is true that wherever he played, his allure was irresistible. If Roger was there, the people came. This may have been simply because his skills were extraordinary, combining a flowing one-handed backhand with a forehand that seemed, on occasion, to be laser-guided. It was a joy to witness his impeccable feel at the net, his metronomic serve, and his sheer elegance. Beads of sweat and misplaced hairs were collectors’ items and to see him lose composure on the court was a sight as inconceivable as James Bond in a hoodie.
But there was more to it than just pure skill. The Centre Court Crowd™ adored ‘Roger’, not simply for the fact that he won such a staggering number of titles, but because of how each of those victories made them feel. For them, his eight Championship victories were always more than the sum of their parts. The All-England Lawn Tennis Club has always seen its annual showpiece as a venerable national institution, which looks down on the more commercialised and less unique Grand Slams. Federer was an ideal poster boy for this self-perception. He epitomised the Wimbledon ‘vibe’, with its tradition, etiquette, and elegance. His most recent Centre Court appearance, for the centenary celebrations this August, underlined his status as a tennis deity. He wasn’t dressed to play, and his sharply cut dark suit instead marked him out as a wise grandee, returning to a stage on which he felt he could no longer compete athletically. The crowd cheered louder than ever.
It has always been a different story with Djokovic, who stood alongside him during that appearance. It is conceivable, but not certain, that the Serbian will surpass Federer’s
remarkable record of 8 Wimbledon titles. He is a peerless physical specimen who, if he can beat off the advances of Alcarez, Sinner and co., could compete at the highest level for the remainder of the decade. And yet, the wolflike roars which he produces following his flawless eviscerations of opponents are rarely greeted with anything more than polite applause. His post-match grandstanding and heartfelt speeches about his ‘favourite tournament’ never quite strike the right chord. The Centre Court Crowd™ refuses to love him back.
This suggests that the difference between Federer and the other greats was something more elusive. It had nothing to do with skill, talent, or determination. It could not be coached into existence nor conjured by tactical innovation. It was entirely supernatural. He had the intangible ability to captivate a crowd in its entirety, to force them to participate in the drama he had fashioned on the court. During certain points of his famous defeat to Rafael Nadal in the 2008 Wimbledon final, it felt as though he was manipulating the passage of time. He had the unique ability to make a game frequently dominated by brute force and sheer exhaustion feel lofty and sophisticated. His legacy will not be measured by his legions of ATP titles or his cabinet of Grand Slam trophies. Instead, we must mourn his departure because to watch him was to feel elated, rather than merely impressed. The memories of his magic and the recollections of the joy he produced are incalculable.