Genius is not replicable. Inspiration, though, is contagious, and multiform — and even just to see, close up, power and aggression made vulnerable to beauty is to feel inspired and (in a fleeting, mortal way) reconciled.
–David Foster Wallace, “Roger Federer as Religious Experience,” 2006
The few seconds I’ll remember came when John Isner lobbed a shot over Roger Federer’s head into the ad corner. You could see what was coming before it happened: In the way Federer gave chase and positioned his body, how he ran past the ball, let it pass between his legs and come oh-so-close to striking the ground before flicking his wrist and blindly scooping the little yellow sphere off the floor — his back still to the net — to send a through-the-wickets rocket across toward Isner. A bit of casual genius.
Isner seemed caught off guard. His return went straight back to Federer, and the Swiss savant smacked a screamer down the line to Isner’s right, and the giant from North Carolina could only shrug his shoulders as the crowd gasped and screamed at what they’d just seen, a Federer Moment live and in color. Even if it were in the midst of an exhibition in which it was never totally clear how hard anyone was actually trying. It was a slice of beauty and greatness, and that’s what all these thousands of people had paid their hundreds of dollars to see.
At least I can only assume as much. It would be strange if anyone’s primary attraction to the Match for Africa at Key Arena on the last Saturday in April were any of the other festivities: The hip-hop violin performance. The drum circle. The sight, during a doubles match also featuring Pearl Jam’s Mike McCready, of Bill Gates in athletic shorts trying to sneak volleys past the 6-foot-10 Isner at the net — and at one point, actually succeeding! It was all a rather strange affair, but I guess that’s what happens when you try to stretch a forty-five-minute tennis match into a three-hour show. And it was all for charity, so can you really complain?
No. You can’t. We all knew the bargain: Put up with the hullabaloo, and the reward was a brush with athletic royalty. Any serious list of the millennium’s (or history’s) best athletes has to include Federer, and fairly high up. Depending on how you feel about Barry Bonds and Tiger Woods, he’s the greatest sportsman I’ve ever had the chance to see in person. So it was undeniably cool to see him walk out of the tunnel, to see that trademark forelock of brown hair curling perfectly over the brim of his Nike headband, to see the ferocious athleticism of a Federer serve in person, a moment of balletic explosion.
There’s something to be said for watching a great athlete mess around. I’ve watched Damian Lillard kill time shooting around in a community college gym and I’ve seen him score 59 points in person, and I’ve gotta say, the community college might have been more impressive. My favorite memory of the U.S. Open at Chambers Bay was witnessing PGA Tour players crush six-irons 230 yards on the driving range. Batting practice is better than most baseball games.
“Messing around” might be a little strong for what Federer and Isner were doing, but their two-set match was certainly casual. I don’t know if they broke a sweat. Still, it was a show. Isner hit the 125 mile-per-hour mark on one serve and played the perfect foil, cracking jokes and throwing his hands up with the perfect “what-am-I-supposed-to-do-about-that” drama after each moment of Federer brilliance. And Federer provided a few of those: A particularly wicked slice here, a pinpoint forehand there, a back-to-the-net, between-the-legs screamer when the situation required it.
More languages than usual could be overheard at Key Arena on Saturday night, a crowd come from all over. There were selfies and phone flashes aplenty, and tickets weren’t cheap. It was distinctly a destination. People were there to enjoy their Saturday nights, but people were also there to be able to say, three decades from now, “I saw Roger Federer play tennis.” I hope we all had fun. Because the chance (and his like) probably won’t come again.