When tennis fans voted Roger Federer their favourite player for the 17th year in a row it might have stretched credulity beyond Planet Tennis but it surprised nobody within touching distance of his hem. There have been dogs in country and western songs not as faithful as Federer’s disciples. He makes Alan Partridge jealous.
Federer’s house is so full of trophies, his wife, Mirka, and their four kids have to live in the car … No, that’s not true. But he is a walking magnet for accolades. It sometimes feels as if people want to give him an award just to be close to him. Certainly one hears the bubbling‑under orgasms at press conferences: “Roger, where would you put that amazing shot in your all-time great shots?” he was asked in Melbourne a few years ago. “Top 100,” he replied too quickly, before blushing.
So what is left to get for the man who has everything his genius can bring him? A spaceship? Make him lifetime president of the solar system? A week’s free coaching with Novak Djokovic? Then, just when we thought his Christmas stocking had burst its strings, along bounced a bauble totally out of left field. In a poll conducted by an upmarket men’s magazine, Federer on Friday beat the seriously hip young American actor Timothée Chalamet, after a week-long people’s vote on Instagram, to be hailed as the Most Stylish Man of the Decade.
Forget, for a moment, the Agassi-esque bleached locks period of Roger’s distant youth and ignore, if you can, the catwalk disasters at Wimbledon that once induced muffled sniggering in the locker room: the blazer, the military coat, the bizarre waistcoat, the grandad cardigan. Federer has been a suit man for a while now, a sober gent at last, flashing his accessories like his forehand.
So, fair play to the 38-year-old father of four from a quiet Swiss village who strutted convincingly enough for the readers of GQ to see off a field including A$AP Rocky, Jonah Hill, Harry Styles, LeBron James, Kanye West and Ryan Gosling. (Andy Murray did not make the shortlist. Or the long list.)
It is, it appears, impossible not to love him. A week after Federer and Stan Wawrinka nearly came to blows at the 2014 ATP World Tour Finals in London – because of a hot-tempered final fuelled by Mirka’s courtside taunting – they were celebrating Switzerland’s first Davis Cup triumph in Lille. Happy on champagne, Stan was tickled by yet another sycophantic media question for his old chum, and mumbled to himself: “We all love you, Roger!” Federer, who had also had a glass or too, smiled back. All was forgiven.
Nevertheless, for those of us allegedly constricted in our worship by professional distance, it can be difficult to get on track with the love-in that often is nothing less than weird. It’s scary. It’s Beatles‑level adoration. When he won Wimbledon in 2003, the Swiss gave him a cow called Juliette. There is no denying Federer is the game’s most venerated player. Ever. Among all athletes of all time he surely is in the top 10, perhaps top five. Maybe he is No 1, the GOAT of all GOATS. Or is he?
The only other sports celebrity to generate such levels of awe by walking into a room was Muhammad Ali. I recall a conversation with Annabel Croft at a tournament a few years ago as Federer strolled through the players’ lounge. “It’s amazing,” she said, watching heads turn, including nearly all the players’. “Only Ali has ever been able to do that.”
Ali’s power over us was as complete as his mastery of his contemporaries but he brought more than punches to the party. He was hilariously funny, a bona fide wit, a dominating yet comforting presence, who could make outrageous boasts without sounding arrogant, then launch a rant against prejudice that entranced. He was simple and complex, a sophisticated naïf.
Federer has none of Ali’s showmanship or complexity. He has never expressed a political sentiment in his life. He is determinedly Swiss. However, he plays a game anyone can try. Most tennis fans will have some idea how impossible it is to perform some of the miracles Federer produces under intense pressure. There is connection. What fans also embrace is the aesthetic component. Nobody can ever have looked better swinging a racket, so balanced and quietly powerful, so intelligent and intuitive, so in tune with his sport.
There are aberrations. In an American-heavy list of a few years ago, compiled by someone who obviously hacked into the Bleacher Report website, Federer sneaks aboard at No 45 among “The 100 Most Beloved Athletes in Sports History”. Lance Armstrong was ranked No 8. George Best was at 97. Nuts.
A more credible judgment by ESPN.com this year put Federer sixth in a “world fame 100”, behind Cristiano Ronaldo, James, Lionel Messi, Neymar and Conor McGregor. The rest of their top 10 read: Virat Kohli, Rafael Nadal, Stephen Curry, Tiger Woods, Kevin Durant, Paul Pogba.
Federer cannot go on forever, of course (or can he?). Two years ago at Wimbledon, Tani Christiaens, a 42-year-old Belgian who had followed him all over the world since 2001, could not contain her anxiety when she told a reporter: “It is at the stage now where you have to appreciate every shot, every serve, every time he walks on court. We are blessed every time we witness him.”
Julian Barnes, who loves his tennis, observed in these pages a few years ago: “Perhaps, when the Mighty Fed eventually does retire, he will become just an ordinary, down-home multimillionaire, tending his children and his cows behind the 24-hour security fencing. Perhaps we shall even stop being interested in him. And perhaps – is this possible? – his ego is so uninvolved in his success that he will enjoy this.”
Barnes, incidentally, tracked down Juliette, the most famous cow at Wimbledon. “She was subsequently sent to a farm in Austria and slaughtered in 2007 for not producing enough milk.”
Sometimes you can get too close to your heroes.
