Unseen Beauty

There he stood, his knees slightly bent in a constant movement that even the most attentive observer does not perceive; a slight tremble attests to the tension in every muscle. Swaying from one leg to another as a boat in a storm, his vision stays focused on the opponent. His racing mind plays through the different scenarios. His eyes close for the shortest moment, quickly reopening and reanalyzing the situation only to realize nothing has altered. The player swiftly wipes his hair out of his eyes, showing a small sign of irritation as the wind gently nudges it back on his forehead. The racket, leisurely spinning in between his strong hands, glints in the brilliant afternoon sun. The small contraction of his body shows that impact is imminent.

A balance switch, as the man leans forward on his toes, his feet soaring inches from the ground in a blur of speed and perfection allowing him to attain the spot that his professional instinct asserts is the best. He is a bear, hovering, with unmerciful paws, focusing on a peaceful salmon swimming, oblivious of his intent. His upper torso rotates as his powerful arms shift back never hesitating on the approach to take. He has made up his mind; he has determined where he intends to propel the ball. There is no time for mistakes; all depends on the previous calculations and now nothing can be changed. Silence roams, the continual rustle emitted from the crowd disappears as a thousand pair of eyes, without realizing the effort necessary to generate one shot, stare, their minds subdued by the movement of the ball. Federer is now lost in his own focus. All he distinguishes is the spinning of the small yellow ball and behind it the net and the player already prepared for the next return.

Landing exactly where he had predicted, the ball springs right back up in the air, heading directly for the awaiting racket. A thin cloud of red dust floats up in the air mixing with the sweat slowly rolling down the player’s cheek, occasionally stopping only to keep on in it’s descent. Suddenly there is a stronger gust of wind, one that doesn’t affect the spectators but that can slightly deviate the trajectory of such a small and light projectile. The highly trained eyes of the player are taught to see such turn of events. Shifting his weight to his right leg, Federer whips his racket straight into the ball generating vibrations throughout the racket through his whole arm. Satisfaction would have been the normal reflex, but although he knows it is a good shot, he quickly replaces himself, going through all the possibilities the adversary could propose to him

Once he has realized his shot is beyond the reach of any player, he does not celebrate or demonstrate arrogance. He simply waits for a return that he knows will not come. When the thud of the ball striking the back wall resounds, he turns and, wiping his drenched face, prepares for the next point. No one can analyze what this man is thinking; his stern expression is one of concentration and gives away no inner feelings. Although fatigue is starting to be felt, he looks as though he could go on playing forever. His analytic eyes deduce from the opponents shuffle that he is tired: both mentally and physically. When he sets back out on the court it is with new motivation and energy.