When I read in Christopher Jackson’s thoughtful new book that Roger Federer was “aging exceptionally slowly by tennis standards”, I was reminded of Bilbo Baggins. The magic ring gave Tolkien’s hobbit unnatural longevity, and while he looked young, he felt weirdly old, “like butter that has been scraped over too much bread”. I wondered if Federer ever feels in any way like butter, but quickly chastised myself. Be still! That’s not the sort of metaphor you can use with the Prince of Tennis, the Gentleman God in our midst. Dairy products – or hairy-footed, greedy halflings – make for blasphemous comparisons.
Federer is an intimidating opponent for a writer, especially if the writer has been bewitched by him. The mix of his huge talent and the relentlessness of his “brand” can quickly lead to hyperbole. Jackson’s opening declaration made me worry: “It has been my instinct to circle him.” In the early chapters, he offers faithful prayers to the champion in much of the standard language of the Federer cult. We’re told that he has the “air of a modern king”, that he is like a “Greek athlete” and, more fantastic still, that he has “the look of a Greek statue permitted motion”. Jackson traces tennis’s royal lineage as an aristocratic pastime, preparing the palace for Fed’s arrival.
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