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By Blair Henley / Friday, January 17, 2014
Despite the contant presence of his family and a team of
handlers to rival that of an international pop star, Roger
Federer finds time to write in his Italian leather-bound
journal.
Photo Credit: Mark Peterson / Corleve
January 13, 2014 – Monday
My platinum plated iPhone 5 awakened me with the victorious
tones of Queen’s We Are the Champions. It was
Stefan.
Time to rise and shine, King Roger! Meet me at the courts in
20. I have insisted he not call me king, not in public anyway
(people get the wrong idea). But just as Stefan relentlessly
approached the net during his prime, so too has he broken down
my defenses. I let it slide. Plus, Mirka tells me she likes it.
And, let’s be honest, if Switzerland had relevant royalty, I’m
sure I would be an honorary member. For goodness sake, Andy
wins a couple of Grand Slams and he’s visiting Buckingham
Palace.
I don’t have a match today, so Stefan and I are headed out for
a light hit. Things have worked out quite well since bringing
the Swede on board. Andy and
Nole are both working with legends, and given
the fact that I couldn’t very well bring myself on as my coach,
I settled on Stefan. Plus, his golden mop contrasted well with
my chocolate locks. I would never admit it publicly, but
Paul’s thinning dome was starting to make
me uneasy. Mirka kept telling me that balding is not
contagious, but spending time around Stefan’s buff mane can’t hurt.
January 14, 2014 – Tuesday
Another day, another victory. James Duckworth
faced a quick death at my hand this afternoon in front of his
home crowd – or was it my home crowd? If the Australians are
honest with themselves, they would admit that their love for my
classic game and timeless style surpasses that for their own
countrymen.
I must have been feeling too confident for my own good after
the match because I ran into some trouble with the paparazzi.
My hairstylist couldn’t make it to the Australian Open this
year, so I had to improvise. I slipped on my Aussie disguise —
skinny jeans, striped tee, sunglasses — and headed out to the
local convenience store. There it was, right in front of me. I
grabbed the last remaining box of the Just For Men “Swiss
Chocolate” variety and headed for the door. When I walked
outside, I saw a lone paparazzo lurking in the shadows. Like I
had so many times before in these situations, I approached him,
handed him $5,000 and took his memory card. My secret is safe.
When my hair grew back from “The Cut” last year, I started noticing a
touch of grey. Again, Mirka says she liked it, but I’ve
struggled to handle the convergence of so many signs of aging
at once – backaches, another child, losses. It’s been too much
to handle. My rich head of hair stays, for now.
But slowly I’m getting my mojo back, as the American’s say.
When I renegotiated my Nike contract at the end of the year,
they agreed to a clause placing all other Nike athletes in the
least attractive colors they could find, leaving me to stand
out in my crisp, white polo and fiery red shoes. I caught a
glimpse of Rafa’s Australian Open look on television and
well, I almost felt sorry for him. Brown, blue and red don’t
mix. Muchos gracias, Nike.
January 15, 2014 – Wednesday
Another routine day today as I knocked off Blaz
Kavcic. As I was leaving the locker room, I ran smack
into Boris Becker. Like an albino at
nighttime, his skin glowed under the fluorescent light. I said
hello, of course, but nothing to indicate the level of our
relationship. When I heard Novak was in the market for a new
coach, I may or may not have paid Boris to make himself
available. And when Boris tries to convince you of something,
he can be very persuasive. One look into those translucent blue
eyes, and you’re instantly lost in Boris Land. Djokovic must
have been putty in those pale, freckled hands.
I suppose their relationship could work out well, but the odds
of Boris inflicting some level of psychological damage during
their year together is far more likely. In fact, I’m counting
on it.
They closed the roof for my match on Hisense today, thank
goodness. The heat has been fantastic for clearing out my
pores, so says my aesthetician, but the conditions are
positively inhumane. The Lindor truffles I left in my tennis
bag didn’t survive. Last year I was wearing an undershirt
during my matches; this year I’ve had to change my sweaty tees
several times throughout. I don’t feel self conscious about the
dark down covering my chest like a child’s blankie until I see
a replay of Rafa’s shirt change. That chest is as smooth as
Andre Agassi’s skull, no doubt. Myla and Charlene like to braid
my chest hair for fun. If it weren’t for that, I’d give my
Gillette razor a real test and shave it all off.
As I make my way to my car, I hear my phone chiming.
Congratulatory texts from my friends must be coming in. At this
stage of my career, they know to text early on.
Tiger Woods: Dude! Do something about that
chest hair.
Gavin Rossdale: Rog!
Thanks for letting us borrow your hair stylist for a couple of
weeks. If he comes back wanting to dye your hair blonde, don’t
blame me.
January 17, 2014 — Friday
I’m startled from my repose in my Superstar Deluxe Royal Suite
by a knock at the door. Not stopping to ponder how this early
morning visitor made it up to my room, I peek through the
peephole and see a giant hazel eyeball staring back. I know
instantly. I open the door to see the gentle giant,
Juan Martin Del Potro, standing in front of
me. Well, I can’t see his head – it’s above the level of the
door frame – but I’d know that eye color anywhere.
Though I didn’t stay up to watch the conclusion of the matches
the night before, I gather from Delpo’s haggard appearance that
he did not emerge victorious. Before I knew it, he had wrapped
me in a warm embrace, my head nestled between his pectorals.
“When my heart is sad and empty, I fill it up with the love of friends,” he said.
And with that, he was gone, careful not to hit his head on the
way out. With Del Potro eliminated, I was reminded of just how
fragile a player’s Grand Slam existence can be. Tomorrow I play
Teymuraz, so preparation is of utmost importance. I can hear
Mirka drawing my Perrier bath, and I know it’s time to start my
day. Victory awaits.
______________________
Blair Henley is a tennis
writer and a proud owner of a one-handed backhand. That, and her
silky locks, are all she has in common with Roger Federer. Follow
her on Twitter: @BlairHenley
To read previous entries in Roger Federer’s Australian Open
diary, click here.
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