I don’t ever think I’ve seen a ballsier return than Djokovic’s against Federer in this afternoon’s men’s semis. Djokovic had come back from two sets down, but Federer was serving for the match in the 5th. Fed kicks a serve wide and Nole absolutely crushes his forehand return cross-court, and it lands barely in. The crowd, who had been loudly rooting for Fed, was stunned…and then Nole turned to them, arms outstretched, looking for the approval and support he so clearly deserved.

The match turned; Djokovic went on to win 6-7 (7), 4-6, 6-3, 6-2, 7-5.

Djokovic, in the press conference afterwards, acknowledged the risk he was taking with that shot.

“If it comes in, it comes in,” he said. “It’s a risk. Last year, I was in a very similar situation. He was two match points up. I was hitting a forehand as hard as I can. You’re gambling. If it’s out, you lose. If it’s in, maybe you have a chance. I got lucky today.”

For his part, Federer wondered if Djokovic had grown up making those shots, taking those risks.

“I did all the right things in so many tournaments,” Federer said. “But like I said, sometimes in sports it just goes the other way. Maybe you’ve already won so much that it evens it out a bit sometimes. I don’t know.”

We don’t know either. But it’s amazing to watch.

Hey Dodgers fan*— maybe it’s time to turn to tennis? Here’s some verbiage to get you in the mood for the US Open.

Following on yesterday’s fantastic New York Times Magazine piece by Gerald Marzorati on great tennis rivalries (coupled with photos of Andy Samberg), Byliner’s packaged up ten of their favorite long form pieces on tennis. David Foster Wallace leads with #1 and #2, but there are other greats on the list including Sara Corbett’s wonderful 2003 piece on Venus Williams…

Over the last several years, Venus and Serena have been universally treated as a single organism, as twinned souls embarked on a solo mission — one that seems to garner a double dose of competitive bile.

Eight years later, people still think of Venus and Serena as a single organism. (Hint: Serena’s the one to watch, despite the fact that she’s been sidelined most of this year with minor health problems like a pulmonary embolism.)

*There’s only one of you left, right?

Because after writing this paragraph in his coverage of the women’s final this weekend in The Guardian, he clearly needed one…

The beauty of Sharapova goes beyond her long legs and blonde hair. Her tennis is engaged with a silken movement that leads to precision across the disciplines, but, when it mattered most, those connected elements deserted her for the second time in three days and the title was gone before the sweat had left her lovely brow.

In the interest of balance, I’d love to see someone from The Guardian write about Djokovic in the same way. I mean, have you seen his abs?

Via nearly every media outlet with a “smugly bemused” setting, we get word that the BCC has developed software to allow on-line viewers to vary the volume of the on-court grunting at Wimbledon. Each individual viewer can control their own experience, by dialing up or down either the court-side mic or the commentary from the booth. Yes, finally you can tune out all that useless grunting and just concentrate on the sound of women heavily exerting themselves.

And we say it’s about time! It’s been over thirty years since NBC broadcast a commentator-less NFL game, and the technology finally exists to permit each individual to decide what they want to hear. If I can filter my on-line news to just stories about grunting women, why can’t I do the same with my sports? Or, better, why limit such critical technology to tennis, instead of real games? Why limit it to just the sound?

Imagine the future:

You control the mix of the dugout microphone, as you listen to baseball players spit, plan wife swaps and assault water coolers!

You control the amount of drugs in any particular Tour de France rider’s system!

You control how much effort LeBron puts into the fourth quarter of a Finals game! (Buggy. Currently stuck on 0.)

You control the length of basketball players’ shorts, the height of their ‘fros, and color of the ball! (1976 Nostalgia Package extra.)

You control the duration of the NBA and NFL lock-outs! Ha. Just kidding. Suck it up, losers.

You control how many angry e-mails we get, as that single sentence back there is the entirety of our Tour de France coverage!

You control the length of Brian Wilson’s beard! (Current options: Pirate, Viking, Homeless Drifter, Howard Hughes, Tim Linsecum But Turned-Around.)

You control the American interest in soccer! (Duplicate of the LeBron bug.)

You control how much hockey we cov— Whoa, there, Sparky. It doesn’t go that high. Stop it. You’re going to break the controls! Let go! … You do realize that the season is over, right?

You control how many laps of the same damned thing you’re willing to watch in any given NASCAR race! (Common sense would seem to indicate that this be between two and six, but apparently it can go up to, like, 500. That can’t be right. We’re double-checking.)

You control the volume of both the commentators and Frank McCourt’s screams, as he’s finally given what he deserves!

You control how long this stupid article goes o—

[Photo from the Cleveland Plain Dealer, for all your grunting-women news.]

I watched the third and fourth set of Jo-Wilfried Tsonga’s upset of Roger Federer at Wimbledon from bed this morning. Believe me, if you watched those sets, the only shocking thing was that he had lost the first two. Federer looked totally outmatched. I don’t think this is on Federer—I think Tsonga was playing the match of his life. It was kind of amazing, like he flipped a switch and became one of the best players in the world.

[Photo: Tsonga backhand by Not enough megapixels]

Mike: you still in London?

Me: i am. just back at the hotel after a night at the pub.

Mike: perfect time to write your wimbeldon post!

Me: two weird things about sports in london: 1) people actually care about wimbledon. they had it playing in our office when andy murray was on. they care. they really care.

Me: 2) people pay attention to cricket. and it turns out the iphone is the perfect "pay attention to cricket" device, since matches last like two or three months. cricket is why push alerts were invented. ALERT: SOMETHING JUST HAPPENED.

Mike: i'll never understand cricket

Me: me neither. even though it looks like baseball!

Mike: except that there's sandwiches. so i map it to bowling. if i'm drinking and eating i must be bowling

Me: that makes sense

Mike: right?

Me: absolutely. maybe we should start paying attention to cricket. and really alienate the readers.

As if slowly making my way through The Pale King wasn’t enough, watching Federer this weekend was a reminder that David Foster Wallace is, indeed, dead.

Starting Friday morning I went into a mini-media blackout in order to have time to really enjoy my DVR’d French Open men’s semis and final (not that avoiding news about professional tennis is all that hard). I love watching the men play on clay — it slows the game down enough to have it appear to be played by actual people, instead of genetically improbable super humans. 

Friday’s semi-final against Djokovic occasionally reminded me of Federer at his peak. He wasn’t perfect, but there were flashes of perfection…points that simply took your breath away. At one point I tweeted DFW’s description of Federer —  ”kinetic beauty” — with a link to his classic essay in the New York Times about Federer.

Because of DFW’s obsession with Federer (set against his deep love of tennis) the two are inextricably linked in my mind: DFW’s prose is to contemporary american literature as Federer’s peak game is (or, more accurately, was) to men’s tennis.

Which is what made Sunday’s final so disappointing. Fed was obviously a long shot: Nadal is unstoppable on clay (and barely stoppable on any other surface), and had only dropped two sets the entire tournament. But watching Federer go up 5-2 in the first set, and then lose five games straight — and the next set — reminded me that Federer is, indeed, human. His best tennis is behind him.

In an alternate universe, DFW is still alive, and is still writing about Federer, chronicling this phase of his career, and comparing him to Nadal and Djokovic and Murray. Instead, we’re left wishing Pale King were more like Infinite Jest, that Federer today were more like Federer yesterday. And knowing that it’s only a matter of time before there won’t be any more Wallace to read or kinetic beauty to watch.