Should a tennis ball ever reach heaven, only Roger Federer could have hit it there. A farewell bow, by star-Reporter Mathias Schneider.
Sometimes, when he seemed to be dancing around his opponent again, lighter as a feather, outwitting the physics, with nailed half-flying balls that seemed to be unable to overcome a net, they were hit so quickly and flat – and then they did it anyway; so sometimes, when I saw this Roger Federer play, it seemed like he had mesmerized his audience. Men in jackets, women in sundresses, young lads in t-shirts, and brightly hated seniors all stared at his racquet in anticipation of what the artist would come up with next with his no-frills technique. Noble every swing, cat-like movements, not a drop of sweat to disturb the devotion.