Bobby Fischer had great body language in front of a chessboard. Admittedly, the idea of a grandmaster having, let alone needing, good body language is odd. After all, what use is it in a sport that relies entirely on the mind?
At over six feet, Fischer towered over most opponents, so much that it prompted a former head of the US Chess Federation to remark: “Just watching him sitting at the board you’d think, ‘Gee, that guy’s going to win’.”
But there was also his demeanour, ice-cool to such a degree it freaked out opponents. He was inscrutable, making moves that looked weak at first, but required serious reassessment because of how coolly and surely he made them. It scrambled opponents’ minds further that he took so little time in making his moves.
Over the course of a long series of matches, his opponents would slowly fall apart, often falling ill physically. “Fischer-fear” it came to be known.
In much the same manner exists Serena Williams in the world of tennis. And rarely has the singular force of just being Serena Williams been more vividly demonstrated than this week at the French Open.
It has been compelling. Thrice she has dropped the first set yet gathered herself to triumph. In two of those matches she was on the verge of going out altogether. As with Fischer, though, her opponents have slowly fallen apart, the realisation creeping up on them like some insect that they are playing Serena Williams.
Maybe it is not fear, exactly. No professional athlete will admit to that. But the sweaty anxiety that accompanies all paths to impending doom seemed to be observable. Everyone, including her opponents, knew that Williams will turn up at some point and when she did, well, there might be no stopping her.
Essentially, the contests did not even involve an opponent. Williams was basically playing against herself. On the one side was the lethargic, unmotivated Williams, seemingly disdainful of tennis. Early in both matches, she moped about the court, her sullenness as telegraphed as that of an attention-seeking teenager.
Then, suddenly but inevitably appeared Williams, the 19-time slam winner, arguably the greatest female player. She did not literally unzip her sweater to reveal an “S” on her top and a cape, but figuratively she may as well have, such was the transformation.
Then, she began playing as if she could not believe her opponent hitherto had the gall to challenge her. Or maybe she just got angry at how she was beating herself.
Against Sloane Stephens, Williams needed to be a set down, 2-3 and 15-30 before she got serious. She won a 27-stroke rally, let out a scream and that was that. Thereafter she hit balls visibly harder, with increasing anger. She ran shots down. Her serve rediscovered its pep and range. More than Stephens or Victoria Azarenka, Williams overcame herself.
Watching her this week was to believe that she was deliberately making it harder for herself. That she wanted to see how far down she could go before still coming out on top. In a way it was like the mastery of Jahangir Khan, the great squash player, who was able to tailor his wins according to the needs of broadcasters. If they wanted a match over quickly so as not to interrupt regular programming, he would oblige. If they wanted matches to stretch, he would oblige again.
These matches can be seen as a microcosm of the late-career Williams and her towering over the women’s tour. Whenever she has been in the mood, the entire women’s tour has to stand aside. When she has not, she has lost mostly to herself.
All of which has made for an interrupted and intermittent form of dominance, though no less resounding. It is still around her moods and form that the entire tour often brings order to itself. She has won six of the 13 slams since 2012. As many as five other players have shared the leftovers. None of them can be said to ever have had the better of her.
A compelling week yes, but, in providing glimpses of Williams’ mortality, it has also felt illusory.
osamiuddin@thenational.ae
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