Roger Federer has a wonderful serve and all the strokes. He’s the right height, 6-foot-1, and the right weight, 187 pounds. He’s fast and light on his feet. On the court, he no longer has a weakness, now that he slugs one-handed backhands rather than slicing most of them. There’s one more essential aspect of his game, though, that no one really talks about, because it sounds so simple but it’s as difficult to achieve as anything in tennis, or life: optimism.
Federer, who won the Australian Open in January and now has a record 20 Grand Slam titles at the age of 36, sees the positive side in everything. In wins. During injuries. When travel is long. He adores his wife, Mirka, and their children, and his parents. Even difficult defeats—brutal ones that could have ended his career—don’t last in his mind or in his emotions. More than anyone else, Federer can accept difficult times and move on. It’s as if the future—what can be—matters more than whatever just happened. Federer is always hopeful about what the next months and years will bring, no matter the past or the present. In all the eras of men’s tennis, there’s never been anyone quite like him. Which makes it remarkable that once upon a time, in the early days of his career, Federer was not this way at all.
Federer started tennis young. He clearly had talent: His swings were relaxed and his vision exceptional, two ideal traits for hitting the ball. Everyone must learn, but some individuals’ skills develop as if they were meant to play the game from birth. No one holds his head as still as Federer, and that’s not a habit he sweated to learn; it came naturally. This helped him develop every stroke in the game from a young age, something that’s rare among all players. But teenage Federer had a temper, too, one that annoyed his parents to the point that they told him that tantrums were not allowed—or he’d be taken out of the sport. Even as a young pro, Federer could lose control. He often lacked confidence and tried to play too many fine strokes rather than ones requiring less precision and less risk. For a long while Federer looked like a player with all the gifts you would want, save one: his mind.
In his career, Federer hasn’t been given enough credit for becoming more mindful, reining in his temper, and rebuilding his attitude—not just since his racket-flinging teen years, but more recently. Back in 2002, Federer lost in the first round of Wimbledon, in three meek sets. He was nearly 21 years old then and seeming to become more frustrated, rather than less; he was making more mistakes. He looked then much like another talented 20-year-old, Alexander Zverev, looks today. Zverev is among the top five in the world now, yet at Grand Slam tournaments he loses early. (He was ousted in the third round at the Australian Open by Hyeon Chung, a talented but lower-ranked player from South Korea.) After Zverev lost, Federer ran into him. Most people would have said nothing, perhaps even just walked away with no words or eye contact. Losers, the thought goes, want to be left alone, or at the most hear “I’m sorry” and that’s it. But Federer, having been in Zverev’s position himself, intervened and talked about optimism and energy beating skepticism and nerves: “I just think it’s important to sometimes take a step back and actually see the good things you’ve done, give yourself time, maybe set the bar a bit lower. . . . Be patient about it. Don’t put yourself under unnecessary pressure. Learn from these mistakes. Whatever happened happened.”
“Whatever happened happened”: That motto has been mastered by Federer. Remember Wimbledon in 2008, when he lost a five-set thriller to Rafael Nadal? The defeat put Nadal in front, as if he had figured out Federer for good. And then, in just a few months, Federer recovered and won the U.S. Open. When Nadal beat Federer at the 2009 Australian Open, Federer cried and said, “God, it’s killing me.” He had lost the last three Grand Slam finals he played against Nadal and again looked like he would never catch up to a younger, more physically imposing player. And then, just like before, Federer bounced back. When Nadal lost at the French Open, Federer beat back his nerves and won the tournament for the first time. He then went on to win Wimbledon too, in a classic match against American Andy Roddick that lasted five sets.
Few players have responded to dire tennis times as well as Federer. And no modern player has done this at Federer’s age. After he won Wimbledon in 2012, when he began to lose more and more, he still seemed to enjoy himself despite the injuries and defeats. This wasn’t just a matter of grit and resilience; tennis had become a puzzle for him and he wanted to solve it, no matter what it took. So he hired new coaches, practiced with new rackets, and, most recently, took risks in his backhand—risks that, it turns out, have made the shot as consistent as his old swing was, even while adding power. All this, for most players, is more than they adjust in an entire career, never mind the tailing end of it. Have you ever carefully, thoughtfully, deliberately recalibrated your tennis game, or your skiing, or your relationship with your spouse? None of those is easy; habits and patterns are hard to change. Yet Federer believed it was possible—just as he always does. And when Federer had to take six months off in 2016 for his knee to fully recover, he immediately planned trips with his family rather than staying at home and sulking. He acted like his time would come, no matter the circumstances. The first—and almost constant—image you would see of Federer was his smile, as if everything was going as planned.
In this year’s Australian Open, Federer also had to contend with fear and worries. He said that he felt vulnerable, first in his match against Tomas Berdych in the quarterfinals and then in the final against Marin Cilic. He fell behind early against Berdych, but came back to win the first set and the next two. It’s charming to see how many worries Federer can have, even though he’s played for so many years and won so many titles. But this isn’t negative. He doesn’t look at a match and say, I can’t win. It’s more that the opponent has a better chance than expected.
“You can’t explain it sometimes,” Federer said. “It is just a feeling you get. It’s like against Berdych, I felt, like, I’m probably going to lose this one. I was not negative, but I just felt like I saw a loss was coming somehow. Not because I was not feeling good or anything, I just felt like maybe Berdych is really feeling it.”
In the final, Federer went from aggressive to nervous and then back to aggressive again. He started fast and took advantage of Cilic, who had trouble adjusting from the warm outdoor temperatures—99 degrees—to the 70s under Rod Laver Arena’s roof. But to his credit, Cilic would not fade. He won the second set in a tiebreaker and then, in the fourth set, won five games in a row to even the match. Federer could have been a goner at this point. His serve was fading. He looked tentative, frustrated, and nervous. Then, in the first game of the fifth set, Federer played the most important points of the match. He saved break points, held, and then broke Cilic’s serve in a close game. Relaxed and suddenly confident, Federer would lose just one game the rest of the way.
Love matters in tennis, and no one has it more than Federer. After his victory, he gave credit to his wife, Mirka. “Without her support, I wouldn’t be playing tennis,” Federer told reporters after the final. “This life wouldn’t work if she said no. Many puzzles need to fit together for me to be able to sit here tonight.”
Federer could win still more titles—he’s playing that well and looking, improbably, that young (he’ll turn 37 in August). But with all he has done, it no longer matters if he does more. He’s the best men’s tennis player in history, one who can do everything: hit with precise feel, play with creativity, manage a match with intelligence, run with grace, and beat anyone. No player in the history of tennis has been more enjoyable for more people than this man, and it’s safe to guess that this will never happen with such fervor for anyone else. Unlike life in Federer’s world, our own optimism, after all, has its limits.
Tom Perrotta writes about sports for the Wall Street Journal, FiveThirtyEight, and other publications.
