Farewell, Marat

And so it ended, in a loss to Juan Martin Del Potro, a newly-crowned prince of the game. A player who was a mere scrawny kid when Marat Safin beat Pete Sampras at the 2000 US Open final, and was heralded by all, Sampras included, as the future of tennis.

But that was never meant to be.

In my all years of following tennis, riding emotional storms generated by the movements of small, fuzzy, yellow balls, there were quite a few players I liked in a way that transcended the game. Roger Federer brought me to tennis and became one of the greatest loves of my life. Kim Clijsters was my model for niceness unspoiled by success. Venus Williams was a symbol of class. Serena – the quintessential queen warrior. Marcos Baghdatis was joyful rays of a young sun – his results notwithstanding.

None of my likes has anything to do with the way those guys and gals wield a racket. Neither are my dislikes, which have always been much fewer. And Marat Safin was the first of them.

I couldn’t stand the guy. There was something in the injustice this all– a talented guy wandering through life, muttering under his breath, spraying balls all over, smashing rackets ‘cuz I can afford to’, constantly choking, underachieving, vanishing while leaving his body behind, to go through the motions of the game. Giving broody press conferences, full of dark self-loathing. I couldn’t buy into this ‘Big Russian Personality’ idea. He was a cross between Peter Pan and the eternal backpacker, traveling all over the world not to find pleasure but because, apparently, he couldn’t think of anything better to do.

And he was gorgeous. No point in denying that. All over the world, women were swooning over him. Watching matches only to see him gliding over the court in all his glory, watching interviews and caring not for the answers but for the fall of his dark locks over his forehead. For the look of his expressive, deep eyes…

I resented that. Safin was narcissist, irresponsinle, immature, and totally self-absorbed. He wasn’t a bad guy, not the kind who takes pleasure from practicing any vices. But he marched to his own drum, never noticing or caring who and what got in the way. He didn’t care for tennis achievements, dismissing his two grand slam titles as ‘nice, but I hate to be reminded of them. Why do people make a great deal of them?’ he didn’t care for any appearance of propriety, on one memorable occasion filling his player box with blond bimbos. He never knew the meaning of diplomacy – nor, it seems, of compassion. (He recently called Agassi’s revelation that he took recreational drugs both ‘stupid’ and ‘cruel’, wondering whether he just wanted to make sure his book sell well and make more money. Agassi got a lot of flack from others too, but none of the current players put it quite like Marat did.)

Yet he was loved. People found his outbursts funny, his ramblings charming, his apathy interesting…he was unique, there was no doubt of that. I just didn’t want his uniqueness to be any part of the game I loved.

And now it is not. And, strangely enough, I can’t feel happy about it.

After years of solid dislike, the last year was different. He had announced it would be his last year on the tour, and as fans all over the world followed him, already nostalgic, I followed him with scientific detachment, mildly curious as to how it all end up.

It ended up just as he had probably wanted. No swan song, not one last redeeming big win, no extremely bizarre losses (and he had plenty of that in his career). The drama king went through the motions one last time – and quite free of drama. No, he will not miss the game. No, he will not get sentimental over anything. No, he was quite happy with his career, thank-you-very- much.

And somehow during this year, I came to realize that, when it came to marat, I was as lacking in compassion as I suspected him to be. That this grown child was born without any internal dashboard to monitor and change the settings of his inner self. That if he succeeded, it was thanks to talent occasionally managing to overcome his basic inclination: the inclination to drift through life guided solely by his moods and desires. A disastrous temperament if there ever was one.

And yes, I am worried about the future of Marat Safin. Tennis probably kept him as committed as ever would be – which sounds too much like a doom for any human being. As Peter Bodo wrote in his Tennis world blog: “The world is littered with unhappy women who thought they could take a Safin-esque kind of guy and reform him, inspire him to be an achiever – to bend to the pressure and join the vast majority of men who embrace the call of responsibility, hard work, even family-building. But all his adult life, Safin seemed hell bent on clinging to something like his authenticity”

I feel for any woman who ends up married to this oh-so-authentic man. But right now, I feel more for Safin himself. He has money and fame, looks and adoring fans. He has nothing to entice him out of this clinging-to-authenticity, this paralyzing tendency to be himself in the most primitive way: staying static, unchanged, and undeveloped. Not growing into the full potential of self but rather embracing the egocentric, childish, early bud of self. The one which will never tie itself to anything and to anybody.

It was loosely attached to tennis, though, and now that this is gone, I worry for Marat Safin. My hate is no more, love will never be there, but I can feel compassion. Compassion for the man who has everything – and nothing. .

So farewell, Marat. And do take care.

November 12, 2009. Uncategorized.