Blue Courts at U.S. Open!

Andy Roddick can’t crack Roger Federer. On that, virtually everyone agrees. But a more vital question tickling at the margins of American sport is: Why the hell can’t A-Rod even seem to make a match of his match-ups with Fed? By the end of next week, if form holds in Flushing Meadows, we might find out that Andy has it in him—to once again lift the U.S. Open trophy, and avoid going 1-for-11 lifetime against the tennis magician from Basel.

Two years ago, Andy Roddick was a Prince of Our City. His destiny was complete. A summer of titanic serving and pile-driver forehands had placed him center-court at Arthur Ashe Stadium on a balmy Sunday afternoon in early September, U.S. Open trophy triumphantly raised, the well-heeled fans of Flushing Meadow applauding his achievement. Pete Sampras had retired. Andre Agassi’s iron-man act was getting old. Andy would take up the torch of American men’s tennis. The future had arrived, and it was good.

Well, sort of. In Roddick’s mind, 2003 must now seem like a victory from another century. Or at least an era before Fed took over the game. Even though expectations that Roger Federer would be the first man since Rod Laver to claim the Grand Slam collapsed at this year’s Australian Open, no one wants to bet against the smooth Swiss in ’05.

It’s not hard to understand why. To watch Federer play the game is to witness something breathtakingly close to pure physical art. When Fed takes the court and the cameras scan the spectators, commentators can entertain themselves by picking out the tennis aristocracy that has gathered to watch the Great One practice his craft. This is the true measure of just how sick-good Federer is: The dominant players of bygone days insist on being mesmerized, in person and as a reverent group, by his vast talent. Sampras was greatly admired; he owns over twice as many Grand Slam titles as Federer. Agassi continues to amaze, winning tournaments in his mid-30’s. But Federer is a figure of awe. John McEnroe considers him the most impressive player he’s ever seen. Maria Sharapova has called him “Mr. Perfect.” Federer himself maintains that he knows what he does is—in his own word—“beautiful.”

Roddick has seen just how beautiful up close, in a pair of back-to-back losses to Federer at Wimbledon this year and last. The contrast between the two men verges on parody. The old server-and-volleyer-versus-baseliner match-up doesn’t apply. The difference is more aesthetic than athletic. Federer’s game is angelic and effortless, while Roddick’s is brutal, blunt, borderline ugly—and, these days, an essay in frustration. In an era in which most professional male tennis players often aim to strike the ball as aggressively as possible (to “hit the living crap” out of it, as Roddick says), Federer seems to consider a serve above 125 m.p.h. to be vulgar. He has even taken a position against the drop shot, which he considers beneath his standards. Two or three times in pretty much every match he plays, he causes fans to collectively catch their breath and opponents to shake their heads, mutter, gaze heavenward.

Roddick, of course, lives and dies by his 140-m.p.h.-plus serve, which provokes no shortage of head-shaking and muttering. He’s no counterpuncher, either. Andy wants to bring it, and bring it hard. This is a cruelly effective strategy against most opponents.

But when it comes to Federer, Roddick always looks confused. While Fed prepares to serve, delicately brushing back a stray lock of black hair so as to appear maximally unruffled before slashing the ball into a corner of the box, Roddick fidgets and wiggles and shimmies and sweats buckets. He understands that Roger has no weaknesses. But he desperately wants to make a rivalry out of the relationship. He has bent his mind to the task.

Makes sense. Roddick, in fact, is the opposite of a dumb jock. One of the more well-spoken and obviously intelligent men on the pro tour, he believes that he should have at least one Wimbledon trophy in the case by now, and probably a second U.S. Open title, too. Intellectually, however, he knows that this thing with Federer is a problem. Furthermore, he grasps that, currently, he is not the man for the job. But he shows up and does the work, plays the grueling summer hard-court circuit, tries to rack up the wins and keep his ranking close to No. 1.

Meanwhile, Federer’s true rival drifts in and out of the sport, competing at his leisure.

Marat Safin, the monumentally volatile, existentially tormented, hot-chick-dating Russian, is the only guy who can get into Fed’s head. Where the Federer-Roddick pairing is awkward and, at the moment, completely one-sided, the Federer-Safin match-up seems elegantly preordained. Fed’s regal strut and absolute self-possession perfectly counter Safin’s smoldering sound and fury, the cracked racquets, the violent, omnipresent sense of Slavic anguish.

Federer’s girlfriend-slash-manager, Mirka, is blond and maternal; his sexuality is abstract and, one suspects, wholesome. Safin, on the other hand, is a raw, libidinous force; his latest girlfriend, Dasha, is so darkly luscious that you can understand why he takes time off from the tour. It was Safin who handed Federer one of only three losses this year, in Australia (Safin beat Fed in the semifinals, then went on to deny local son Lleyton Hewitt the title). The great Swedish champion Mats Wilander insists that Safin is the only player capable of consistently challenging Federer. Safin is Federer’s Kryptonite.

But he isn’t the Anti-Fed. Rather, the two men seem intertwined, their destiny shared (for example, Safin’s coach, Peter Lundgren, used to work for Federer). A Federer-Safin match is fascinating—less a contemporary sporting spectacle, more a scene out of European history. Both men have the look and manner of Napoleonic cavalry officers. When they play each other, you wonder why they’re exchanging groundstrokes instead of discussing whether it should be pistols at 20 paces or sabers rather than rapiers. Safin plays an epically powerful all-court game, complemented by pantherlike movement. When he defeated Pete Sampras at the U.S. Open in 2000, he made Pistol Pete look about as bad as you could make him look. While Federer leaves the rest of the tour flat-footed and dumbstruck, when he takes on Safin, he begins to appear frail, rushed and slightly bewildered. (He has also shown some weakness against the Spanish teenage phenom, Rafael Nadal, who took him out at the French Open. But Nadal hasn’t really pulled a reliable hard-court game together yet, although he did bag a title in Canada a few weeks ago.)

A-Rod is the Anti-Fed. Two years ago, his brash, cocky, unconflicted style paid dividends. He was dating Mandy Moore. His youthfulness was fresh and energetic, ideally suited to New York and the raucous National Tennis Center crowds. His game, honed by Winning Ugly guru Brad Gilbert, was intimidating (that relationship, to the dismay of most, has since dissolved). He didn’t win so much as impose defeat.

But then Fed became Fed, and the planets realigned. Depending on how the seeding goes at the Open this year, Andy could meet Fed in either the semifinals or the finals. Which places Roddick in an almost perfect spoiler’s position: He’s the one who could prevent Mr. Perfect from playing the Mad Russian for the title. At the moment, Federer—who took a long break after winning Wimbledon—appears a tad rusty. And Safin? Well, he’s winning some and losing some. Hitting his heavy, punishing ball, calibrating his volcanic temperament. Preparing for Roger, his natural foe, against whom he’s already played two tremendous matches this year. Actually, it’s gotten to the point where he seems insulted to have to face anyone else.

Roddick, for his part, has struggled with some injuries. Still, he looked impressive in Cincinnati, at the second-to-last U.S. Open Series tournament before the Big Show. That is, until he ran into Fed in the final, whereupon he was swiftly dispatched in straight sets. “Roger started being Roger again, yada yada yada,” he said, quite literally as if he were reciting a script. Despite that, he senses down deep that he may have the competitive guts to be the U.S. Open champ again. That first serve, after all, is a Thor-like fulcrum of court-splitting terror. He may yet play his role. Besides, he owes it to New York to be less third wheel to Roger and Marat, and more the flashy kid who owned the town in ’03.