December 02, 2009
Pete Sampras: The Ace, The Slam Dunk, and The Running Forehand
By antiMatter
There are moments in life of great inspiration, positive or negative, when one feels an unstoppable surge of energy.
The mind becomes clearer, the senses become sharper, thoughts race at break-neck speed, and the hands and legs agree to whatever whims and fancies the head concocts.
Yes, when one is literally charged up.
Lots of different things can lead to such a state, from rock music to seeing a ball sitting up to be hit, to nationalism to...well, a lot of things.
In tennis, there is one man whose game spoke of the existence of such an inspiration behind its execution every single time --- the Pistol.
Always the speeding locomotive, he never seemed to run out of gas when "on," other than when that genetic disorder put him to temporary sleep. If there were collapsed bridges on the way, they would be jumped over.
There are three specific shots from the Pistol's racquet that cannot go unnoticed not just because of the sheer technique and athleticism, but also due to the sheer adrenaline it packed.
A Tennis Court In the Middle of Nowhere
He is 15-40 down. But he seems pretty cool about it. The laziness of the body language almost indicates a tendency to give the match up and go home.
That is to a casual first time observer.
Others know what is going to happen. He takes stand, points the racquet at his opponent like a cannon, shakes it subtly, then pulls back, and in one simple motion, there is a missile down the centre --- pace, power, placement.
The ball zips past the opponent on the other side, who looks like a kid shaken out of his deep sleep rudely by his drunken father. The feeling starts with a sense of incredulity, then slowly turns into a realisation of how unfair the whole thing is. A sense of inevitability sets in.
The ball shaves through the air and hits the back-drop with a booming reverberating sound that echoes around the indoor stadium for a couple of seconds. The message is sent.
The opponent gets the first taste of the ammunition. Doesn't taste so good.
30-40. There is still one break-point. The first serve is a fault. He delivers a second one a little bit slow, and decides to stay back. A rally ensues.
Pete's weaker wing is repeatedly aimed at. The opponent has the feeling that with each passing stroke he is nearing that elusive break of serve. First, Pete returns from the side-line, then from between the tram-lines and now he has been pushed beyond them.
This is the right time to go for a forehand to the other side and seal the deal since the backhands have been getting progressively weaker and aimed more towards the middle of the court.
A full-blooded inside-in drive guided towards the corner. But, like a predator that was looking for the right moment, the Pistol starts on the dead-run matching the speed of a bullet he could have fired.
Starting out with bursts of long steps, almost leaping over the ground, he reaches the ball, somehow. Still, no one is convinced that the run was worth anything; he will still have to hit it at full stretch, and you normally just prod the ball back when you are in such a position.
The next thing people remember is the ball going back at a wider angle cross-court percing the furthest corner of the service box.
The opponent just blinks. The crowd just falls silent for a moment, not breathing. There is just a nod of the head to assure the assembled people that it is all true.
Deuce. And to add to the woes, a nasty first serve. But the opponent has the strategy ready. He knows the Pistol is going to rush towards the net. He takes the serve from fifteen feet behind the baseline, but powers a top-spin lob cross-court.
Meanwhile, Pete was leaping towards the middle of the net. He was on the service line when the ball has reached the service box on the other side of the net. The trajectory of the man and the ball seemed to suggest only one outcome --- point lost.
The trajectory is changed in the blink of an eye, and he starts running sideways and at the exact moment, he leaps into the air. The hind-legs bend and following the trunk faithfully, and the hands raised to deliver an inhuman blow, the racquet looks like an axe.
With perfect timing, the two projectiles meet. The missile is intercepted in an explosive blow of downward movement of the racquet head. The ball accelerates towards the ground into the service box.
The ball boys draw back a little, expecting something to happen when the supersonic sphere hit the ground. The ball hits the ground without any noise whatsoever, and rockets into the air well over the head of the pair of drooping shoulders on the other side of the net.
Advantage Pistol.
Such moments can be easily picked from the many campaigns Pete has had in his decorated career. Think Youtube.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8LJ764aQaqI