| JUNE 2008 |
John McEnroe was stunned. “I’ve watched a lot of tennis,” he said, “and this is one of the biggest surprises I’ve ever seen.”
“This is like the Yankees bringing up a minor league player from Triple-A,” added Ted Robinson, “and he gets three hits off of Pedro Martinez.”
Why the shock and awe?
Well, back in ‘01, Michael Russell, an unknown journeyman, who, according to Robinson, “spent years traveling the underbelly of tennis world, playing Satellites in countries where cold showers were the norm and he had to eat exotic foods he never dreamed he would even sample,” had Gustavo Kuerten — the No. 1 seed and No. 1 player in the world — on the ropes.
Up 6-3, 6-4, 5-3 at the French Open, Mike Russell the world No. 122, was, according to McEnroe, on the verge of “one of the great upsets in the history of Roland Garros. Only once before has a qualifier defeated a defending champion...[Guga] may commit Hari Kari if this continues.”
But then Kuerten — slowly, inexplicably — began to turn the tide. He survived a tense 26-stroke match point, gained momentum and went on to snatch an improbable victory from the jaws of disaster. But Guga’s 3-6, 4-6, 7-6(3), 6-3, 6-1 fourth round comeback was merely a prelude: a set-up for the greatest gesture in the history of the game. Mere moments after his win, he took his racket and did what no one in the 100-plus-year history of clay-court tennis had ever done: he etched a huge heart in the clay and (as much as in relief as in ecstasy) dropped to his knees and blew kisses to the adoring crowd.
“[Kuerten] has this look in his eyes.
There is love there. It’s almost
religious…It isn’t an ego trip.
[Rather] It’s ‘Oh my God, I won.
I’m so happy for my people.’”
—Yannick Noah
Kuerten never “lost any of the surfer-
dudosity he showed up with...[He’s] a
human slinky. His backswing starts in
Kentucky and ends in Ohio.”
—Mary Carillo
Welcome to Guga Kuerten’s world, where hardship and sorrow are but speed bumps en route to feel-good glory.
Never mind that when Kuerten was 14, his dad died while in the ump’s chair calling a match; that his late brother Guilherme suffered from cerebral palsy, or that he was from Florianopolis, a Brazilian seaside city, which, according to Reuters, once created a makeshift stadium to host a Davis Cup match that “was surrounded by a sea of mud, puddles of filthy brown water and piles of stone...The smell of rotting fruit pervaded the air.”
But don’t worry, be happy. With little angst, laid-back Guga emerged out of a land where soccer is a sacred orthodoxy to travel a take-no-prisoners universe, where (scowl in place) warriors take on each other with a grim, unsparing ferocity.
But Guga was different.
Then again, you might be different if you sported a haircut that made Harpo Marx’s mop seem like a crew cut. And you had a nickname — Guga — that brought to mind a doting Aunt going ga-ga over a new-born. But make no mistake about it, the Tale of Gustavo Kuerten is far more than a ‘surfer-dude’ makes good. The man had some serious weaponry. His serve was a force. His sometimes whippy, sometimes flat forehand was world-class and he had astonishing touch. But it was his sublime backhand that drew wonders. Almost as pretty as Stefan Edberg’s and probably as effective as Agassi’s, Connors’, Rosewall’s, Lendl’s, Nalbandian’s or, who knows, even Don Budge’s, it had lethal power, tough-to-read variety, a one-handed sweeping arc and a certain uninhibited flexibility that evoked widespread praise. “Give him freedom,” noted Yvegeny Kafelnikov, “and he’s like Picasso.” Mary Carillo added that Kuerten never “lost any of the surfer-dudeosity he showed up with...[He’s] a human slinky. His backswing starts in Kentucky and ends in Ohio.”
With his backhand as his signature brushstroke, Guga emerged in ‘97, claiming but a modest No. 66 ranking, and swept past the then-dominant Sergi Bruguera to claim his first French title. It took him 10 championship points against Swede Magnus Norman, but he again won in Paris in ‘00. And after he survived Russell’s out-of-nowhere storm in ‘01, he rolled on to notch his third French title over Spaniard Alex Corretja.
But, yes, just as Guga wasn’t a one-stroke wonder, the most dominant clay-courter of his era wasn’t a one-surface dirtmeister either. At the year-ending ‘00 Tennis Masters Cup in Lisbon, he became the first player ever to beat Sampras and Agassi back-to-back to win a title, and he finished the year No. 1. He also won the coveted hard-court title in Cincinnati.
It’s true — aside from the French Open, he never even reached a Grand Slam semi. But, ultimately, Guga’s career was not about Xs and Os, records or rankings, fortune or fame. Like most non-U.S. players not named Federer, Borg or Becker, he never achieved superstar status in America. Still, the man who touched off the modern renaissance in South American tennis inspired cadres of flag-waving fans up in Row X and after he won his devotees would unleash Samba-happy celebrations that rocked on for hours. Forget the rotten hip that hobbled him late in his career and two surgeries later, led to his long, sad decline. It was his impish smile we will remember; his infectious let’s-not-take-this-too-seriously wink and his just-glad-to-be-here lack of pretension. Perhaps Yannick Noah put it best: “[Kuerten] has this look in his eyes. There is love there. It’s almost religious. It isn’t like, ‘I won, I’m the best.” It isn’t an ego trip. [Rather] It’s ‘Oh my God, I won. I’m so happy for my people.”
Now tennis bids adieu to an impish spirit, a nomad of the wind, who delivered an enduring message of love one afternoon when he sketched that affectionate heart in the warm clay on a Centre Court in Paris France.
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