By Bill Simons
LONDON—Six-foot-eight Kevin Anderson, with a multicolored assortment of gear, strides out onto a packed Court One. The man looks like an oversized South African version of Huck Finn.
In contrast, Novak Djokovic emerges for the renewal of their key fourth-round match with a certain calm—a hint of “been there, done that” zen. His Asian gear and creme and green Head bags are flawless.
As a boy, the dreamer showed up at the courts of his mountain village in an impeccable outfit, a well-packed bag and headband, the very definition of intent. From that distant mountain perch, Novak’s long and winding march to Wimbledon hardly wavered.
Yet yesterday the defending champion seemed put off, sleepy and a tad defensive, as big Anderson, No. 14 in the world, zoomed into an imposing zone. Blasting serves, punishing with his forehand and moving with eye-opening ease, he scored Becker-like leaping volley winners. For two sets, he prevailed. This Huck never wavered.
But there’s a reason Novak is Novak. He’s No. 1. The man who survived bombs as a kid was determined to counter the considerable Anderson weaponry coming his way.
Like some kind of aikido master—gluten-free and almost error-free—he turned the South African tide, won two sets and evened the match before play was suspended due to darkness.
Certainly, getting the evening off would aid Anderson. And the University of Illinois product came out this morning bending low on his backhand and reaching high on his unreadable serve. He won the first game at love and prevailed in a long, perhaps defining rally.
On serve, the match marched deep into the deciding fifth set. But the great Djokovic seemed distracted. He howled at his coach—an explosion of anger. He saved two key break points but still found himself down 4-5. He would have to serve to stay in the match. Never mind that he went down 0-30, he countered with the ease of a champion.
Novak’s kick serve may only be 105 mph, but he sprinted on the exquisite London lawn with a leopard’s solitary intent: inside-out backhands, down-the-line winners—effortless pivots, surgical results. His groundies bit, causing evident pain. He drew blood and held serve. And yes, South Africans know well of deadly leopards, such relentless hunters.
Djokovic’s breathless hold of serve had an unseen but telling impact. Now, at 5-5 in the fifth, the pressure was on Anderson to take the fifth.
But his signature weapon misfired. He suffered not one, but two double faults. Then the Leopard again pounced. Novak unleashed a laser forehand return to Anderson’s ankles. The giant was hapless. The Serb scored the key break and howled in glee.
This is grass court tennis. In just three minutes, the battle was turned. The South African Huck Finn, who has never gotten further than the fourth round in a Slam, was left to float down another river of defeat. While old man Djokovic, 28, rolls on, a 6-7 (8), 6-7 (8) 6-1, 6-4, 7-5 victor.
So beware, in this jungle they call Wimbledon, the Leopard of London—who next plays Croatian Marin Cilic in the quarters—remains on the prowl.
