Before Roger Federer played Marin Čilić in the Wimbledon quarterfinals, on Wednesday— before he pulled off one of the most remarkable performances in his remarkable career—it seemed as if the gods of tennis were protecting him in this tournament, as if they were taking care of one of their own. First, they gave him a draw to dream of—and then, by insuring the improbable upsets of his likely opponents, softened it even more. In the first round, the gods lined up Guido Pella, an Argentinian who has never won a match on grass. In the second round, they set up a cameo for Federer in the delightful tale of Marcus Willis, a country-club pro ranked seven hundred and seventy-second in the world. In the third round, they sent him another Brit, Daniel Evans, ranked ninety-first. In the fourth round, there was an American, Steve Johnson, who had just won his first grass-court title, in Nottingham, but who is best known for his success as a college player. While Novak Djokovic struggled in a rain-interrupted match on Court 1, against an inspired Sam Querrey, Federer cruised through his matches under the roof of Centre Court, playing men who were just happy to be there. When the sky cleared, Djokovic was gone, and Federer had an extra day of rest.
He needed the rest, needed the easy draw, needed whatever assist he could get. Federer came into the tournament having missed much of the year with injuries, and in his warm-up tournaments the effects still lingered. At Stuttgart and Halle—where he has won so many times that town officials have named a street after him—his movements, normally so graceful, were awkward. He arrived at Wimbledon without the unself-conscious self-confidence for which he is known. Instead, he spoke of doubt. He is thirty-four years old. The distance between him and the world’s top player, Djokovic, is great, and it is growing only greater. His body, which for so long had shown few effects of wear, is finally starting to break down. His goal, he admitted, was to “get to the second week, somehow.” Whatever that “somehow” was, though, would only carry him so far.
Then came Čilić, and, very quickly, it seemed as if Federer’s luck was over. There was nothing the Swiss could do against the Croat’s unreadable serve or his forehand, which skidded at astonishing speeds. Čilić is an inconsistent player but a dangerous one, a former Slam champion with a lethal serve and an assassin’s demeanor. When he is playing well, Čilić can dominate the court—and, for the first two sets, he was playing as well as a man can.
We had seen him play like this against Federer before, on his way to winning the U.S. Open, in 2014. Federer had taken the loss with a placid acceptance. “I didn’t play poorly in any way,” he said at the time. “It was just all on his racquet. It was very seldom that I was blown off the court like that.” For the first seventy-five minutes of Wednesday’s match, it seemed that way again. There was nothing Federer could do, I thought. He was not in charge of his own fate.
But this time Federer thought—or, at least, played—differently. He changed the pattern of the rallies, hitting more consistently to Čilić’s weaker side. He hit a drop shot with a bounce so dead that Čilić didn’t even lean for it. He hit hard, gutsy second serves—one while facing a match point—and line-sweeping aces. He swatted away three match points; he even won when he seemed to lose. During the tiebreak, he fended off a high serve to the backhand and seemed to send it long. Without hesitation, he challenged. The ball, the Hawk-Eye review would show, had landed tangent to the line. He knew. Somehow, he was in control.
Federer finished the match with the ball on his own racquet: an ace. He won by the improbable scoreline 6–7 (4), 4–6, 6–3, 7–6 (9), 6–3. “Somehow, I had to stay in the match,” he said afterward, “and hope he drops his level a little bit.” Čilić did drop his level, hesitating slightly—but Federer was the force that pushed him down.
This time, when he said “somehow,” it seemed like something other than luck. It can seem like Federer has nothing left to do. He has seventeen majors and seven Wimbledons; he has tennis immortality. But this time, somehow, he won in a way that seemed, even for Federer, heroic, memorable, and vital. The feeling was undeniable. It was the kind of match that redeems faith— not in the tennis gods but in the capacity of a man who believes in himself. Somehow.
