A rather uncommon occurrence occurred in the world of sport today: An Australian admitted to his team suffering from mental frailties.
Yes, you heard it right, an Australian. They who know no weakness, or at least pretend so. And no less a competitor than Mitchell Johnson. The same Mitchell Johnson whose Neanderthal tendencies can be as expedite as his one hundred and fifty kilometre per hour missiles that he passes off as bowling. The same Mitchell Johnson who thinks nothing of attempting to maim a foe with those callous missiles and spends inordinately large amounts of his playing days on a grassy expanse over-indulging in the dubious art of sledging. The one you always suspected that any intellectual point made would be too acute for the bluntness of his grey matter to feel that said point.
And yet, yet, here he is announcing to the cricketing world that the Australian batsmen didn't handle the pressure and atmosphere during the middle stages of their inning last Saturday against the kiwis.
Who knew Johnson had it in him to act in slightly more refined manner than normal? Not many.
Whether it be by design of team management, whether it be an honest observation off the cuff, it is to be commended.
For to admit is to accept which augers well for their future. To accept a negative is the only way one can turn a negative into a positive. The Australians, if they are been genuine, have taken the first step towards learning to handle such situations in a superior mode to which they did on Saturday.
To be fair to all concerned this was an atmosphere of such hostility for which the like has rarely been seen in this part of the sporting world. That most of the Australian batsmen failed to cope with this situation is of no real surprise.
Realising that they are not alone should follow close behind. There is not a team in the game that could have withstood the ferocity of this braying mass of unadulterated human jingoism.
No man nor woman is without fault, no man nor woman is without frailties. Many may convince themselves into thinking otherwise, afraid to show any sign of weakness, cajoling themselves into believing that all is okay, but only the truly weak do streak through life unaware of the absurdities of their stripped down propaganda.
So the lessons must be heeded and they needed to be after such an abject display, for the result of this match was nowhere near as close as the scores suggest. Take out Tim Southee's meltdown under the pressure of local expectations and the Australian's would surely have been harassed out for thirty runs less.
For once, though, we are seeing those from across the ditch displaying the humility required to expand their mental horizons, to explore the realms of higher achievement. And life will undoubtedly become easier not just for admitting a weakness, but also, if they do qualify for the final, it will be in Melbourne.
Then let's see how mentally tough their foe is.
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
Saturday, February 28, 2015
One small inning and an old lesson was there to ponder over. For extreme pressure prefers no peer. It will beat you down and hand out the harshest of lessons. It cares not for reputations, it cares not for form. It's a stubborn creature that craves the consistency of others failures.
No better example is there than Tim Southee.
For so long now he has been the spearhead of this New Zealand attack in unison with the outstanding Trent Boult. A demon in the art of swing bowling, the Northlander tore the English batting line-up to shreds one week ago. On top of the World, he could do no wrong. Bowling from wide of the crease on occasion, at other times, close to the stumps, that variety of angle enough to flummox a foe. Just the slightest of swing and dealing in the minutest of degrees, seven wickets blew in with the breeze. Swing delivered at one hundred and forty clicks - What a combination.
Yet one week later and Eden Park introduces Australia to this concourse. Forty thousand braying fans brandishing banners and erecting quite the atmosphere, that atmosphere in mix with seven days of thundering expectations that built to cataclysmic proportions and his nerves ran riot over clear minded thinking. And this was his home crowd.
From his first delivery, wide's were the order of the day, whether that be to the off side or down leg. What wasn't wide was whistled off to the boundary rope with ease by Aaron Finch and David Warner. After just three over's Australia had thirty-six on the board, mainly due to Southee. Yes, he did remove both openers with beautiful deliveries, Finch with a ball that seamed back in to knock out middle stump and Warner by way of LBW.
But Southee hadn't controlled his nerves, that extreme pressure had delighted in rampaging through his psyche with the runs coming thick and fast and enough was enough.
Nine over's and sixty-three runs later, the time had come to introduce Daniel Vettori to stem the tide and bid Australia's fast start adieu. He of varying lengths and speeds that deceive, pressure came and pressure was tamed. The roar of the crowd he did not shame, for so calm he remained. No matter the batter's approach, every delivery was mimicked with the same demeanour. When a wicket was got, only the slightest of celebrations were to be had, for this thirty-six year old knows that there is a long road to hoe. Extreme pressure was forced to make his acquaintance, non negotiable were his terms.
And as Vettori tightened the screws the runs dried up for Australia. Slowly but surely the run rate lowered incrementally until - Snap - all number of wielders of two by fours panicked. The wickets tumbled, with Boult cashing in on the pressure building antics of Vettori with a spell of five wickets for two runs.
Pressure, that's all it was, pressure on the back of one of the most red hot cauldrons ever seen in this Country. For all the Australian team's big talk on the field over the last couple of years; the constant sledging, warning a foe to watch out for a broken arm, when the time came to up the ante in this most hostile of environments, they showed themselves to be as meek and weak of mind as any under extreme pressure.
It's what sorts the men from the boys. Southee didn't have it, Vettori did and Australia's batsmen will be buying marshmallow eggs for Easter.
Conquer that extreme pressure and win a World Cup.
No better example is there than Tim Southee.
For so long now he has been the spearhead of this New Zealand attack in unison with the outstanding Trent Boult. A demon in the art of swing bowling, the Northlander tore the English batting line-up to shreds one week ago. On top of the World, he could do no wrong. Bowling from wide of the crease on occasion, at other times, close to the stumps, that variety of angle enough to flummox a foe. Just the slightest of swing and dealing in the minutest of degrees, seven wickets blew in with the breeze. Swing delivered at one hundred and forty clicks - What a combination.
Yet one week later and Eden Park introduces Australia to this concourse. Forty thousand braying fans brandishing banners and erecting quite the atmosphere, that atmosphere in mix with seven days of thundering expectations that built to cataclysmic proportions and his nerves ran riot over clear minded thinking. And this was his home crowd.
From his first delivery, wide's were the order of the day, whether that be to the off side or down leg. What wasn't wide was whistled off to the boundary rope with ease by Aaron Finch and David Warner. After just three over's Australia had thirty-six on the board, mainly due to Southee. Yes, he did remove both openers with beautiful deliveries, Finch with a ball that seamed back in to knock out middle stump and Warner by way of LBW.
But Southee hadn't controlled his nerves, that extreme pressure had delighted in rampaging through his psyche with the runs coming thick and fast and enough was enough.
Nine over's and sixty-three runs later, the time had come to introduce Daniel Vettori to stem the tide and bid Australia's fast start adieu. He of varying lengths and speeds that deceive, pressure came and pressure was tamed. The roar of the crowd he did not shame, for so calm he remained. No matter the batter's approach, every delivery was mimicked with the same demeanour. When a wicket was got, only the slightest of celebrations were to be had, for this thirty-six year old knows that there is a long road to hoe. Extreme pressure was forced to make his acquaintance, non negotiable were his terms.
And as Vettori tightened the screws the runs dried up for Australia. Slowly but surely the run rate lowered incrementally until - Snap - all number of wielders of two by fours panicked. The wickets tumbled, with Boult cashing in on the pressure building antics of Vettori with a spell of five wickets for two runs.
Pressure, that's all it was, pressure on the back of one of the most red hot cauldrons ever seen in this Country. For all the Australian team's big talk on the field over the last couple of years; the constant sledging, warning a foe to watch out for a broken arm, when the time came to up the ante in this most hostile of environments, they showed themselves to be as meek and weak of mind as any under extreme pressure.
It's what sorts the men from the boys. Southee didn't have it, Vettori did and Australia's batsmen will be buying marshmallow eggs for Easter.
Conquer that extreme pressure and win a World Cup.
Friday, January 9, 2015
Okay, pet hate number one: Captains spreading their slips fieldsmen wider to cover more ground.
Only three slips, let's cover the area of four. It's like trying to cover every possible permutation of lottery numbers available each draw; You'll be there for an eternity attempting to serenade success. Can't be done. Surely it is preferable to cut one's losses and concentrate on plugging gaps where the ball is most likely to travel.
For there is not a lot worse than seeing said duke sniggering its way between slippers on the way to a preventable four runs and viewing a potential wicket going down the drain. Maybe it could be said that the duke will conjure up a good tummy rumbling laugh when it escapes down the alley way between a conventional third slip and gully. If that be the case, so be it. After all, no Captain can cover all on this field of dreams.
Thoughtful it may be of the skipper to give his slips a change of scenery every so often - variety is the spice of life, and all that - but it only puts pressure on slippers to cover more ground. It could be the difference between standing stationary or diving desperately. One, allowing the catcher the balance to attribute his talents to snaring an easily attained catch, or the other, a Hail Mary dive into the sphere of the desolation of what could have been.
Which means there simply has to be more risk of a dropped catch. Better to be certain and take a little than the possibility of losing a lot.
Spare a thought for the bowler, too. Toiling away endlessly over by over, sweat pouring off his furrowed brow only to look up and see an unnecessary abundance of oversized nooks behind the wickets. Already the heat of the day is tiring the mind and body, not to mention the heat of a Captains stare if by chance the duke isn't delivered to the precise address requested.
And then they have to suffer the distress of witnessing catches dropped off their bowling. How disheartening. Imagine the Captains thoughts if said bowler takes a wicket off a no-ball delivery. No wicket. Your choice of a plethora of pickets to lean against, though.
So how is the bowler meant to feel when he spies his Captain captaining poorly?
Only three slips, let's cover the area of four. It's like trying to cover every possible permutation of lottery numbers available each draw; You'll be there for an eternity attempting to serenade success. Can't be done. Surely it is preferable to cut one's losses and concentrate on plugging gaps where the ball is most likely to travel.
For there is not a lot worse than seeing said duke sniggering its way between slippers on the way to a preventable four runs and viewing a potential wicket going down the drain. Maybe it could be said that the duke will conjure up a good tummy rumbling laugh when it escapes down the alley way between a conventional third slip and gully. If that be the case, so be it. After all, no Captain can cover all on this field of dreams.
Thoughtful it may be of the skipper to give his slips a change of scenery every so often - variety is the spice of life, and all that - but it only puts pressure on slippers to cover more ground. It could be the difference between standing stationary or diving desperately. One, allowing the catcher the balance to attribute his talents to snaring an easily attained catch, or the other, a Hail Mary dive into the sphere of the desolation of what could have been.
Which means there simply has to be more risk of a dropped catch. Better to be certain and take a little than the possibility of losing a lot.
Spare a thought for the bowler, too. Toiling away endlessly over by over, sweat pouring off his furrowed brow only to look up and see an unnecessary abundance of oversized nooks behind the wickets. Already the heat of the day is tiring the mind and body, not to mention the heat of a Captains stare if by chance the duke isn't delivered to the precise address requested.
And then they have to suffer the distress of witnessing catches dropped off their bowling. How disheartening. Imagine the Captains thoughts if said bowler takes a wicket off a no-ball delivery. No wicket. Your choice of a plethora of pickets to lean against, though.
So how is the bowler meant to feel when he spies his Captain captaining poorly?
Sunday, December 28, 2014
Most people on this fine planet of ours try their darndest at all they set their mind to. No matter the level of their ability they strive and hope that one day they will arrive at their potential.
International Cricketers are no different. They will tether their minds to high performance with all their might. Not always do they get it right. That goes without saying. After all, none of us are perfect.
But each individual will go out of his way to garner desirable results for the greater good of the team and, also, his own personal goals. Batsmen, bowlers, Captains - They're all in it together.
Ah yes, the Captain, that leader of a team's industrious efforts to soar to the heights of their capacity, and with the ultimate responsibility to come up trumps tactically.
That being the case, for those of us laymen out there, could someone - Possibly Steve Smith - explain why when your team has scored five hundred and thirty runs in their first inning and has India 250 for three in reply, with two hundred and eighty runs to play with, a spinner is on, bowling deliveries of a low trajectory fast and flat at ninety-five kilometres per hour.
There are no demons in the pitch. Indian batsmen, who generally play spin well, having been brought up on dry sub-continent wickets, ease on to the back foot and push the ball into one of those many gaps on the on-side for an easy single.
The field, spread to all corners of this scenic and stately stadium, put absolutely no pressure on the batsmen.
Said batsmen are loving their freedom. Nothing of interest is occurring - Except for those run gatherers gathering easy runs, which is just the way they like it.
So why not bring the fielders in closer, get in the bowler's ear suggesting (demanding) he take ten to twenty kph off his delivery speed and entice the batsmen to take the risk of hitting over the in-field?
What is there possibly to lose? You still have ten over's to go until the new ball becomes available, copious amounts of runs to play with and you give yourselves a chance to attack in an otherwise slow period of play.
You may go for a few runs. Then again, you may grab an unlikely wicket.
Or is that a likely wicket.
International Cricketers are no different. They will tether their minds to high performance with all their might. Not always do they get it right. That goes without saying. After all, none of us are perfect.
But each individual will go out of his way to garner desirable results for the greater good of the team and, also, his own personal goals. Batsmen, bowlers, Captains - They're all in it together.
Ah yes, the Captain, that leader of a team's industrious efforts to soar to the heights of their capacity, and with the ultimate responsibility to come up trumps tactically.
That being the case, for those of us laymen out there, could someone - Possibly Steve Smith - explain why when your team has scored five hundred and thirty runs in their first inning and has India 250 for three in reply, with two hundred and eighty runs to play with, a spinner is on, bowling deliveries of a low trajectory fast and flat at ninety-five kilometres per hour.
There are no demons in the pitch. Indian batsmen, who generally play spin well, having been brought up on dry sub-continent wickets, ease on to the back foot and push the ball into one of those many gaps on the on-side for an easy single.
The field, spread to all corners of this scenic and stately stadium, put absolutely no pressure on the batsmen.
Said batsmen are loving their freedom. Nothing of interest is occurring - Except for those run gatherers gathering easy runs, which is just the way they like it.
So why not bring the fielders in closer, get in the bowler's ear suggesting (demanding) he take ten to twenty kph off his delivery speed and entice the batsmen to take the risk of hitting over the in-field?
What is there possibly to lose? You still have ten over's to go until the new ball becomes available, copious amounts of runs to play with and you give yourselves a chance to attack in an otherwise slow period of play.
You may go for a few runs. Then again, you may grab an unlikely wicket.
Or is that a likely wicket.
Sunday, December 7, 2014
Within the depths of one's thunder
With one's sheen torn asunder.
Weighed down within a goal lost,
Rolling along the dales of cost.
Searching for that elusive heed
A mind aches to succeed
As desire raises an elite trip
On the precipice's tip.
Tumbling aloft the dreams of now,
Life's breathe lowering thou.
Futures lost in uncertainty,
For hell works tirelessly
While hope reflects upon itself
As another chance atop a stately mountain peak
emanates honour upon such humble hope.
With one's sheen torn asunder.
Weighed down within a goal lost,
Rolling along the dales of cost.
Searching for that elusive heed
A mind aches to succeed
As desire raises an elite trip
On the precipice's tip.
Tumbling aloft the dreams of now,
Life's breathe lowering thou.
Futures lost in uncertainty,
For hell works tirelessly
While hope reflects upon itself
As another chance atop a stately mountain peak
emanates honour upon such humble hope.
Sunday, July 6, 2014
Perfection.
Absolute unadulterated perfection.
It is not often that one person comes along to make a mark and mark her day; Afar along the way, never astray aloft the loftiest of spheres. Sitting perched there, the clouds of insecurity dissipating with a mind suddenly so clear and the green shade bestrode by such flair.
Never before did such a combination of power and timing befall one. Power, yes, timing, maybe, but the two together, no. But this is Petra Kvitova we're talking of here. One so unique, indeed. Petra by name and the game to shoot straight to fame. A Queen fit for the jungle, but also a lady of the day.
She wasn't always a Queen, though. More like a Princess, one that would offer up delightful servings of mesmerising stroke-play one day, and the next, an error strewn monstrosity of a performance. A Princess searching for power, but unable to keep a grasp on it for any significant length of time. There was that first Wimbledon title in 2011. A talent had risen, or so it had seemed. There one moment, and quick as a flash, gone the next.
It wasn't that she didn't possess the most glorious of shots; She did. Really, though, it was the lack of consistency that was most puzzling. With a glaring lack of self-belief for one seemingly destined for greatness, maybe, like a rabbit caught in the headlights, she didn't know which way to turn. Not really comprehending what being a professional entailed, her fitness regime was of such low intensity that it was the equivalent of having a heart rate of "my career is going nowhere".
Of late, there is a new dedication to fitness and a sports psychologist has been employed. Which has led to increased power, both on a physical and mental level. What a difference six months makes.
They say Britain has never been conquered. Not so. Yesterday, this 6ft Amazonian Queen from Czechoslovakia rode into town and bequeathed many a grateful new disciple with a flawless display of power Tennis to marvel at. And not only did she take possession of Britain, Kvitova, just for good measure, grabbed hold of the colonies and gave them a good shake, too.
Canada's Eugenie Bouchard may not have appreciated this invasion, not that she had the slightest say in proceedings.
Such was Kvitova's Perfection. The 6-3, 6-0 kind of Perfection.
It's not just that she hit with her usual fearsome power, it also came with the detonation of immaculate precision. Such is the bravery of youth that Bouchard planted herself on the baseline and steadfastly refused to move. Normally this would be fine, but with Kvitova landing balls within inches of the baseline, Bouchard simply had no time to respond. Bouchard, it turned out, was a girl playing on a woman's court; Petra Kvitova's court.
Kvitova has always enjoyed the use of a left-handers swinging serve, and a forehand that has often threatened to break the speed of sound. On this stunning day, soon to appear was the ultimate weapon for someone with all the shots; A mind made of steel. Cold, hard, ruthless steel that refused to bend.
This was the one area Bouchard was supposedly superior in and it turns out that she was a minor in that regard, too. The Canadian has made much of her desire to succeed in the now. Not to be content with a Final's appearance as a learning tool for the future. Fair enough. After all, she has now reached the semi-finals of two grand slams and a Wimbledon Final all in the space of six months.
All this hard minded talk, such noble notions. Of course, she had that nobility knocked out of her by a tougher opponent. Which goes to show, have the mental toughness but not the ability, or vice versa and it all amounts to zip when up against a foe that possesses more of both.
In this case she was up against a player that offered a blast from the past that fast circumnavigated its way around all the oddities of one not yet worldly, and travelled forward in time to appear on the grandest stage of them all; Saturday July 5th on Centre Court of Wimbledon. The past and the present collided into a kaleidoscopic montage of exhilarating shot-making fare.
Bouchard's only hope was for some thunderous elements to prevail and unsettle Kvitova with a stoppage in play.
But even with inclement weather nearby, the Czech simply indulged in a race to see who could cause the most destruction first: Like with everything else on this day, Kvitova won.
Perfection.
Absolute unadulterated perfection.
Absolute unadulterated perfection.
It is not often that one person comes along to make a mark and mark her day; Afar along the way, never astray aloft the loftiest of spheres. Sitting perched there, the clouds of insecurity dissipating with a mind suddenly so clear and the green shade bestrode by such flair.
Never before did such a combination of power and timing befall one. Power, yes, timing, maybe, but the two together, no. But this is Petra Kvitova we're talking of here. One so unique, indeed. Petra by name and the game to shoot straight to fame. A Queen fit for the jungle, but also a lady of the day.
She wasn't always a Queen, though. More like a Princess, one that would offer up delightful servings of mesmerising stroke-play one day, and the next, an error strewn monstrosity of a performance. A Princess searching for power, but unable to keep a grasp on it for any significant length of time. There was that first Wimbledon title in 2011. A talent had risen, or so it had seemed. There one moment, and quick as a flash, gone the next.
It wasn't that she didn't possess the most glorious of shots; She did. Really, though, it was the lack of consistency that was most puzzling. With a glaring lack of self-belief for one seemingly destined for greatness, maybe, like a rabbit caught in the headlights, she didn't know which way to turn. Not really comprehending what being a professional entailed, her fitness regime was of such low intensity that it was the equivalent of having a heart rate of "my career is going nowhere".
Of late, there is a new dedication to fitness and a sports psychologist has been employed. Which has led to increased power, both on a physical and mental level. What a difference six months makes.
They say Britain has never been conquered. Not so. Yesterday, this 6ft Amazonian Queen from Czechoslovakia rode into town and bequeathed many a grateful new disciple with a flawless display of power Tennis to marvel at. And not only did she take possession of Britain, Kvitova, just for good measure, grabbed hold of the colonies and gave them a good shake, too.
Canada's Eugenie Bouchard may not have appreciated this invasion, not that she had the slightest say in proceedings.
Such was Kvitova's Perfection. The 6-3, 6-0 kind of Perfection.
It's not just that she hit with her usual fearsome power, it also came with the detonation of immaculate precision. Such is the bravery of youth that Bouchard planted herself on the baseline and steadfastly refused to move. Normally this would be fine, but with Kvitova landing balls within inches of the baseline, Bouchard simply had no time to respond. Bouchard, it turned out, was a girl playing on a woman's court; Petra Kvitova's court.
Kvitova has always enjoyed the use of a left-handers swinging serve, and a forehand that has often threatened to break the speed of sound. On this stunning day, soon to appear was the ultimate weapon for someone with all the shots; A mind made of steel. Cold, hard, ruthless steel that refused to bend.
This was the one area Bouchard was supposedly superior in and it turns out that she was a minor in that regard, too. The Canadian has made much of her desire to succeed in the now. Not to be content with a Final's appearance as a learning tool for the future. Fair enough. After all, she has now reached the semi-finals of two grand slams and a Wimbledon Final all in the space of six months.
All this hard minded talk, such noble notions. Of course, she had that nobility knocked out of her by a tougher opponent. Which goes to show, have the mental toughness but not the ability, or vice versa and it all amounts to zip when up against a foe that possesses more of both.
In this case she was up against a player that offered a blast from the past that fast circumnavigated its way around all the oddities of one not yet worldly, and travelled forward in time to appear on the grandest stage of them all; Saturday July 5th on Centre Court of Wimbledon. The past and the present collided into a kaleidoscopic montage of exhilarating shot-making fare.
Bouchard's only hope was for some thunderous elements to prevail and unsettle Kvitova with a stoppage in play.
But even with inclement weather nearby, the Czech simply indulged in a race to see who could cause the most destruction first: Like with everything else on this day, Kvitova won.
Perfection.
Absolute unadulterated perfection.
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
Angelique Kerber is a giant killer in mind, and with shots that appear to go pop. How does a woman with the mildest of serves terminate the title hopes of one Maria Sharapova? You know, the one with the sizzling serve, not to mention barnstorming ground-strokes, that could issue many a storm warning and keep her foe holed up for weeks. The only storm warning Kerber's serve should or could send out is to itself to cover up if it does conjure up the spirit to wander onto centre court.
The German pulls off a three set victory, winning 6-4 in the third, armed with nothing more than a slug gun, while her Russian foe is sitting on her Countries entire nuclear arsenal, but unfortunately nobody gave her the instruction manual on how to operate it.
This was like David ( 5ft8") versus Goliath (6ft2"), except this time it was Davina and Davina turned out to be divine and divine was Angelique who became a quarterfinalist.
Once again, how did she win? It can only be mind. They say ninety-five percent of top level sport is those top few inches. In Kerber we now have irrefutable proof. This Woman has no right to win. At least not in this encounter. Yes, she is ranked number seven in the World - And that in itself is remarkable - but this is a bent so undermanned that you keep expecting her to send out an SOS at any given moment.
Her serve has the velocity of a mid summers breeze - And that's just her first serve. Neither does it have the acuteness of a Petra Kvitova. So, no wide serve from the Ad side of the court and no other discernible threats . . . And she wins. Remarkable. Without an improved serve it is undeniable that she will not threaten the number one ranking. What this nugget of timeless effort will do, with that sturdy mind, is jump straight back up every time she is knocked down and continue pestering the hell out of some very exasperated foes.
Which is effectively what she did to Sharapova. It's not like the fifth seed didn't offer any resistance. To the contrary, Sharapova regularly manipulated Kerber around the wearing greenery of centre court, moving her from side to side, wrong footing her with inside out forehands and the like. But Kerber scrapped and fought and clawed and scratched, whatever it took. Many a time she appeared on the ropes and dazed in anticipation of that final knockout punch. Yet, one more shot kept coming back and inevitably Sharapova would generate errors at the costliest of times.
That is the thing with Kerber though, she is very definitely the real deal. What you see is what you get. This is no fraudulent fraulein. Win or lose, you know her all has been given. She'll run, she'll scamper and she'll put a dampener on the hope of a good sprinkling of most competitors.
Especially with that mind. Yes, that mind. This is a Lady that should avoid going through airport security anytime soon for fear of attracting any untoward attention. Such is the state of her mind, it appears to be fitted out in the steeliest of impregnable fortitude. She doesn't have the angles to her strokes that Sharapova has. Put simply, she doesn't have Sharapova's talent. What she does have is the capacity to play to her optimum for three sets. She did. With nerves of steel. The Russian did not. At 5-4 up in the third and attempting to break serve to close out the encounter, she had numerous match points. She wasted some of those opportunities, but kept fighting. It took awhile, but finally she closed it out. Fortunately she did, for there is only so long the lesser talent can hold on for.
With Serena Williams already knocked out, Sharapova was many people's favourite to take title. Not anymore. If Kerber is to cause more upsets, she will need to go through Bouchard first, then Halep or Sabine Lisicki and possibly Kvitova. That's a lot of power to contend with.
Sharapova will, of course, go home titleless again. Ten years since she won her solitary Wimbledon title, there is still time to garner another as she is only twenty-seven. The young guns are barking, though. Before long the likes of Kvitova, Bouchard, Halep, Stephens and co will be biting. Best to take her shot soon, because when that bite does come, she may never recover.
And even if they don't, there is always Angelique Kerber to put paid to the best laid plans.
The German pulls off a three set victory, winning 6-4 in the third, armed with nothing more than a slug gun, while her Russian foe is sitting on her Countries entire nuclear arsenal, but unfortunately nobody gave her the instruction manual on how to operate it.
This was like David ( 5ft8") versus Goliath (6ft2"), except this time it was Davina and Davina turned out to be divine and divine was Angelique who became a quarterfinalist.
Once again, how did she win? It can only be mind. They say ninety-five percent of top level sport is those top few inches. In Kerber we now have irrefutable proof. This Woman has no right to win. At least not in this encounter. Yes, she is ranked number seven in the World - And that in itself is remarkable - but this is a bent so undermanned that you keep expecting her to send out an SOS at any given moment.
Her serve has the velocity of a mid summers breeze - And that's just her first serve. Neither does it have the acuteness of a Petra Kvitova. So, no wide serve from the Ad side of the court and no other discernible threats . . . And she wins. Remarkable. Without an improved serve it is undeniable that she will not threaten the number one ranking. What this nugget of timeless effort will do, with that sturdy mind, is jump straight back up every time she is knocked down and continue pestering the hell out of some very exasperated foes.
Which is effectively what she did to Sharapova. It's not like the fifth seed didn't offer any resistance. To the contrary, Sharapova regularly manipulated Kerber around the wearing greenery of centre court, moving her from side to side, wrong footing her with inside out forehands and the like. But Kerber scrapped and fought and clawed and scratched, whatever it took. Many a time she appeared on the ropes and dazed in anticipation of that final knockout punch. Yet, one more shot kept coming back and inevitably Sharapova would generate errors at the costliest of times.
That is the thing with Kerber though, she is very definitely the real deal. What you see is what you get. This is no fraudulent fraulein. Win or lose, you know her all has been given. She'll run, she'll scamper and she'll put a dampener on the hope of a good sprinkling of most competitors.
Especially with that mind. Yes, that mind. This is a Lady that should avoid going through airport security anytime soon for fear of attracting any untoward attention. Such is the state of her mind, it appears to be fitted out in the steeliest of impregnable fortitude. She doesn't have the angles to her strokes that Sharapova has. Put simply, she doesn't have Sharapova's talent. What she does have is the capacity to play to her optimum for three sets. She did. With nerves of steel. The Russian did not. At 5-4 up in the third and attempting to break serve to close out the encounter, she had numerous match points. She wasted some of those opportunities, but kept fighting. It took awhile, but finally she closed it out. Fortunately she did, for there is only so long the lesser talent can hold on for.
With Serena Williams already knocked out, Sharapova was many people's favourite to take title. Not anymore. If Kerber is to cause more upsets, she will need to go through Bouchard first, then Halep or Sabine Lisicki and possibly Kvitova. That's a lot of power to contend with.
Sharapova will, of course, go home titleless again. Ten years since she won her solitary Wimbledon title, there is still time to garner another as she is only twenty-seven. The young guns are barking, though. Before long the likes of Kvitova, Bouchard, Halep, Stephens and co will be biting. Best to take her shot soon, because when that bite does come, she may never recover.
And even if they don't, there is always Angelique Kerber to put paid to the best laid plans.
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