Goodbye, Roger

I had to forcefully remove myself from a seemingly endless YouTube playlist of Federer highlights to write this. Just when I thought I'd seen every miraculous point, every impossibly angled forehand winner, every around-the-post overhead return (sorry, Roddick), every string of surgical down-the-T aces, there'd be more. There's always more. Federer played more than 1,500 matches during his 24-year career, winning almost 85 percent of them. You don't win at that rate without compiling what might be the most satisfying sports montage in existence.

But why take a break from the pure joy of watching Federer glide around the court like a graceful Swiss phantom? Why should I, a casual no-name tennis fan, write a sort of "farewell" to someone who I've never met, who I've never seen outside of a television screen, who doesn't even know I exist? It's pretty insane, on a number of levels. I have a tendency to make fun of people with celebrity obsessions and fandoms, and I suppose it's days like today (and when the Huskers lose a one-score football game) that I'm force-fed my own medicine. I had to fight off tears at the office when a friend sent me a screenshot of Roger's retirement statement. I'm still fighting them off, even now.

Surely we're on the brink of an avalanche of profile features, think-pieces, blog posts, documentaries, tweets, tributes, and more from folks who are far more suited to write such things. I'm only comfortable adding my measly two cents because I know virtually no one outside the 80-or-so of you who threw me a pity-subscribe will read this. And that's fine! Best-case, even! I'm writing because I feel extremely compelled to do so. Federer is my favorite athlete ever, by an insurmountable margin. He's almost single-handedly responsible for my love of playing, watching, researching, and writing about tennis. How could I not say goodbye?

Oddly enough, the match that turned me on to tennis was one that Federer lost: the 2009 US Open final against much-beloved Argentine Juan Martín del Potro. I had just started high school, having spent my early childhood largely disinterested in sports. Much of my ambivalence toward athletics was, I'm sure, a projection of my own physical insecurities. Nonetheless, I found most sports to be brutish, always favoring those who were bigger and stronger. Keep in mind that I grew up in the American Midwest, where football – a sport where size often matters more than technical precision or finesse – ruled. Tennis wasn't on my radar. There were people around me who very earnestly argued that it wasn't a proper sport.

I stumbled across the match while surfing channels, back when people used to actually do that. I can't say what compelled me to stay on ESPN that afternoon, but I did. I watched the unmistakably American opening ceremony inside Arthur Ashe Stadium, the warm-ups, the coin toss, the entirety of the five-set match. The contrast of styles – Federer's angelic movements and tactical shot placement vs. del Potro's deep, thumping, flat groundstrokes – was intoxicating. There were dozens of aces and passing shots, plenty of long, grueling rallies, and everything in-between. However, what struck me most about the match was how calm and graceful Federer was after playing for more than four hours and coming up short. He congratulated del Potro with a soft, authentic smile on his face. He sat on his bench with his head high. I'd never seen someone so used to winning seem so comfortable with losing.

I went on to watch nearly every Federer match with an American broadcast, which still left me ultimately unsatiated. My #FedForever fandom eventually transformed into a love of tennis more generally – the technical side of the sport, the players, the equipment, the tournaments. But it was Federer, even in defeat, that kickstarted it all.

Now he's leaving us, which is a deliberately dramatic way of saying he's retiring from the ATP Tour after next week's Team Europe vs. Team World showdown. He's assured us that he still intends to play the sport and participate in the increasingly devoted international tennis community that he helped build, and I suppose that's comforting. However, it's his on-court brilliance – his fluid, effortless lateral movement, his precision, his unreadable strokes – that I will miss most.

This year's Laver Cup may have the highest ratings in history. I hope it moves in slow motion.