Bercy Diary: In the Room

by Gauloises, Contributing Writer

I picked up my press pass on Sunday but I have yet to spend time in the pressroom, mainly because I’m thoroughly intimidated by that windowless, airless pre-fab bunker, which has its own entrance and is connected with the rest of the venue only by a single door that leads to the segregated press seats in the arena. The message is clear; journalists aren't there to enjoy themselves, or to particpate like fans. They're expected to observe, sit and write.

I, however, am not acting as a journalist as much as impersonating one, and I definitely am here to enjoy myself. But when I hear that Roger Federer and Novak Djokovic will be giving pre-start press conferences, I can’t resist. So, after taking in a couple of matches I touch up my makeup, screw my courage to the sticking-place, and forge tentatively into unknown territory.

It’s the first time I’ve seen the press room full. Television screens on the walls show the matches in progress; journalists are crammed eight to a table that, were it a business meeting, might seat five. I know people, but not well. I don’t have a desk, so I head to the far end where the British journalists are gathered and grab a vacant seat. Soon a group of reporters files back in from the interview room where they've just finished with David Nalbandian. The journalists tease each other about the questions they asked and the answers they received. Everybody knows everybody else; politically incorrect banter is exchanged across the table, and rude emails from agents and coaches are read aloud to rumbles of laughter.

Without warning, the PA announcer bilingually announces that Roger Federer is on his way to the presser. Everyone bolts, scrambling for notebooks and pens, and hurries up the long hallway, Rushing to catch up, I see Federer slipping through a special door that leads him directly onto the dias.

Up there, he’s all monograms and Rolex, and he sits hunched forward, the brim of his cap pulled down low over his brow. His arms rest on the table, folded. His posture seems awkward, which surprises me; I’d expected him to be more at ease. On the other hand, he’s perched on a raised platform in an airless box of a room, head-on with fifty strangers weilding pens. Each time he shifts position, shutters and motor drives whirr and snap to a crescendo. I don’t imagine one can ever be at ease with this ordeal, no matter how often he's endured it.

It’s clear that Federer is pretty good at this—like most things—as soon as the questioning begins. He listens politely and responds directly, maintaining eye contact. He adds modest gestures. His replies are full, occasionally funny, and sometimes surprising—I’m startled by the ease with which he admits that in the past, the race to the year-end championships has cost him sleepless nights.

I notice that he uses ‘we’ and ‘us’ in reference to the players, and sense how ready he is to speak for them: We only have one indoor Masters. I think it’s time we shifted back a bit. We’re working together on this issue. It just becomes so hard for the players. Players like to play. Maybe the white glare off those fifty blank notebooks tempts him to efface himself, to seek camoflauge as "just one of the boys." But it could also be that Federer simply enjoys the locker-room camaraderie, that he genuinely sees himself as part of something bigger that himself.

I wish I shared that feeling. At the end of the English portion of the presser, the British journalists rise to leave but the hissing disapproval of the French photographers and cameramen, whose view is momentarily blocked, keeps me glued to my seat just long enough so that I feel I missed my opportunity to slip out unnoticed. So I sit through the French questions and answers, trying to look bilingual.

By the time I make my escape, I have only a few minutes to type out some thoughts before the PA summons us again, this time for Novak Djokovic. I’m behind again, coming in just as Djokovic has taken a seat and started to banter—in French, no less—with the reporters in the front row. Djokovic's hair is still wet from a shower. He leans back in his chair, allows his limbs to loll, and awaits formal questions. When they come, he leans forward to the microphone with a confiding smile and talks seriously and fluently, creating an impression of great thoughtfulness. He’s sharp, too; when a French journalist asks a question about Davis Cup, Djokovic turns it into a joke that has the whole room disarmed and laughing with him before the question is even fully finished.

From his almost flawless English grammar to the way he works to comprehend a mangled question about Rafa delivered in a strong accent, I feel like he’s making an effort for us, that he’s made himself open to the room and he's willing to talk. I feel bad for him that the room is only half as full as it was for Federer. I want to ask him a question he can get his teeth into, but I don’t, because the journalists are handed a microphone to voice their questions and I don’t know how the microphone works. There might be a button you need to press, and I’m scared to embarrass myself. I don’t understand; I’m here as a journalist, the supposed scourge of the top players, and yet I’m the one who’s scared while he looks relaxed enough to be in his slippers at home.

It’s not until I notice the almost convulsive way that Djokovic swallows about every thirty seconds that it dawns on me: He’s nervous, too. I might not be the only one in this room who's afraid of a public misstep. If I fumble, no-one except me will remember; if he says the wrong thing, he’ll never be allowed to forget. I’m filled with admiration for his ability to be charming under such pressure, to act like he’s on our side, rather than an adversary. His performance is so graceful it’s almost moving.

I still don’t hold up my hand for the microphone, though. Djokovic done this far more often than I have.