Sharon Feinstein

The two of them fought like animals to the death.
Federer the graceful black panther, lean, sleek, darting round the court with absolute elegance. He’s clearly a style queen with that dash of gold on his headband, socks, and collar, all matching, colour-coded and part of his smooth lustrous image. His soft black curls were never out of place and his chiselled face barely glistened with sweat.
Roddick, on the other hand, was like a big burly rhinoceros, lumbering up to serve his bullet-like aces, diving across the court, and taking a couple of big, bull-like tumbles.
Federer is as precise and ordered as a Swiss Rolex, and looks like he is fed on a diet of lean meat and salad. Roddick is more chunky, the all American jock who probably likes his McDonalds and chips. But when it came to feelings it was Roddick who was the more human, a gracious, choked-up, emotional loser. He had me choked up too even though I’d been cheering and screaming for Roger to win because he’s handsomer and kind of more mysterious. But I really felt for Andy Roddick when he had the decency to pay such a generous tribute to his opponent’s play and perseverance, his voice breaking with disappointment, and to acknowledge former champion Pete Sampras in the audience.
Federer was overcome with pride and had his jacket ready with 15 emblazoned on the  back in  gold, 15 grand slam winners. There it was lying in waiting, wrapped in the celophane, ready to come out when he made that final winning shot. Interesting that photograper Annie Leibowitz has photographed him as the legendary King Arthur, the British king who defeated the Saxons and established an empire.