Hopefully it's a Nadal v Federer final!
There is still no one better than Roger Federer, and the late, and great, David Foster Wallace summed him up as well as anyone could.
A top athlete’s beauty is next to impossible to
describe directly. Or to evoke. Federer’s forehand is a great liquid
whip, his backhand a one-hander that he can drive flat, load with
topspin, or slice — the slice with such snap that the ball turns shapes
in the air and skids on the grass to maybe ankle height. His serve has
world-class pace and a degree of placement and variety no one else comes
close to; the service motion is lithe and uneccentric, distinctive (on
TV) only in a certain eel-like all-body snap at the moment of impact.
His anticipation and court sense are otherworldly, and his footwork is
the best in the game — as a child, he was also a soccer prodigy. All
this is true, and yet none of it really explains anything or evokes the
experience of watching this man play.
Of witnessing, firsthand, the beauty and genius of his game. You more
have to come at the aesthetic stuff obliquely, to talk around it, or —
as Aquinas did with his own ineffable subject — to try to define it in
terms of what it is not.