By Bud Collins

An avid Russian hacker named Leo Tolstoy, who also put in time as a scribbler, would have loved his very appealing countryman Marat Safin, whose career has been about inner war and picking up the pieces.

Tolstoy, one of Russia’s earliest players, frolicked on the court he had laid out in 1896 at his country estate Yasnaya Polyana, a drive of about three hours south from Moscow. You can see the space where it was located, and have a word with his grandson, Vladimir Tolstoy, curator of the museum on the property. (He’d like to see the court restored. Any court builders out there who’d like to donate a rectangular slice of history?) Tolstoy had a tennis scene in his novel Anna Karenina. (No, Anna did
not throw herself in front of that train because she and her lover, Count Vronsky, lost a mixed doubles match.)

There were times over the last couple of years, though, when a “depressed” Safin may have been looking for a railroad track himself. That’s when he was acting like the namesake of a character created by the American writer, Washing-ton Irving, “the Headless Horseman.” Or, maybe, Tolstoy’s Pierre Bezukhov in War and Peace, a pleasant chap wandering about in a haze of indecision.

However, the bearish Russian appear-ed to have found his head somewhere along the way to Melbourne and the Australian Open where he became an item again by beating Andy Roddick and Andre Agassi in five-set wowsers—before having his noggin handed to him by Roger Federer in the final. (In the in-terim somebody else may have come across his head, muttering, like Ham-let, “Alas, poor Safin, I knew him” and set it down, hoping that the owner would attach it once more and resume his celebrity.)

Possibly Safin cleared his brain with injections of fresh, mountain air in Yosemite National Park and the Maritime Alps of France. Both locales figured in the rejuvenation of the ex-U.S. Open champ who celebrated his 24th birthday at Rod Laver Stadium by blowing out Roddick’s candles.

Telling himself, “I cannot wait, I must create a situation, this moment may not come again,” he swooped to crush a match point volley against No. 1 Roddick in the quarterfinals, and was smilingly struck by the thought “I’m back!”

Chuckling that he “gave a gift No. 1” to Federer (lifting it from Roddick’s shoulders), Safin was saluted by the Swiss recipient: “We’re glad he’s back because Marat’s a good guy. But we’re scared, too, because we know how well he can play.” Pete Sampras will never forget, looking back to his 6–4, 6–4, 6–3, Safinizing at Flushing Meadow in 2000.

Regardless of losing the Aussie title bout, 7–6 (7–3), 6–4, 6–2—a combination of his weariness (he played more sets, 30, than anyone before him in a major) and Federer’s mastery—this was quite a different Safin from the guy who bungled the same final two years before to Tom Johansson. That was the year of his Bosomy Blonde Squad, which decorated his box, and tales of living higher than his 6'4" frame circulated throughout Melbourne. His alibi: “Then, I had problems with myself. I was 22. I was too nervous.”

This time he was a reclamation project, ranking No. 86, who had played merely 23 matches in 2003 (12–11), losing most of the year to injuries. In preparing he had been driven endlessly like an Alpine goat (much uphill running) in the ranges near his Monte Carlo residence by trainer Walt Landers, a Polish emigrant to the United States.

There was a girlfriend “one” named Olecia. But the other connected female face in the Melbourne throng belonged to Mama: Rausa Islanova, the woman who had put his first racket in his right hand. She had coached him until age 14, then shipped him to Spain to continue his tennis education because she didn’t want Safin teased as too much the Mama’s boy.

But was it Mama’s boy on display, behaving admirably, no pouting no smashing rackets (well, two in the final, gratuitously?). Had she laid down the law of propriety and concentration? “Come on, I’m 24, man,” he said. “A little bit too old to take care of. She’s just here to enjoy the tennis of her son.”

Maybe an occasional look from her was enough. Anyway, she watched and was pleased with her cub, who, determined not to embarrass her, did not. Out of the wilderness of injuries and neglect of his talent—he had talent to burn, and he burned it—Safin was mending a once brilliant career that had unraveled.

At the conclusion of the 3-hour-and-23-minute duel with Roddick, a full-house crowd of 14,623 serenaded his triumph with “Happy Birthday.”

“That was really nice,” he said. “I can’t ask for anything else. Especially the win, beating No. 1 in the world; playing the best since I helped Russia win the Davis Cup at the end of 2002.”

Next was Agassi—lasting 3 hours and blasting 33 aces and 19 service winners in 26 serving games with no double faults against the foremost returner—for whom he had the greatest respect. “I never thought I could beat Andre. He could have won in three sets, he had chances, set points, but I won in five. I have no words...to be on the same court with Andre Agassi.…”

Damaged ligaments and nerves in his left wrist were Safin’s primary indisposition. “I went to Los Angeles [last July] to play,” he said, “but I couldn’t. So then I saw so many doctors and nobody could tell me what was wrong, what to do. They had doubts, they had versions.”

“Finally friends took me to a good sports doctor [Keith Feder] in L.A., who takes care of basketball and hockey players. Also a doctor for the movies. Yes, yes,” he went on in one of his endearing digressions, “yes, because actors, they get injured also. I don’t know. Somehow. Don’t ask me how. The doctor said he couldn’t operate on me. Too tricky. But he said the wrist would heal in a cast. It took a month and a half. I had nothing to do. I was a little depressed.”

But the genuine wilderness beckoned, and they took off for the woods—Safin, his girlfriend and his coach Denis Golovanov. “We went camping. I got a map at the gas station to see where is everything, because,” said the jocular Safin, “my way was going to Oregon. Too far. We went to Yosemite. It was great, beautiful. We went fishing, drink beer, cook what we catch. Just make your mind a little bit relax. Chill out. Think a little bit. No people. You need these kind of things.”

Dame Juliana Berners, an English-woman who wrote one the earliest books devoted to sport, in the late 15th century, had this to say for fishing: “The sport of angling causeth a man to be merry; is for the health of the soul; he shall be well set to God.” Safin would agree. It was an epiphany of sorts for nature boy, who won his first of 11 titles in Boston, the 1999 U.S. Pro. He pondered and decided to make a fresh start.

“I’m really surprised to get to the final,” he said, “because with so much time off you lose completely the game. You don’t see anymore. You don’t feel the moment, what to do, all these things. Basically you have to start from zero. But I did a great job, working hard, day by day, to make everything come back. I was surprised how quick it was. Walt [Landers] was tough, great for me. In a month and four weeks he worked me into shape. My tennis is about fitness, movement.”

These assets were on display as his labors continued in the Aussie. Punching the time clock as well as his volleys more than anyone else, he had no pushovers: three wins in five sets, three in four sets, a total of 21 hours and 6 minutes on court. Federer spent 13 hours and 5 minutes.

“But it was really nice to play long matches,” Safin explained, “to feel the pace of the ball, to read where it’s going, a little bit of feeling of the points.”

Sidelined from Davis Cup last year, Safin returned to the lineup, but couldn’t avoid another long match or help Russia return to the final. Five days post-Federer, and after a lot of air time, he made it to Minsk and lost to Max Mirnyi in a little over four hours, 7–6 (7–3), 7–6 (7–5), 1–6, 4–6, 11–9, the start of a 3–2 defeat by Belarus.

But the main thing is the Russian bear has come out of hibernation with his immense talent intact. He’s stretching with those very long arms and paws for elusive balls the way a grizzly goes after a honey-filled hive way out on a limb or after a darting salmon in a swift river. That awesome reach, blended with speed afoot, overtaking shots that seemed winners and making foes hit too many balls.

Immersed in the uppermost mix again, along with the other holders of major titles—Federer, Roddick, Agassi, Ferrero, Moya, Hewitt, Kuerten—Safin ought to be a standout piece in the most exciting mosaic of the men’s game in years.

Leo Tolstoy might call it the elitists’ war without peace. Safin thinks, “No. 1 will change hands a lot.” It might be in his paws if his head doesn’t get lost somewhere again.