from Corbis, tennis ball on court

I have loved tennis for a long, long time. I remember growing up with Agassi and Graf, Seles and Safin, Haas and yes, even Dokic. I watched them on a grainy, non-flat screen television beamed into my idiot-box from halfway across the world. And I loved them with all my heart, but I lived tennis.

I have my mother to thank, I suppose. She relentlessly followed every GS match at three, four, five in the morning: beaming and sometimes glum; as we awoke and bleary-eyed, demanded breakfast. She waxed lyrical about Edberg, Wilander, Becker, Borg, Chang, King, Ashe, Evert, Connors, Cash, McEnroe, Austin, Sabatini- all the people we had been born too late in the decade to know and love in their prime.

Grand Slams did not work around us, in my house. We worked around the Slams. I remember the days my mother would run around like a headless chicken, trying to find batteries for her radio- so she could take it in to school with her and listen to the commentary during the breaks.

It is not that I had grown weary with the sport and all it’s drama- not at all. In fact, as I grew older and understood the intricacies of the game (I am still learning, of course); I realised that this is a fascination that I will never let go of. For me, tennis was life. Yet,  it lacked something for me. I was not overawed, overwhelmed by it like my mother. I never had a favourite- I either rooted for the underdog or I watched riveted by the tennis, but untouched by the player.

Actually, I lie. Marat Safin had quite the impact. All that passion, that fire, that incredible potential. The larger-than-life personality, the odds he stacked against himself- all that mercurial spirit: it fairly thrilled me.

Of course, he dented my heart with his inconsistency and mental breakdowns- no matter how much potential he had or how funny he was or how unforgiving of himself, I couldn’t help but be charmed.

I suppose then, his inherent passion and drama became the blueprint for what really intertwined tennis and life for me: Rafael Nadal.

2003, I was home early from school; thanks to mock examinations the following week. Switching through channels, I came across some match involving some skinny, scraggly-haired and bandannaed kid and some guy I don’t remember; playing on clay. I nearly switched channels, when the commentator said something about the skinny bloke having beaten Pat Cash at an exho in ‘01.

I usually give the commies a lot of flak, but whoever you were that day: thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I owe you.

Thus started my unwavering love of the sport, of the boy, of the game: it is hard to extricate one from the other, they are all too closely linked in my mind and in my heart, bound together by all that I have ever loved about this sport and all that I love about that skinny, bandannaed kid.

I have kept up with him, with the sport and with all its changes. I stayed up late, I woke up early. I subscribed to exorbitantly priced channels, I cried when all I had was a live score to follow. I figured out how to live stream, I downloaded all sorts of programmes -spyware and not- to get it to work. I cursed my ISP when my stream skipped, I was pleased as punch when it didn’t. I watched him grow from a boy in to a man and I grew up with him. I watched him when I was sad, I watched him when I was hurting and he was my best friend when I needed someone to show me that it would all work out, all I needed was to believe.

I laughed when he won, I wept unabashedly when he was triumphant. I was glum when he lost- but not broken, never that! I hurt when he hurt, I was overjoyed when he cracked a smile. What can I say? He captured my heart with all that raw passion, all that power, all that personality, all that sheer charm in a lift of an eyebrow. I’m a sucker for talent and I’m a goner for heart. He has them both, in spades.

I thought about all those matches I have watched, followed, listened to, cried over,  been jubilant about, been doubtful about, been angry about: all these emotions I have felt over the past six years. I did not think it could get any better than that.

I was wrong.

Wimbledon Final 2008. The Greatest Match Ever Played.

The Greatest Match Ever Played

The Greatest match Ever Played

I wept for hours. My hands did not stop shaking until the next day. I smiled my way through the next few months because my baby ‘clay-courter’ had conquered Wimbledon. I was not worthy enough to have privileged that.

He conquered his demons, showed his detractors, called upon all his reserves and he won. He won that epic. He won.

I promised I would not ask for more.

Once again, I lied.

Here I am, six months later; wanting but too scared to ask.

I did not think I would ever witness another match suchlike that of Wimbledon 2008.

Australian Open Semi-Final, 2009. Rafael Nadal vs. Fernando Verdasco.

You did not surprise me with all the passion, steely will and determination in the world. You broke my heart. You shattered it and you put it all back together with that exhausted collapse on the court- and I collapsed with you. When you (as reported in vB, post #516) made that wish upon that bit of fluff or whatever it was, I wished along with you. When you teared-up at 0-40 in the last game, I teared-up too. When you somehow staggered upright and climbed over the net to hug Nando, I was already bawling.

Just like the last time.

Rafael Nadal at the end of an epic SF vs. Nando 'Tabasco' Verdasco

Fernando 'Hot Sauce' Verdasco reacting during the SF vs. Rafael Nadal

Rafa, catching a wish

Nando willing himself on

Rafa and Nando, exhausted, hug at the end of the epic SF at AO 2009

Like at Wimbledon, both competitors gave it their all. Let it all hang out on court: the sweat, blood and tears- no masks, no pretences. I was overwhelmed during the matches: excited, scared, nervous, awed, inspired- the list is limitless. I was drained, exhausted to mindlessness after it. I could do no more than roll up and weep into my pillow.

I am not worthy of witnessing two phenomenal displays of heart. And you starred in both of them.

It would be selfish of me to ask for more. Selfish to want more for you by taking on today’s final- and asking you, no expecting you to win. The odds are stacked against you. But I will counter every negative comment with a sugary dollop of positivity. Rafa is Rafa. If he can’t do it- nobody can. So, he will bring his HUGE heart, his indomitable spirit and his awe-inspiring game to the court. I will bring unwavering belief, unrelenting faith and a quiet, calm knowledge that he will give it his all. I can expect no more from a champion. We will each play our parts, the rest is all up in the air.

Rafa fans go through their own rituals and do their own little routines to get into the ‘match’ frame of mind. I, personally, like to watch a ‘he’s not going to win; but he does and I think I’m going to cry’ match before matches like these: ones where there are too many factors that influence the outcome, ones where the odds are stacked against him, ones where I know he’ll come out swinging even though he’s tired, ones where it seems a little pointless and more than a little hopeless. Today, I’ll watch Hamburg ‘08. Fed led 5-2 in the first, Rafa was coming off a marathon 3 setter against Djoke the day before; was clearly in pain. I am ashamed to say I’d written off the first set- he won the next seven games on the trot and took the set. Lost the second set tie-break (came from behind to push to TB) but won the third set easily and the somehow- after that gut wrenching beginning- the match. He beat the odds. Time and again, he shames me for having questioned, for that slight glimmer of doubt, for having mistrusted my faith in him.

I need reminding of times like those. I need to be reminded that he’ll do everything he possibly can. He’ll lay it all out on court, no matter what the draw is, no matter what the stupid schedule is, no matter what everyone says: he’ll bring the best he can onto court.

So even though he will probably be tired and maybe even sluggish, even though Federer might win and take 14, even though it will start all that GOAT nonsense again and even though I should know better than to hope:
today, I will not question; I will not have that slight glimmer of doubt and I will not waver. He will do his best and that is enough for me.

I believe.

Vamos!