Rafael Nadal is kissing the French Open goodbye. This is as good as it gets
His superstitions may set him apart but so does Rafael Nadal’s amazing career, particularly on clay as he prepares for a likely departure.
Rafael Nadal cleaned up Novak Djokovic in the 2012 French Open final. I wrote a yarn. Emailed it to the boss. Gave him a call. To make sure the story was okay. To assure him the intro wasn’t too long. To remind the dear thing it was acceptable to go off on a thousand tangents. There’s a formula to writing? Says who? What’s wrong with a few question marks?
I was sitting there, on the phone, while the editor burned his midnight oil in Sydney, and the grandstand was empty on court Philippe Chatrier, perhaps two hours after the final, when Nadal walked onto the court with a horde of family members and friends. The Mallorcan masses. Including his missus. Of all the matches and interviews the Cassius of Clay has done at Roland Garros ahead of his last Open hurrah next week – this is the scene that sticks most in my memory.
He was so grounded. Nothing garish about his celebrations. The others honked like geese and took photos with a trophy that has Nadal’s name on it so many times they should just name it after him. They all shuffled off back to Mallorca making quite the racket until it was just Nadal out there, on his own, hands stuffed in his pockets, brow furrowed, nearly looking sad, most contemplative, hair brushed to side-part perfection. He looked around with palpable awe and wonder, up at the stands and a cumulus sky as if he was thanking the joint for everything it has given him. I was still trying to convince the boss the intro wasn’t too wordy, and no mate, the yarn didn’t drift off on too many tangents, and there’s nothing wrong with quoting Don Quixote de La Mancha – is there? – and what’s wrong with a few question marks, anyway? – when Nadal slowly and meticulously departed his empire of dirt.
Mesmerising
This was the fascinating part. Instead of walking straight to the little doorway that takes a player down a flight of steps to the five-star locker room and cafe, where everyone drinks fancy piccolos and only Gilles Simon gets stuck into the red wines, Nadal did exactly what he’s done against Djokovic. In all his matches. Didn’t walk on the lines. From the middle of the court, he walked to and beyond the far baseline. Then he circumnavigated his way around the tramlines. Then just before leaving, he rubbed his foot on the small centre line of the baseline as though he was about to have another serve. Perhaps no big deal, but all rather mesmerising – he stuck diligently to his tennis superstitions when he wasn’t playing tennis. Suggesting his tics were part of his daily life. No tangents.
Which brings to mind a funny-because-it’s-true story. Nadal was telling his coach and uncle, Toni, who thought Nadal’s on-court rituals were a bit bonkers, about the Jack Nicholson movie, As Good As It It Gets. Nicholson plays an obsessive-compulsive novelist, Melvin Udall, who only ever washes his hands with soap and scalding hot water before throwing out the soap; he refuses to touch pets, even the cuties; he avoids stepping on footpath cracks as if they’re about to swallow him whole; he flicks light switches five times; he takes his own plastic utensils to eat his breakfast at the same table in the same restaurant at the same time every day. If Melvin Udall was a tennis player, he’d face the labels of his water bottles to his end of the court. You get the drift.
Uncle Toni has heard all this and suggested to Nadal that he acts like Melvin Udall. Nadal has replied, “No way!” Way.
Two are one of a kind
The great Nadal is nearly done and dusted. I hope he plays the French Open and then says hooroo to the place where the grass is always greener, Wimbledon, and then I hope he retires at the Paris Olympics. Why slog through the American hardcourt season? He can have a crack at another singles gold medal at Roland Garros, and team up with Carlos Alcaraz in a showtime doubles combination, the most entertaining double act since Thommo and Lillee, before the Spanish Olympic Committee lets him carry the flag at the closing ceremony. Glorious. Better than watching the beloved Nadal bow out with an inevitably earlyish loss on hardcourts at the US Open. He can have a hit-and-giggle with Roger Federer at the Laver Cup, where Federer can do what he does best, bawl like a big, beautiful baby, and then he can return to Mallorca to do what he has planned for the rest of his life. Go fishing and play golf.
While playing, Nadal has been 100 per cent committed to playing. In retirement, he’ll be 100 per cent committed to retirement. He won’t be sighted unless it has something to do with his foundation. He won’t be hanging around the scene as a commentator, that’s for sure. Tennis misses Federer, and it will miss Nadal in equal measure. The two of them have been one of a kind.
We used to chuckle at how Nadal picked his undies from his bum. Djokovic took the mickey out of him for a while there, impersonating him in condescending fashion, but Nadal’s gravitas and sincerity of effort made the piss-taking ridiculous. It disappeared when Djokovic realised the joke was on him. Nadal earned so much respect the following list of unshakeable behaviours became acceptable and just a little bit adorable.
• Nadal must have a cold shower 45 minutes before every match.
• He must wrap new white grips on his racquets in the locker room.
• He must carry one racquet onto a court. Wimbledon has always wanted players to be empty-handed when they enter Center Court. Nadal insists on carrying a racquet.
• He must have five more racquets in his bag.
• The bag must be placed next to his chair. Never on it. The bag must always be placed on a towel.
• He must sprint to the baseline after the coin toss. Never walk. He must do a leaping split-step when he gets to his baseline and then run around the back of the court before hitting a ball.
• On clay, he must run his foot across the plastic baseline on the side of the court from which he’s about to serve or return.
• Before serving, he must clean the small centre line in the middle of the baseline with his foot.
• He must towel down between every point as if he’s freshly drenched in sweat.
• He must curl his hair between both ears before every point.
• He must touch his nose.
• He must adjust his underwear before every point.
• He must drink from two water bottles at changeovers. One bottle must be filled with cold water. The other has warm water.
• He must face the labels of his water bottles towards the end of the court he is about to play from.
• He must never rise from his seat before his opponent.
• He must wait at the net post so he his opponent can get to his chair first.
• He must never walk on the lines of a court.
• He must have his socks at exactly the same height. They must be pulled up as high as they can go.
• He must fold his towels neatly after every changeover.
• He must use his racquet to hit the clay from the sole of his shoes before every point.
• He must take three balls from the ball kids and return one when he reaches the service line.
• He must never use the same ball for consecutive points.
• He must bounce the ball with his racquet before bouncing it by hand.
Mind the cracks. Uncle Toni once told Spanish newspaper 20minutoes: “Man, I am zero obsessive, but a player who puts bottles in line with the court and will not step on lines is obsessive. Rafael told me about the movie (As Good As It Gets) and he was saying how superstitious the main character is. I said, ‘He’s like you. And he replied, ‘No, no! No way!’ But when you do senseless things over and over … he’s told me he can stop doing them. I’ve told him to stop. I like things that are logical. It does not affect his game. If he needed those things to play well, it would be bad, but he does not want to stop.”
Nadal reckons, “They are things I cannot control. They mean I am more focused.” After hopping through a hotel foyer in Sweden, he was asked by a writer from Sports Illustrated, “What are you doing?!) Nadal has replied: “You know that movie with Jack Nicholson? The one where he’s walking down the sidewalk … I love that movie. I don’t know why. Maybe I hate cracks, too?”
Maybe! Nadal has been saying for a decade that every French Open may be his last. He’s been an injury crock most of his career. Another favourite image of tennis’s ultimate warrior: Nadal sitting on a chair to hit forehands on his backyard court while sidelined by his chronic foot injury.
“I really don’t know how many more years I will be playing,” he’s said at basically every French Open for the last 12 years.” It’s impossible to predict the future, no? I will be here until my physical no longer respects me. The day will come when it is time to say goodbye, guys, and see you in the next life.”
Obsessive viewing
Now we can predict the future. Now we know for sure he’s no longer respected by the physical. Now we know he’s about to say goodbye and see you in the next life. He’s won 14 French Opens. Fourteen! He has no hope of winning another. The body is too busted. Every match is obsessive compulsive viewing because it could be his last. If Nadal is playing at 3am next week, I’m setting my alarm for 3am.
To watch all the emotion. The applause. The gratitude for him. The gratitude from him. He’ll point his water bottles at his end of the court … he’ll curl his hair behind his ears … he’ll get the clay out of his shoes … he’ll mind the cracks … he’ll try his guts out … and then he’ll turn out the lights on his colossal French Open career … flicking the switch five time on his way out the little door that leads to the five-star locker room and cafe.
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