Rafael Nadal's futile heroics

AS he stared down his doom, Nadal was never more beautiful.

Rafael Nadal had every reason to give up in the Australian Open final. Everyone would have understood. Yet he chased the ball...

THERE was a moment between games in the second set of the Australian Open final when Rafael Nadal buried his head in his hands. His shoulders seemed to hunch. The pain that had been in evidence before the match had intensified to the point where his serve had almost slowed to a standstill. The commentators anticipated an imminent default.

"It looks like a question of when rather than if," they said.

Nadal didn't default, however. He kept battling, all the way until the last point. Some have speculated that his appetite to continue was founded upon the possibility, however remote, that the pain might diminish; that he figured there was a chance Stanislas Wawrinka, his opponent, might get nervous; that by holding on, he was giving himself at least a shot at a title he craved so much.

But I found myself considering a different possibility. I found myself wondering if Nadal battled on not because he believed he could mount a comeback (perhaps he had already concluded that the pain in his back was too great), but because he felt a compulsion to do so that went deeper than rational calculation.

In Rogue Male, the novel by Geoffrey Household, the unnamed protagonist recounts the moment when his tormentors attempt his murder. "They took me to the edge of a cliff and put me over, all but my hands," he says. "I did hang on, of course; for how long I don't know. I hadn't a hope of living and the quicker the end the less the suffering ... but I am not too civilised to be influenced by that force which makes a rabbit run when a stoat is after him. The rabbit doesn't hope for anything, I take it. But he runs. And so I hung on until I dropped."

In sport, we often celebrate those who battle back from almost insurmountable odds. We think of England fighting back at Headingley in the 1981 Ashes series; of Liverpool's Champions League final comeback against AC Milan in Istanbul in 2005; of Manchester United's refusal to accept defeat at the Nou Camp in 1999 when the dignitaries had already left their seats to make their way to the trophy presentation. These moments have particular power. But is not there a different kind of power when sportsmen fight on when hope has well and truly vanished?

Derek Redmond was in the form of his life coming into the Olympic Games in Barcelona in 1992. I remember chatting to him on the Team GB bus before the opening ceremony and was struck both by his easy charm and his keen professionalism. Many predicted that he would go on to win a medal as he crouched down on his blocks for the 400m semi-final. It seemed that, after a career jinxed by injury, he had finally found his moment.

Leading after the first bend, however, Redmond heard his hamstring pop and doubled over in pain. When he got back to his feet and looked across the stadium, he could see that his opponents had already crossed the line. Four years of preparation had vanished in an instant, but he didn't despair. Rather, he got to his feet and began to hop around the bend. His father came to his aid, pushing aside the security guards. It was one of the finest Olympic moments of my lifetime. Redmond knew he couldn't win. He knew it was hopeless, but futility creates its own kind of beauty.

Nadal, to my mind, has never looked more beautiful than in that second set last Sunday night. He had been jeered (cruelly and incomprehensibly) when coming back to the court after his injury time-out. The pain, according to his own testimony, was like a knife in his back. He had every reason to give up. Everyone would have understood. Yet he chased the ball, even when he knew he wouldn't get there. He kept serving, the ball falling from his limp racquet like a burst balloon. He was clinging on to the edge of the cliff. It was mesmerising, profound and tragic.

Wawrinka had his own set of dilemmas, of course. He was playing in his first grand slam final against an opponent in considerable discomfort. He had to find a way to sustain his concentration amid the confusion. He found his equilibrium in the fourth set after that mini-wobble in the third and closed out the match with considerable panache. He is a fine player and a decent man too. It was a wonderful victory.

But over the past few days, my mind has been drawn more and more to the gloriously futile heroics of Nadal. He has defaulted in the past: most memorably against Andy Murray at the 2010 Australian Open and also against Nikolay Davydenko at Paris Masters in 2008, another occasion when the Spaniard was jeered. But as his career has progressed, he has come to embody an indomitability that resonates beyond tennis. His speech in the aftermath, when he thanked the crowd and congratulated his opponent, was characteristic in its grace.

Nadal has played many unforgettable matches over the years. The final of the 2009 Australian Open, when Federer broke down in tears in the aftermath, and the epic collision with the Swiss in the dwindling light of SW19 in 2008 have particular resonance.

But, for this observer at least, the final with Wawrinka is the equal of anything that has gone before. Nadal was battling a magnificent opponent, seeping blisters and excruciating back spasms. He was battling an unsympathetic crowd. At times, he seemed to be battling a complete absence of hope. But he kept fighting, kept striving.

As a motif for sport, as well as life, it is difficult to think of anything more inspirational.

The Times