Rattled and Humming

Rome Masters, Men’s Final 
Rafael Nadal [5] def. Roger Federer [2] 6-1, 6-3

The surest way to find the words to describe a complicated experience, such as the feeling you get while watching two of the greatest tennis players since the fall of the Roman Republic fight a distressingly one-sided battle, is to go someplace where you have absolutely no ability to write anything down. The shower; the forest; the fields; the 880 freeway. Trust me, if you do this, the words, they will come. And then you will have the singular pleasure of trying to figure out how the hell to remember them.

I had just such an experience today, when I took to the trails in the sun-bleached California hills in search of syllables to describe the Men’s Final at the Internazionali BNL d'Italia. Midway through my hike, as I was ascending out of an especially sunny, silent valley and lost in important thoughts about whether my next pair of sneakers ought to have blue accents instead of purple, I rounded a sharp bend and found myself confronted with a sizeable rattle snake.

Truly, it was a big snake. At least as big as Roger Federer’s arm. OK, his left arm. But still. It was clear the creature had been basking peacefully on the parched trail, and it was equally as clear that my arrival caused displeasure. To say he looked at me askance would be an understatement. To say he fixed me with a Tom-Berdych-worthy eye-killing is more like it. The snake reared his head, and reinforcing his position in the exact center of the trail, he shook his rattle. I froze. And that is when the words came. Naturally.

Since I had nothing to write with (see above), I decided I had better focus on not being attacked by a deadly beast who seemed to have me confused with a shiny silver athletic trophy. There was no way around the snake, the only way to go forward was to go back. And so back I went, very slowly. One meter, two meters, three meters, four meters... As I inched backward on the dirt, it occurred to me that pretty soon I would be as far from the snake as Rafael Nadal stands from the baseline when he feels threatened. Maybe it was all the rattling in my ears, but at the time this thought struck me as deeply profound. I was going to win this battle through defense! 

Granted, I did not so much kill the snake, or even hit tennis balls past him, as I did wait for him to slither off into the dry brush. From a strictly technical standpoint, there was no real winning or losing involved. But still, it's the thought that counts. I avoided being bitten by a snake by taking defensive action, which also happens to be what Rafael Nadal did against Ernests Gulbis in his hard-won three-set victory on Thursday, and exactly what Roger Federer did not do against a lethal Nadal on Sunday.

Of course, this is not an apples-to-apples comparison. Rafael Nadal has a natural propensity for defense, and Roger Federer an attractive inclination for relentless attack. (It goes without saying that Nadal is no Gulbis, and that waiting for him to slither off into the dry brush is going to be a winning strategy.) There is also little reason to suppose that playing a more patient game would have earned Roger Federer the match, but it might have helped him land a few more balls in the court. (The Swiss won only 36 out of 95 points, while making 32 unforced errors.)  

There were few who thought Federer likely to come away with the title, but many, including the enthusiastic crowd at the Campo Centrale —as well as those of us determined to take his change in hairdo as symbolic of his change in fortune— hoped he would put up a good fight. And indeed Federer started off well-enough, taking the first game with an ace down the T; a winning serve-volley point; a forehand winner; and a winner at the net. (Nadal won the only second serve point in the game with an inside-out forehand winner.) Commentators Robbie Koenig and Jason Goodall enthusiastically pronounced the game to be “glorious,” and “full of good things.” Like a pair of Roman augurs misreading the flight-patterns of predator birds, the dynamic duo completely mistook the auspices.

Instead, Nadal pretty much dominated pretty much everything that happened after that, to put it into technical terms. The match looked a lot like the other times Rafa has routed Federer on clay. As Koenig observed a little later on, much more accurately this time, “the pattern is so simple:” Nadal goes to Federer’s forehand to open the backhand, then back to the forehand, this time to open the backhand for the kill shot. If the strategy doesn’t work the first time, he repeats it.

But this final was not disappointing because patterns were repeated, or because Federer’s hawkish game fell short. It was that something in Roger Federer’s survival instinct seemed to fail him today. He froze. Yes, he lacked a B-plan, but more than that, when confronted with Nadal at his instinctual best, Federer looked thoroughly, well, rattled. 

It was all over very quickly —just 69 minutes from first point to last— and I doubt the result is too portentous for Roger. It was Federer’s first final of 2013, which is progress, and he lost badly, but he lost it to Rafael Nadal, on clay. By contrast, the week in Rome signifies quite a lot for the Mallorcan. First of all, Rafa is now numerically reinstated the Big Four. (David Ferrer can finally exhale.) Since his return from his injury lay-off, Rafa has made eight finals in as many tournaments, three of them Masters, and become champion of six. Largely for this reason, the media has been forced to drum up the annual Race to London five months earlier than usual. Rafa still trails Federer, Murray, and Djokovic in the official rankings, but he’s 690 ranking-points ahead of the competition in the 2013 tally, putting him on the College of Augurs’ shortlist for year-end No. 1.  

And most important, going into Roland Garros, Rafa’s tennis is tremendous. The first set of Friday’s semifinal victory over Tomas Berdych was as gracefully dominant a set of tennis as I’ve seen from Nadal this year, and the second set wasn’t too shabby either. (The final might have been equally as lovely to look at, had not his opponent been so prone to hit his forehand into the net.) Everything is humming along beautifully for Nadal right now, from his footwork to his forehand, to his ability to drive through the hitch in his backhand, to whatever internal passions fuel his psychological drive.

This latest trophy in Rome, his seventh in nine tries, is Rafa’s 41st clay court title, which is more than the rest of the top ten players combined. Next week he will vie for his eighth French Open title, which makes one Coupe des Mousquetaires for every year of the Roman-Gallic Wars, in case you were wondering. To further plunder a nonsensical historical reference, Nadal looks as prepared as even the most imperious dictator to set forth from Rome and conquer.  

Rafa has always seemed to feel more comfortable in the role of rebel freedom-fighter than mighty princeps. He prefers to battle dangerous opponents (also the dahn-ger-hous ones) than to experience himself as the lethal entity. So perhaps it's best not to tell him this last bit: When I encountered the rattler on the trail today — with his deadly fangs and basilisk stare — the first word that came to mind was “Rafa.” 

Numa's Balls!

Rome Masters, Third Round

Rafael Nadal [5] def. Ernests Gulbis [Q] 1-6, 7-5, 6-4

The question, when one sits down to write about the tennis at the Foro Italico – with its Campo Centrale skirted in gleaming white concrete; the sunken, statute-lined Stadio Pietrangeli; and the wizened Cyprus trees standing in hi-relief against the evening sky– is never whether or not to plunge backward into history. The question is just how far back to go: Mussolini? (The man who ordered the sporting forum built and then named in his honor.) Michelangelo? Julius Caesar; Gaius Marius; the Mother of the Gracchi? 

But no, today, I have decided to go way, way back to the days when sheep still grazed the Palatine, generations before Servius Tullis thought up the Severian Wall, or the first pubs were established in the seedy Subura; back to the days when Rome was ruled by Kings. Numa Pompilius was just the second king of the City of the Seven Hills. He ruled after Romulus, who, as we all know, was suckled by a she-wolf before moving to outer space and colonizing a Class M planet. With Romulus gone off to conquer Remans and pester William Shatner, Numa was free to take over in Rome and invent the month of January, thereby making my birthday possible.

Needless to say, King Numa is high on my good-list. But even so, looking on as Ernests Gulbis utterly negated the power of Rafael Nadal’s game through all seven games of the first set of their third round contest in Rome today, I was sorely tempted to take Numa’s name in vain. “Numa’s Balls! 1-6, Rafa!? The tennis gods would not approve. I do not approve.”

I have it on good authority that “Numa’s balls” is both an authentic ancient Roman expletive and fit for use during Internazionali BNL d'Italia tennis. For starters, Gordianus the Finder used to say it all the time. Gordianus the Finder, if you don't know, is a highly respectable, albeit completely fictional detective.* Essentially the Hercule Poirot of his day, he went around solving important murder mysteries for the likes of Marcus Tullius Cicero and Julius Caesar, except, in addition to his little grey cells, Gordianus occasionally used a bronze cudgel. Rome could not have got on without him.

Another reason I know “Numa’s balls!” is an acceptable Internazionali BNL d'Italia curse is because I am almost certain I heard Viktor Troicki call out to Numa as he gestured wildly to the sky in objection to a questionable call during his second round loss to a commanding Ernests Gulbis. It was just before Troicki dragged a camera man on court for a ritual mark-witnessing ceremony (take a listen and see if I’m not right). Also, I heard Tsonga use it several times in sentences—and in French no less—when he was gently remonstrating himself (at length) for being even worse at returning Jerzy Janowicz’s serve than the serves of other, shorter, non-shirt-shredding players.

And finally, I am positive Andrew Murray shouted something about Numa’s balls when he had to retire with an injury after leveling his match against Marcel Granollers. Or maybe it was Numa’s back? It is sometimes difficult to understand Murray when he curses, even as it’s remarkably easy to know that he is cursing. It also possible that Murray invokes ancient Roman obscenities as a rule on his birthday. You know, for the light-hearted fun of it. The Scot turned 26 on the day he permitted Marcel Granollers to go on to the third round and ruin poor Jeremy Chardy’s day. One hopes that the first week and a half of Murray’s 27th year will give his back ample time to heal for the French Open. 

If Rafael Nadal’s Tuesday performance against the Italian Fabio Fognini seemed to hammer home how far out of league Rafa’s clay court game is as compared to almost all other tennis players on earth, the first set of today’s match could have made fans wonder how exactly Nadal had managed to six of the last eight Italian Open titles.

If you are not a Rafa fan, or if you are, say, David Ferrer, you could hardly be blamed for hoping the Latvian would pull off the upset. First of all, it is truly time to stop seeing Gulbis’ name in qualifying draws—for good. (There is talk about how unfair it will be for one of the other top three players to face a No. 5 seeded Nadal before the final weekend at Roland Garros. Well, what about the qualifier who has to play THIS Ernie? Think of poor Gianluca Naso.)

Second, Ernie can be a thrill to watch. The Latvian can bang out winners from almost anywhere on the court with that graceful, shining cudgel of a backhand. And if his forehand wind-up makes him look like a stork tangled in the swamp grasses, he still manages to produce massive acceleration. Gulbis’ serve was fantastic for the entire first set (and very good in all but the most crucial moments of the second and third). The Ernests dropshot—when it’s working—is as beautiful as it is disdainful. (More than any other player on tour, he hits drop shots like a man used to having other people pick up after him.)

The game plan today was straightforward—and the same one Gulbis announced he had in Indian Wells, where he also pushed Nadal to three sets. He took the ball early, came forward often, and served to (and attacked) the Nadal forehand. He is, as he said he was, good enough at tennis to make it work. Indeed, Nadal looked utterly lost in the first set, and downshifted almost immediately into safe mode. He backed off the baseline during rallies, and retreated nearly out of frame to return serve, giving Gulbis an abundance of angles to exploit, and numerous opportunities to rush the net.

But when Nadal defaults to his ultra-defensive position he is usually trying to buy time, and given his unparalleled record on clay, I cannot help but think it is part of a larger, and largely successful plan. The atmosphere in Rome today was damp and heavy, so Nadal’s topspin was not leaping off the court as much as usual. More important, Gulbis was taking the ball so early that he was negating the topspin advantage and sending the ball back too fast for Rafa to establish his patterns properly. And the opening set put me in mind of Nadal’s loss to Djokovic in the Rome 2011 final. But although Ernie might be capable of a grander aggressive game than the World No. 1, he is also vastly more susceptible to breakdown, on both wings— the cudgel-side and the flapping stork forehand. 

By giving himself more time, Rafa not only bought himself time to work his way into a better rhythm—even if it meant conceding some winnable points— he gave Gulbis time to lose his. Gulbis hit 59 winners to 50 errors, while Nadal hit 13 winners to 19 errors. This is a more than typically misleading statistic, because anyone familiar with Nadal's game knows his ordinary, non-winning forehands played no small role in Ernests’ “unforced” errors.

For the sake of story line, it is tempting to try to locate the moment when Nadal turned the match around. There was a point in the second set, when Rafa hit a clean backhand winner down-the-line, earning him the 4-3 hold. He followed the point with an especially determined fistpump. Somewhere in the second set there was also a particularly inspiring lob winner, and, of course, there was the part where Nadal broke to level the match at one set all. But it wasn’t really the kind of match that hinged on one spectacular, galvanizing moment.

In the end, it came down to the ability to execute under pressure. And Ernests Gulbis does seem to be making strides in handling the big moments (not to mention in causing his opponents to have Gulbis-styled meltdowns). When Ernests went down triple break point at 4-5 in the second set, he did very well to come back to win the game with an ace, a winning drop shot, a solid one-two punch, a winning backhand, and yet another ace. But Nadal responded to three set points come and gone in the approved champion's style: by holding serve and then promptly creating and converting another break opportunity. Rafa did not miss his next chance to close out the set, which he earned via a defensive stab at an excellent Gulbis serve. Whether you chalk it up to champion's luck, or preternatural talent, it did the trick.  

Not surprisingly, it was a Nadal forehand that forced the error that brought up match point in the third. A final error from the Latvian finished the match. Ernie has the talent, and the cleverness, but he has not quite got the nerve—not yet. As for the King of Clay, history has shown, and today served as another reminder, he’s got, well, balls. 

*Steven Saylor’s Roma Sub Roma series. If you get a kick out of watching the Roman Republic fall, or just like a good historical whodunit to pass the time on planes, trains, or even treadmills, I recommend Gordianus the Finder. 

The Magic Words

Mutua Madrid Men’s Final

Rafael Nadal [5] def. Stan Wawrinka [15] 6-2, 6-4

“He is the ULTIMATE warrior.” Those were the words of one of the Eurovision World Feed commentators during one of Rafael Nadal’s appearances in La Caja Mágica last week. I do not remember who said it, maybe Koenig, or Lester, or Wilkinson; nor do I recall the player Rafa was battling at the time, maybe Youzhny, maybe Ferrer. It was far from the first time I had heard that precise phrase used to describe Nadal – more like the millionth— but the something about the commentator’s inflection struck a chord. It stayed with me.

Maybe it was the slow, intense unfurling of the sentence, as if the words were like bold-patterned wallpaper and the commentator was taking anxious care to ensure the message really, truly stuck. All laid out, the sentence is little more than ordinary sports-world hyperbole, but the commentator had my sympathies. Putting the emotional timbre of a sporting contest into words is a tricky business. It is so easy to overdo it, e.g. the epic battles, the dogged David, the instant classics, the ultimate warriors.

At the same time, fans come to sports (or to the more theoretical “Sport”) looking for an intensity that goes well beyond, well, reason. Audiences arrive expecting a near poetical intensity, a core rawness that would be intolerable, or at least sound very silly, if it were applied to other events of similar importance in the so-called Grand Scheme of Things. Sporting events can reach into emotional depths all out of proportion to the occasion, which can be wondrous or terrible, ridiculous or expansive, or all-of-the-above, depending.

But the Mutua Madrid match that took me deep into out-of-proportion territory was not today’s final. It wasn’t a Rafa match at all, although Nadal’s form was the sharpest it has been across the course of a tournament this year. It wasn’t an #EPIC upset (although Grigor Dimitrov is making great strides in raising playing-thru-cramping to a form of high art). It was a match that ended, as so many do, with a top four seed staving off an inspired attack from a lesser ranked opponent. The three-set Round of Sixteen contest between 13^th seed Tommy Haas and fourth seed David Ferrer was the best of the tournament in my book.

As many of you know, I am fond of Ferrer. I admire his tennis fully as much as his calf muscles, but I really wanted Haas to win that match, for the 35-year-old Tommy’s sake, for Ferrer’s, and for my own. Having steamrolled Mikhail Youznhy, Rafael Nadal already lay in wait in the quarters. I did not think I could bear to watch Ferrer fall woefully short against his compatriot, not again, and not so soon after his finals losses to Murray and Wawrinka, not to mention the crushing loss to Nadal in the Acapulco final.

Recovering from a leg injury (and a heartache), Ferrer has looked subpar ever since the Miami final against Murray, in which he held and lost a solitary match point. He got through his first match against Denis Istomin in straights, but both temper and tennis were still frayed around the edges. The Spaniard came out in slightly better form against Haas, edging the German 7-5 in the first set. But Tommy Haas has not lit the twilight of his career with a four-alarm blaze for nothing. The German stoked the fire in his belly, and set to work. The second set included a thrilling collection of crafty points from the veteran, including stunning passes off both wings and clever, clever serving. By the time Haas took the second set 6-4, I was on my feet in front of the TV.

As the third set progressed Haas continued to launch himself at tennis balls with his unique brand of feisty elegance. When he broke early in the third, I thought for a moment that he might pull off the upset, but the break also seemed to snap something in Ferrer—or snap him out of something. I am pretty sure he growled, there was definitely cursing, and all of a sudden the Spaniard’s groundstrokes were landing deep, just inside the baseline. Matching Haas’ pace as well as the German’s habit of hitting the corners for winners, Ferrer broke back at 3-4.

When the two men squared off at the start of the 4-4 game, the atmosphere crackled. The momentum hung in the balance, ready to swing gleefully from the rafters of Madrid’s Magic Box. Haas was still lit from within, but there was a new glint in Ferrer’s eyes, and with it a look on his face that could almost be called frenzied. Watching the TV screen, my own eyes opened wide in response. As Ferrer crouched to serve—as only Ferrer does— I did a nervous little spectator hop. I feared for Tommy, and rightfully, as it turned out.

By the time it was over, and the red dust settled, I could not begrudge Ferrer the match. Haas tightened up in the final games, while Ferrer was tennis was about as good as it gets. The Spaniard was all angles and aggression. It reminded me of his Davis Cup Final performance against Tomas Berdych, or any number of performances again Juan Martin del Potro. Oddly –or sadly— what impressed me most about Ferrer’s fight-back in the third set was the way he was able to raise his game when he needed it most (like the champions do), all the while knowing what was in store for him if he won.

Haas played beautifully throughout his stay in Madrid– his backhand winner down-the-line to fend off Ferrer’s first match point comes to mind as a particularly electric example—there would have been no shame in Ferrer’s losing to Tommy in the third round, and there was almost certain to be shame in losing, yet again, to Rafael Nadal in the quarters. Ferrer defeated Tommy Haas 7-5, 4-6, 6-4. He lost to Nadal 6-4, 6-7 (3), 0-6. That is the kind of score line that hurts.

The fact that Ferrer came very, very close to winning cannot but salt the wound. At 6-5, 30-15 in the second set he had a chance to put a short ball into any of the countless Rafaless places on the court. Instead he hit it to the one place where Rafa actually was. Much has been made of David Ferrer’s “brain cramp,”  which is an accurate term in that it implies a lack of conscious control, but not a comprehensive one, as it’s merely ironical when it should also be emotional. Ferrer is truly the canary in the coalmine when it comes to identifying the game’s Ultimate Warriors. It is true that he was two points from victory, but Nadal was also two points from a loss. And he did not lose. And then he won twice more.

Ok. I imagine some of you have me all figured out by now. Yes, we are way down near the bottom of the post and, yes, I have yet to write about the Men’s Final. It’s true, I did a mid-post substitution! 

The thing is, the Final was not half as exciting as the Haas-Ferrer match. Oh, it was certainly a sumptuous display of Nadal’s many talents, including his tremendous forehands; his miraculous cross-court passing; his lefty serving (he won 90% of his first serves and 73% of his second); his clay court sliding; his leg-and-fist pumping; his collapsing to the earth in the throes of an emotional victory; his getting a post-victory dollop of dirt on his cheek; his champagne magnum handling; even his face-protective reflex-volleying was on full display (Tomas Berdych should watch that point and see how it’s done). But even with all Rafa’s magic, there was very little tension and almost no mystery in the match. Nadal had six break points in the first game. He broke, then he held at love, then he broke again, and then he kept on going.

It is a shame it was not a competitive match, because Wawrinka’s path to the final was very both competitive and exciting, with three-set victories over Grigor Dimitrov, Jo-Wilfried Tsonga, and Tomas Berdych. As the Swiss went down a double-break in the Final’s opening set, looking mildly hobbled and very resigned, I was reminded of Robin Soderling at the 2009 French Open final. It is not that Stan was “just” happy to be there—he certainly looked sad-enough after he lost—but it felt as if he had done all he has yet learned to expect of himself, and more, already. And he had done well.

The Swiss No. 2 posted nine straight wins on clay in two weeks, taking possession of the Tour’s only Martha-Stewart-approved trophy and the No. 10 ranking along the way. Furthermore he is outpacing Roger Federer in the “Intercontinental Jog to London” by 365 points, giving rise to rumors of Federer's imminent demise. Stan will have more chances (he might even get another crack at Djokovic in Rome this very week), and truly, he did not have much chance today—not the way Rafa played. The King of Clay played like a true warrior-prince should. He needed 111 minutes to claim the Scepter of Ion as his own. He needed several more to figure out how to give it a proper bite.

It is difficult to find words to describe the very best when they are at their best, or very near it. Fortunately, there can be a sort of poetry in numbers, or so my statistician sister tells me: Since his seven month layoff Rafael Nadal has entered seven tournaments, reached seven finals, and won five. The Madrid title is Nadal’s 55th; his 40th on clay; and his 23rd Masters title, a new record. He is 26 years-old and his favorite number is 9. In the Grand Scheme of Things all these numbers add up to one thing... Yep, you guessed it... 

Onward to Rome, Rafa. Your next battle awaits!

As The World Turns

BMW Open Final: Tommy Haas def. Philipp Kohlschreiber 6-3, 7-6

Portugal Open Men's Final: Stanislas Wawrinka def. David Ferrer 6-1, 6-4

For those of you who have been following the latest in tennis-land news, you will have noticed someone went and forgot to latch the gate to reality. In crept Death, first taking Lukas Rosol’s father and then ATP Chairman, Brad Drewett, who succumbed to Lou Gehrig's disease two days ago. Next came Violence, in the guise of Bernard Tomic’s father, reminding us all that it is all fun and games until a crazed tennis-parent goes and hurts someone. And finally came the Unforgiveable Puns, as jokes about John Tomic redefining the term “hitting partner,” or returning literal truth to the expression “butting heads,” went ricocheting around cyberspace.

Of course, as of now, there is no official confirmation of the exact charges against John Tomic, and even if there were, the charges remain allegations. But should the smoke lead to fire, and it looks very likely to in this case, it is serious business. It is life. And clearly, with such a father, Bernard has not had an easy one. I am not going to talk much about any of these sad realities in this post. It is not that young Tomic (and his hitting partner Thomas Drouet) do not deserve a few paragraphs of my outrage, it is that they deserve more. Just like Brad Drewett deserved more life. And no doubt Lukas Rosol would trade his trophy for another day with his Dad. So many people deserve more.

And yet, life goes on.

And if you are Tommy Haas, that fact turns out to be not such a bad thing. The 35 year-old German claimed his 14th career title today, soundly defeating fellow-German and defending champion, Philipp Kohlschreiber, 6-3, 7-6, at the BMW Open in Munich. The title is Haas’ first since Halle in 2012. He is now the proud owner of a No. 13 world-ranking, as well as a BMW convertible with the word “WINNER” printed in 725 pt. Helvetica type on the driver’s side door.

The final itself was far more aesthetically pleasing than the custom typography prepared for the winner. Played on sundrenched red clay, as a gentle rain of snow-white blossoms fell onto the backcourt, the match saw its own winners emerge from all points of the compass. The progression of the final was almost entirely straightforward – Haas dominated from being to very near the end and then again at the very end—but the points themselves were delightfully intricate.

All told, Kohlschreiber did not play particularly well, while Haas was superb. The defending champ made a late push in the second set, breaking a suddenly nervy Haas as he tried to serve for the match at 5-4, but his serve let him down in both sets and his timing was off from the start. Small but crucial miscalibrations in his switch-quick forehand swing resulted in one tiny error after another. But it was still attractive, refreshing-looking tennis, and made me wish I had been able to watch Kohlschreiber’s semifinal victory over Daniel Brands and doubly glad I had seen Haas' opening win over Gulbis. When I watch I final, I like to have the context of what came before. (Incidentally, I was pleased to see Brands arrive at another semifinal. His last was in Doha, when he came through qualifying to lose to Gasquet.)

The two things I noticed most during the match were how close both men stayed to the baseline as they cut up the court with wicked angles, and the elegance of Tommy Haas’ slide. On the second and final match point, which arrived in a second-set tiebreaker, Kohlschreiber’s slice return caught the tape and dropped well shy of Haas’ service line. Haas sprinted forward, slid gracefully into a volley, which Kohlschreiber netted. Victory his, Tommy Haas immediately collapsed onto his back, arms outstretched in silent celebration. It will come to no surprise to Haas fans that Tommy had changed his shirt for the second set, he was wearing all white, and as he took his celebratory fall to earth, he looked, if not exactly like a falling flower petal, then at least very, very happy.

His wife was certainly thrilled. Before match point she stood up to film Haas’ serve with her iPhone. I cannot help but find it endearing when top players’ family members record big moments in matches on their telephone cameras. It is such a genuine reaction, a little foolish, but so loving. Because of course they can get better footage easily. I can get better footage in seconds on YouTube, but there is still something special about capturing the moment personally, from one's own perspective.

After Tommy fell to earth his wife remained standing, leaping up and down, arm held aloft with her telephone pointed in her husband’s general direction. She was screaming and looking very pretty. He looked overcome and ruggedly handsome. The video must have looked awful.

Speaking of the way things look, this weekend at the Portugal Open they gave away the trophies that my inner-Martha most covets for my mantle. (Tell me they would not look divine heaped full of decorative pine cones? Or as a storage container for my collection of bobble-head Freuds? People keep giving me those damn things and I have no place to put them. They just stand there, bobbling at me, silent, judging.) Interestingly, it turned out to be Stanislas Wawrinka who got to take home the largest of the preppy porcelain bobble-head containers. The Swiss defeated World No. 4 David Ferrer, 6 -1, 6-4 in an unexpectedly one-sided affair.

The last time Wawrinka contested an ATP final was in Buenos Aires in February, where he lost to David Ferrer in three sets. The last time David Ferrer won a final was when he beat Wawrinka in Buenos Aires, but he has lost three more since. Ferrer is struggling. Whether it is physical or emotional, or both, I do not know. Leg injuries can be a long time healing, the same is true for aches in the heart—both of which Ferrer sustained in his Miami Final loss to Andy Murray.

On the other hand, for the past year-and-a-half or so, the Spaniard has held almost impossibly steady in his best-of-the-rest position. Near impossible consistency cannot last forever. In fact, by very definition it rarely lasts, ever. Still, I find myself hoping this is not the beginning of the end for the 31-year-old player – as if everything isn’t the beginning of some end or other – and that Ferrer will stabilize soon, and go on being the rock-solid Daveed that we all know and love, but fail to adequately respect.

Of course, after Wawrinka’s valiant, and lengthy, loss to Novak Djokovic in Melbourne (which I watched under the influence of powerful cold medication) many tennis fans, myself included, also fervently hoped for all that is good and great for Stanislas Wawrinka. Preppy porcelain mantle-decor seems like a great place to start. This week: Portugal. Next week: The World No. 1.

Indeed, Madrid is already underway. Stan finds himself in Novak’s quarter. Haas and Ferrer are in Nadal’s section (well, technically the quarter belongs to Ferrer, but we all know how that goes). Roger Federer gets to play a guy who is older than he is, but still younger than Tommy Haas. Cilic has already lost. Freud is still bobbling his head at me. And Fernando Verdasco has won a match. Life, it goes on quickly.

Into the Sunshine

Barcelona Open Banc Sabadell

Final, Rafael Nadal [2] def. Nicolas Almagro [4] 6-4, 6-3

There are times when watching a tennis final on television is like catching a glimpse of Pindar’s mythical Elysian Fields through a magical electronic portal, provided, of course, you believe someone would resurface mythical fields in concrete, or, as is the case in Spain, crushed bricks. (Also provided you believe in magic electronic portals.) This illusion mostly occurs when the time-zone spread means a midday match takes place under the cover of local darkness, either late at night or early in the morning. The juxtaposition produces an appealing chiaroscuro effect.

Where there is darkness and slumber at home, unimpeded sunshine floods the tennis stadium, dousing local spectators in good cheer. Athletes frolic to and fro. Birds soar over overhead, their small bodies amplifying the vastness of the topaz sky. Oceans, or rivers, or rising urban skylines sparkle like diamonds on the horizon, and beautiful women are scattered throughout the stands, ever ready to be filmed in the delicate act of unsticking strands of wayward hair from the Advanced Plumping System™ gloss that tints their lips.

Today was not one of those days. True, Rafael Nadal and Nicolas Almagro got off to an early start on my flat-screened portal in California. Also true, the morning weather in the Bay Area was dominated by foggy gloom—although the sun would vaporize the mist long before the players were given their commemorative post-match sieve-goblets—and the light in my study-room was dull and flat, but so was the sky over the Barcelona Open Banc Sabadell. And so it stayed.

The beautiful people at the Real Club de Tenis were wearing lip-gloss, yes, but they were also wearing parkas. With fur-fringed hoods. In fact, the weather in Barcelona was miserable through much of the tournament. Rain obliterated mid-week OOPs, forced the men’s semifinals to run simultaneously, and caused Rafael Nadal to scowl repeatedly—somehow only on the left side of his face—while winning his way to his eighth title at the 500-level tournament.

Nadal has not lost a tennis match in Barcelona for a decade. His record at the tournament is a whopping 40-1. By contrast, Lukas Rosol, the 27-year-old surprise winner of the BRD Nastase Tiriac Trophy in Bucharest, has a career tour record of 39-45.* Nadal’s solitary loss came to Alex Corretja in 2003 when Rafa was 17 years-old, or five years younger than his 2013 semifinal opponent, Milos Raonic, is now. Even if Nadal’s (near) home tournament has remained largely untroubled by the rest of the big four, the numbers still boggle.

An injury forced Nadal to skip the 2010 tournament, which was won by the pre-Instaglam version of Fernando Verdasco. (In case you’ve forgotten, Verdasco defeated Robin Soderling in a split-set final. It’s hard to believe that was only three years ago.) But generally speaking, when Rafa shows up, he wins. And generally speaking, he wins by beating David Ferrer. Through last year, Nadal’s victims in the Final were, in chronological order, Ferrero, Robredo, Canas, Ferrer, Ferrer, Ferrer, and Ferrer. (In 2007, the year Rafa defeated Guillermo Canas for the title, he beat Ferrer in the semis.) If I were Ferrer, I might consider losing to Dmitry Tursunov in my first match too.

Almagro, by contrast, has had it easy; the last time he lost to Rafa in Barcelona was in 2006. All the rest of the years he got to lose to other people. But not today.

On a court heavy with soggy clay, under drizzly skies, Rafael Nadal surprised fans by losing the first three games, two of them being on his serve. Or it’s possible it was Nicolas Almagro with the surprises, as he won the first three games, two of them being breaks of serve. It all depends on your perspective. But no matter how you look at it, it was clear Almagro was ripping his backhand for winners, while Nadal was standing thirty or forty feet behind the baseline and scowling with the left side of his face.

Yet, as informed fans well know, despite the dramatic opening score, the players were, in fact, still Nico and Nadal. If Rafa didn’t find his form, Almagro was bound to find a way to lose his. As it turned out, it was a little bit of both. Rafa settled into a reliable defensive rhythm while Nico set to disrupting his own. As a result, Rafa won the next three games (or Almagro lost them) bringing the score to three-all and creating the illusion the set was proceeding on-serve, which it then did, for exactly three games.

At 5-4 30-0 Rafa heard what’s sometimes known (by me) as The Clarion Call of Champions (Who Drink Responsibly). The CCC(WDR) rang out suddenly, when a shot from Almagro clipped the tape and landed short. As we’ve seen him do so many times before, Nadal ducked his head and took off at a gallop as if pulling all his momentum up through the crown of his head. He reached the short ball with time get it back, but not to place it well. Almagro responded with a lob, forcing another duck-and-run from Nadal, this time back to the baseline where he hit an impressive tweener down-the-line, and then charged cross-court to hit a defensive forehand, drawing the error from Almagro, whose knees had gone rigid with shock.

This single point had the effect of breaking Almagro’s delicate focus, and energizing Nadal, who proceeded to break Almagro’s not-so-delicate serve and win the first set 6-4. It would be an exaggeration to say Rafa cruised through the second set, but it would be more of an exaggeration to say the outcome of the match remained in doubt. Nadal would win; the question was only a matter of when and how emphatically.

Match point arrived at 5-3 40-0. After setting up the point with a sliding serve out wide to Almagro’s backhand, Nadal finished off the World No. 12 with a penetrating inside-out forehand and an overhead smash, which Nico lunged for while crying out, as if in pain. It was a familiar sight.The Mallorcan has yet to find his best tennis on the clay, but he still looked unbeatable in Barcelona. Nadal now has four titles out of six finals (in six tournaments) this season, but what's good-enough to beat the rest of the field is not enough to take on the World No. 1. The consensus is that Nadal can do better, the question is, will he? 

Nadal’s on-court celebration was subdued, either befitting the dreary weather and heavy cadence of the match, or possibly because he was already feeling apprehensive about lifting the behemoth Barcelona trophy without wounding himself in the process. Still, when it came time to hoist his trophy toward the leaden sky, Rafa did it with a smile, and nary a scratch on his cheek. 

And after the World No. 5 bit into his eighth Barcelona trophy? Why, I got to go out through the magic portal also known as my front door, and into the sunshine. 

* I did not get to see any of Lukas Rosol's victory, which earned him his first career ATP title, and was especially poignant because it came just weeks after his father's death. But if you're interested to know more, visit Jesse Pentecost at The Next Point. 

Being and Becoming

A Measure of the Mood at the Monte Carlo Rolex Masters, 2013

As if anticipating the next millennium’s need for tweetable deep thoughts, Swiss psychiatrist Carl Jung made a practice of bottling the various essences of human experience into small, elegant containers, sometimes known as sentences. Of course, he then hid those sentences away inside tomes the size of bricks. Fortunately, the internet (which, if I’m not mistaken, was invented the same year Rafael Nadal won his first Monte Carlo title) makes it possible to extract almost any sentence from its original source and instantly misapply it to almost anything else.

This is useful for such things as bumper stickers, inspirational coffee mugs, ironical t-shirts, long-form tattoos, and the occasional piece of tennis writing. For example, here’s one of my favorites from Jung’s Collected Works (Volume XI, paragraph 390): “Just as a man still is what he always was, so he already is what he will become.”

Depending on context, this sentiment might sound encouraging or dispiriting; cryptic or obvious; convoluted or clear-headed; or possibly all of the above. The ambiguity of the phrase is one of the reasons I’ve decided to employ it as the official thematic banner under which I’ll house the week’s action at the Monte Carlo Rolex Masters—a tournament where lots of men behaved like themselves.

Not that this is an unusual turn of events, mind you. If you were to learn that Fabio Fognini played several rounds of top-notch tennis, upsetting the No. 4 and 7 seeds on his way to the semifinals, where he proceeded to lose in less than an hour and proclaim he’d injured himself the day before by kicking a tennis ball, you’d probably just shrug, as if to say, “Well, that’s Fabio.”

Maybe you raised an eyebrow when you watched Jo-Wilfried Tsonga emerge victorious in what was, in my opinion, the match of the tournament against Stanislas Wawrinka (who had himself single-handedly reinstalled Roger Federer as the No. 2 player in the world by defeating Andy Murray 1 and 2). But even as you might have admired Tsonga he came roaring back from a set down, you probably knew it wasn’t to last. It’s Jo.

When Tsonga arrived in the semifinals playing the same fearsome tennis against Rafael Nadal the next day, gaining three break points in the fourth game, losing two of them, and then squandering the third with a drop shot attempt that was both ill-conceived and pouty, you probably knew what was coming. Indeed, Tsonga was broken the very next game, and then spent the rest of the set blaming the swirling confusion in his head on the French weather.

Or, if you witnessed Ernests Gulbis’ vice-like grip on his intent and purpose as he recovered from an abysmal start against John Isner in the first round, only to see him lose all control and use the umpire’s chair as a tool for racquet destruction, thereby earning himself a game penalty and a stern talking-to from his opponent en route to losing the match, you might simply shake your head knowingly. That’s Ernie.

Fabio could have injured himself playing footie tennis at any tournament. Gulbis is likely to have already smashed racquets at all of them. Wawrinka, Tsonga, Youzhny, Monaco, Nieminen, Dimitrov—The Rolex Masters was no different from any other tournament in that many of the players who didn’t reach the final demonstrated—over the course of many lost sets, break points missed, flubbed volleys, and shanked forehands—the immense difficulty of becoming who we already are. Unlocking the tool-shed of potential is one thing; learning not to whack yourself in the shin with whatever you find in there is another story.

That’s where Rafael Nadal and Novak Djokovic excel, and their emotional journeys through the tournament were very interesting. Both men have an uncanny ability to use whatever tools are at hand—even, or especially, the setbacks—to propel them forward. Last week the World No. 1 made better use of a bum ankle than anyone else I can think of, except maybe Serena Williams. First he used it to managed expectations. The Serb seemed almost resigned to a second round loss to Mikhail Youzhny, but when the Russian got tight in the first set, it felt almost as if the tennis player inside the man couldn’t resist the urge to compete. Djokovic lost the first set, but he was back in the match.

Still, Youzhny, who played a decorative exciting match, came surprisingly close to winning, and Djokovic continued to test the ankle between points. In the third round Djokovic again dropped the first set, this time to Juan Monaco. With shoulders drooped and head hung, the Serb looked diffident, almost as if he wanted to give the match to the Argentine. But Juan Monaco, being a generous soul, wouldn’t have any of it, and Djokovic was forced to take it back.

This second near-miss seemed to sharpen and elongate Djokovic’s range of focus. In the space of a day, he appeared to transition from using his injury as a way to calm his nerves, to using his victories as proof of his intent and purpose, as a way to lift his tennis. By the time Djokovic arrived across the court from Jarkko Nieminen, the Finn’s meek second serve didn’t stand a chance. And we all know what happened to Fabio Fognini.

In the final, which Novak Djokovic won 6-2,7-6(1), the Serb outplayed the best clay courter in the world for most of the first set, and all the important parts of the second. By contrast, Rafael Nadal never really looked comfortable in the final, or most of the other rounds either. Not only was the Spaniard plagued by a sore back, he was beset by accusations of dominance and favoritism. Instead of hitting his stride after easily defeating his first two opponents, Nadal's play grew cautious, as if weighted down by expectation. Each victory appeared to make him more anxious than the last. 

The Mallorcan might deal exceptionally well with adversity, pain and suffering, but there’s nothing that oppresses him like being told he’s realized his full potential. Since his injury lay-off Nadal has reached five finals in five tournaments, and won three of them. With a record like that, it’s hard for anyone to think of Rafa’s path as a roughhewn comeback trail—maybe even Rafa. Don’t get me wrong, I suspect Nadal would have been at least nine times happier had he won his ninth straight Monte Carlo trophy on Sunday. Yet now that he’s lost it, Rafa is free to go back to the struggle he loves best, the process of becoming.

Nadal has as many Monte Carlo titles as Novak Djokovic has titles on clay. Rafa is still the King of Clay—even if his crown has been knocked around a little more of late—he didn’t need to win yesterday’s final to prove that. The thing is, Djokovic didn’t need to prove anything either. He already is what he will become, the best player in the world.  

Excuses, Excuses

I wonder if you’ll believe me when I say that I’ve spent the last two weeks immersed in preparations for a conference at which the featured speaker was an entomologist-philosopher who lectured on spiritual alchemy, Islamic mysticism, post-positivist French philosophy, and the metaphorical bodies of dead angels? And will you believe me when I tell you that the bodies of 200 live humans actually showed up to listen, and that while listening they ate their way through more wheels of brie than it would take to set all the chariots of heaven rolling?

Well, it’s all true. And it rather cut into the time I’d set aside for the U.S. Men’s Clay Court Championship of the Ever-Expanding Universe, which turned out to be not the worst thing in the world, because nothing in the tournament happened the way I said it would, except that Ryan Harrison did indeed lose in the first round, and has therefore fallen from the grace of the top 100.

It remains to be seen whether Jack Sock or Rhyne Williams will be crowned the new Future of American Tennis (FOAT), but John Isner—the USA’s FOAT of long-standing—has no doubt regained his crown as the American Prince of Clay, this time by winning an official title on the surface. Illustrious name notwithstanding, the Houston tournament is only a mere 250. Of course, 250 points are Texas-sized, making them bigger and better-armed than all of Sam Querrey’s points combined.

When one makes erroneous predictions about a tennis tournament— such as stating that the entire field will be cowed by the mere sight of a Tommy Haas’ purple t-shirt when in fact Tommy Haas and his t-shirts intend to lose his first, and consequently his only, singles match— it’s best to take oneself off for a few days, buy a couple dozen wheels of brie, and listen to bug scientists lecture on the place of intersection between psychology and liberal theology.

Not only does the time away give my readers a chance to forgive and forget, it also prevents me from making any dangerous pre-tournament pronouncements on the Monte Carlo Masters draw, seeing as how the tournament is already underway. Monte Carlo has a way of starting before John Isner, former FOAT, current American Price of Clay, and I are quite prepared. But now is not the time to dilly-dally— Ernests Gulbis awaits.

Oh yeah, and that other guy, The King of all the Clay in the Universe.

Speaking of Rafael Nadal, I intend to watch the Mallorcan vie for his ninth straight Monte Carlo title. Think about it, kids who were first graders when Nadal won his first title in Monaco are in high school now. They might even have tattoos. Much like mixing Islamic mysticism and modern psychology with copious quantities of French cheese, Rafa’s run in the Principality boggles the mind. With any luck, I’ll even get to see other people play tennis too. (I’m very curious, for example, to see whether the extended clay court preparations of everyone’s favorite puer aeternus have paid off. And has Roger Rasheed finally helped Tsonga harness the “PASSION” to allow the Frenchman to “engage elite performance tools required for ultimate success?” And what are these elite performance tools anyway? Are they smaller than a breadbox, or more Texas-sized?)

But those of you who have read through the comments on my last few posts know that I’ve recently taken a new job. In fact, I started the day I returned from Indian Wells. In addition to a part-time private practice, I work at a non-profit whose mission it is to bring the mysteries of French philosophy to moderately-sized masses, along with other, more sensible things, such as low-cost psychotherapy and cheese.

Anyway, the point is, my schedule is more than typically overloaded. For example, should Marinko Matosevic fail to defeat Fernando Verdasco in the first round, I’ll almost certainly miss Nadal’s opening match against his Instaglamming compatriot. Considering Verdasco’s recent form, this might be a mercy, but it would also require me to lean too heavily on creative license while writing up the match. (Although, again, that might be for the best.)

All this is to say that I’m still here, I have no philosophical obligations this-coming Sunday, so you ought to have a write-up of the final at the very least, but I just can’t be sure. I expect it’s going to take me a little while to settle into a rhythm that allows me to work, play, and write. But I'm confident, in time, I'll be able to find the elite performance tools required for ultimate blogging. #PASSION

Before the Universe Expands

A brief look at the Houston draw, a briefer look at Davis Cup, and a couple of links.

This will be quick, because I've already used up my small allotment of weekend tennis-time watching the Bryan brothers climb back from a two-sets-to-love deficit against Serbia, go up two break points at 13-14 in the fifth, and then lose. Or, from the point of view of Ilija Bozoljac and Nenad Zimonjic and the Serbian team, the match was a four-and-a-half hour, five-set feel-good thriller.

I’ve never been to Boise, Idaho, but I have a soft spot for the city ever since a Swiss friend on sojourn in the States drove seven hours out of his way on a road trip from San Francisco to Seattle just to visit the town—in January. He’d heard it was like “real America,” unlike the Bay Area, which is about as American as molecular gastronomy. And thought Boise was great, which is saying something, because so far as I know, there wasn’t any tennis in Idaho in January. 

As it stands now, the happiness of the good people of Boise rests on the slightly drooped shoulders of Sam Querrey, who will have to defeat Novak Djokovic to keep real American hopes alive. In all likelihood I won’t be able to write about the Sunday goings on at the Taco Bell Arena, or Charleston (which is shaping up to be a great final), or any of the other Davis Cup ties. Although I did notice that Jo Tsonga brought the lethal version of his serve Buenos Aries, it’s a wonder they let it through customs. But in case you missed it, I did do a two-part discussion with Steve Tignor at Tennis.com last week, which can be found here and here. The topics are, approximately, personality typing, the Oedipal Complex, and, of course, Ryan Harrison.

Speaking of young Harrison, he is one of many Americans entered in the U.S. Clay Court Championships of the Ever Expanding Universe, which I’ll be back to write about later in the week. For now, let's just say that things don't look good for the Universe’s defending champion, and third seed, Juan Monaco. 

This year’s draw is, if not rock solid, then decidedly interesting. Nicolas Almagro is the top seed, and after making quick work of Bye he’ll face either Monfils or Blake in the second round. Sixth seed Fernando Verdasco gets Steve Johnson in his first round, a matchup that could either be compelling or depressing. But win or lose, I’m sure Verdasco will Instagram the Houston sunset for posterity.

Ryan Harrison, who made it to the quarters before losing to Michael Russell at The Championships last year, stands to lose to John Isner in the first round this year. I’ve never been keen on rankings math, but if Harrison doesn’t defend his Houston points, he’ll come precariously close to tumbling out of the top 100. Of course, John Isner seems equally unlikely to defend his 2012 finalist points, seeing how Tommy Haas is sitting pretty (in his lilac t-shirt) at the bottom of the draw.

Other Americans in the main draw are Sam Querrey, Rhyne Williams, Jack Sock, Tim Smyczek, and the 34-year-old Michael Russell. Last year, Russell, who makes his home in Houston (where he also has all the sleeves removed from his clothes), had to come through qualifying to contest The Championships.  He then defeated Daniel Dimeno-Traver, Mardy Fish, and Harrison before losing in three sets to Juan Monaco in the semifinals. This year the local-boy returns as the No. 8 seed and might face Lleyton Hewitt in the second round, a match that could last until Tommy Haas’ 36th birthday—unlike this post, which is ending . . . now.