A Drowsy Numbness Pains

The cognitive-behavioral psychology folks might say I have a mild case of “compassion fatigue.” The more romantic among us would declare that I’ve “emptied some dull opiate to the drains.” But either way, I don’t know how much more Miami I can take. The Sony Ericsson Open is not so much tugging on my heartstrings as mercilessly breaking all its own storylines— and it’s leaving me flat. (Also, I still haven’t unpacked from my trip to Indian Wells and that’s starting to be a little stressful. My clothes are permanently wrinkly.) No sooner does a player rise above the general swell, than he is dashed on the rocks. Most obviously: Andy Roddick. Most recently: Marion and David. Most imminently: Juan Monaco. Plus, somehow I have the feeling that both Andy and Rafa are going to lose their semifinal matches tomorrow. Seeing as how they're playing against each other, it's technically impossible, I realize that. But still, I wouldn’t put it past Miami.

She saw something nasty in the woodshed.

Or the potting shed... Or the bicycle shed...

Rafael Nadal def. Jo Tsonga 6-2, 5-7, 6-4

It's going to take me a little time to digest this one. All I can say right now is that he won. Also, that he's 100% sure he needs to improve to have his chances against Andy Murray on Friday. Rafa looked heartily relieved when it was all over, but for two-thirds of the match, he mostly looked like he'd rather not look.

So, while I metabolize, enjoy a few lines from Stella Gibbons' Cold Comfort Farm*, the book that taught us once-and-for-all, THERE'S NO BUTTER IN HELL!:

Getting Jiggy

Is that song old-enough so that jokes about it are new again? I hope so, because things are getting jiggy, not to say downright strange, in Miamiland.

Juan Monaco bageled Andy Roddick. Remember when everyone was all impressed when Pico almost bageled Yen-Hsun Lu the other day, and then we all found out that Lu was injured and life made sense again? Lu! Any other time, I’d be tickled to see Pico showing some killer instinct, but not in the middle of such a grand redemption storyline. [Editor's note: Additional jokes about Lu upsetting Roddick at Wimbledon were removed due to this Editor's experience of stabbing pangs in the heart-region. Alas! It was such a good storyline.]

Caro downs Serena in straights, which is not really so surprising given the state of Williams’ movement thus far, but still, it’s disappointing. Unless, of course, you’re a Caro fan. Just curious: who do you prefer in the number one slot: Vika or Caro? I liked Vika’s Strong is Beauteous ad better than Caro’s, if that means anything. Which it doesn’t, really.

Wayne Odesnik is also in an ad. Turns out it wasn’t the drugs, it was the strings.

David Ferrer served tennis balls like he thinks his name is Goliath—or Juan Martin del Potro. Also, he got to do it on center court. Mardy Fish might have some reason to complain, as the highest-ranked American, he's relegated to side courts while Isner and Roddick hog the love on Stadium. Yet not only are center court crowds notorious for reacting poorly to excessive crankiness, but David has been a top five player for centuries now and he rarely gets the main stage until he plays one of the Fab Four. (Does Murray count as Fab again? Or is he still Scottish?) Ferrer made the most of the Stadium Court Experience (SCE) today. I didn’t get to see much of today's tennis, but I did see the last half set of David’s straight sets win over Juan Martin del Potro. My heart broke a little bit for the Tower of Tandil when he missed the easiest overheadish volley in the history of the sport (even Justin Gimelstob would have made it), but it was great to see David being so aggressive, even downright threatening, on court. I wish I’d gotten to see David play like that in Indian Wells—here’s hoping I’ll be able to watch him take on Novak on Thursday.

Also, I just noticed that David Ferrer has a wristwatch that’s bigger than he is. Okay, that’s a slight exaggeration, but it’s definitely bigger than Rafa’s. You hear that Rafs? I’m not sure if the watch on this magazine cover is the same one I saw tonight, but the photo has all kinds of smolder, so you’ll want to click-through regardless.

In not weird news: Rafa won again, defeating Kei Nishikori 6-4, 6-4. I know that the first three games gave folks the agita, but I only saw the last one, so I think he’s looking splendid. I hope the knees aren't a going concern, because the mentality seems strong. Also, I agree with this; Rafa likes the sunshine, but not the morning version.

And finally, in all-too-common news, I have to work approximately 26.5 hours of the day tomorrow, so I won’t be able to watch the tennis. Feel free to stop by and let me know how it’s going. And if things don’t turn out as one would wish between Rafa and Jo, feel free to lie to me. I promise, I’ll believe. 

photos: Reuters; AP; AP; Reuters

Watching Ryan

Transition alert: I’m going to do something quite clever here, and I wanted to notify you up front so you could take especial notice. Hold your applause while I tell you that this post is going to serve a dual purpose. Not only will it provide a forum for communication, it will also become what psychologists like to call, “a transitional object.” In other words, we’ll start out, one last time, in Indian Wells, but by the end of the post we’ll have arrived in Miami. Bada bing. Not only will this bring me not-quite-up-to-date with real-time tennis proceedings, it will also present me with the opportunity to do a final “working through” of my attachment to the Garden of Tennis. It’s time. If you love something, you have to let it go.

Pablo Picasso said, “Every act of creation is first of all an act of destruction.” In Thus Spake Zarathustra, Nietzsche wrote, “[H]ow could you wish to become new unless you had first become ashes!” I’d be fibbing if were to claim that I had either the painter or philosopher in mind as I watched Ryan Harrison break tennis racquets at Indian Wells— but the sentiment was same. I enjoy watching the American teenager at work, in part, because his acts of destruction so often give birth to bouts of creativity and inspired play.

Harrison says that he’s working on not murdering tennis racquets, and apparently hadn’t harmed a single one in the months leading up to Indian Wells. Nevertheless, I saw him destroy two in as many matches during my stay in the desert. (In case you’re wondering, that’s exactly the number of broken racquets it would take to make Rafael Nadal refuse to be his doubles partner.) One of those matches he won, the other he lost, but both times Ryan played better after sacrificing his stick to tennis’ incarnation of Sekhmet. Much better.

By his own reckoning, Ryan Harrison is “very, very intense.” He believes that his deep well of passion is his “worst and best” quality, and I’m inclined to agree with this dualistic character assessment. Interestingly, in contrast to his hotheaded temper and his fiery shouts between points, the sound Ryan makes when he hits his ground strokes is gentle and soothing— a whooshing, sighing exhale, like a summer wind rustling through leafy trees. (Not a joke.) It isn’t audible on television, and I doubt it would even be heard twenty or thirty rows back, but sitting courtside it was positively lulling—especially in the moments when Ryan found his zone during his hard-hitting, yet also never-ending, rallies with Gilles.

What I like so much about Harrison is not that he breaks his tennis racquets, or that he’s trying to stop breaking racquets, it’s that he learns from the experience—and from all the others too. The broken racquets are merely the most obvious and literal representations of a larger symbolic process. If all goes well, the actual racquet smashing will fall by the wayside, but the willingness to make a “break” with an unsuccessful pattern of play will remain. Failure comes before renewal, ashes come before Fawkes feathers, and learning comes only after one is able to tolerate the awareness of ignorance. 

Case-in-point: 

Watching Rafa

 Rafael Nadal d. David Nalbandian (4-6 7-5 6-4) 

My apologies for the cliff-hanger in the last post, but I needed to give you all a sense of the high level of inner-drama that’s liable to emerge on a supposedly innocent tennis-viewing vacation.* Things can go the way of an Elizabethan soliloquy, and fast. The body’s dimensions, senses, affections, and, yes, passions, are so easily commandeered by a mere game of stickball. If you’ve read my other Indian Wells posts, you know that alls well that ends well in terms of the “possible court change” in the OOP. Nalbandian fought off Tsonga’s threats to beat him at ball & stick, and generously took his Larry II match to three long sets before claiming victory. So, not only did I get to see all but the final three games of Rafa/Alex on Larry I, I also got to see Ryan/Gilles, and Rafa’s doubles match from the front row on Larry II. Yet the potentially fecund seeds of doubt had been planted...

My tennis-fan heart was warmed by the sight of Rafa and Marc at play on the doubles court, and it was a thrill to witness the weight of Nadal’s game at such close range, but the lion’s share of my spectating passion had been given, willingly, to Ryan (and Gilles, but mostly Ryan). So on the morrow, when I found myself standing once more at the threshold of a Rafa match, I wondered: How would this one make me feel?** Could it be that my initial identification with the pink-shirted, terre-battue dusted fighter was on the wane?

The match was the quarterfinal at Indian Wells, and the opponent was the talented and (actually) dahn-ger-ous David Nalbandian. I was hot, I was tired. My seat wasn’t particularly good, Roger and Delpo had put me in a grouchy mood, and my eyes ached from watching tennis all the livelong week. In short, the signs did not point to a rapturous tennis experience.

Signs are often misleading.

"Possible Court Change"

By my sophisticated system of estimation (also know as guessing), I’d say that it takes the average reader a little over two seconds (give or take a second or two) to detect a strong Rafa bias on this blog. I don’t own any two-toned yellow and red clothing (I’m a “winter,” it just wouldn’t work). I’m not even a fan of long-standing (RG 2009, in case you’re wondering). But my emotional identification with Rafael Nadal was instantaneous, almost unsettlingly deep, and has proven to be quite durable over the course of tournaments and time. When I first saw him, dressed in pink clothes and caked in sienna-colored earth, I couldn't help but abandon all irony and with it some sense of proportion. I was transported. Here was a man who played tennis with the uninhibited intensity with which I longed to live my life, and I’ve been a fan ever since.

So, when Milos Raonic took the first set off Roger Federer in the third round at Indian Wells, I was concerned. No, I wasn’t worried that Roger would lose (had I but known events to come, I might have cheered a bit louder for the leggy Canadian). I assumed that once the DayQuil kicked-in, Roger would find his way around Raonic’s serve-n-forehand combo—which he did. Nor was I overly troubled by the Fed fans sitting behind me who yammered—debating whether or not Milos looked enough like a Kid in the Hall to be a real Canadian—rustled bags of Doritos, and scratched body parts continually throughout the first set. I wasn’t even too bothered by the fact that the match was, to put it bluntly, a bit dull. After all, the hour was late and I’d been watching tennis since ten that morning. I’d not had lunch, let alone dinner (there are many great things about Indian Wells but the food isn’t one of them), and I needed a nice rest, so I didn’t mind feeling a bit detached from proceedings on court. No, what worried me were three little words in the following day’s OOP: “possible court change.”

The 2012 Native American Water Source Open

Confession: the above humorous post title isn’t mine. It was inspired by Love @ll (aka @bellyflopz), who also took these photographs. I recommend her (delightfully) massive photo album if you like excellent candid photos of tennis players and/or laughter. The imaginary conversation between Aga and Fran defies the very laws of funny. In fact, it’s so funny that it might actually be real—or it should be.

I confess I’m struggling with my transition game between Indian Wells and Miami this week. Is it possible that Rafael Nadal has already played his first match in Miami-Dade County? It is. He and Marc(el) defeated the other talls, Ivo Karlovic and Kevin Anderson, 6-1, 6-3. (Could someone explain to me how it is that Ivo & Anderson only had two aces between them? Did they have only two service games?) It’s also possible that Klebs and Venus returned from illness to the WTA tour (dolphin squee); Fernando Gonzales played his last match ever (verklempt); and Serena and Kim powered through their openers after injury layoffs. It’s also possible that Ryan Harrison won what was surely a match for the epic-mammoth-history-books. And it’s more than possible that unless you currently reside in Miami-Dade County, you didn’t see any of it.  

But, I’m taking full advantage of this tennis blackout to… watch basketball. Just kidding, guys. I’m writing about Rafa. And how he makes me feel. It’s taking me some time to sift through the superlative nonsense, but stay tuned for part two of my BNP Paribas Open Book Report. I'm a-gonna use all my words. 

Focus!

“Where shall I begin? Which of all my important nothings shall I tell you first?” Jane Austen

Well, where shall I begin? Truth be told, since returning from Indian Wells, I’ve been having a bit of trouble with my normally Rafaesque blogging focus and concentration (#humble). My neural pathways are gridlocked with a multitude of match points, tiny details and big forehands. My Trip To Indian Wells is turning out to harder to write than my eighth grade book report on Catcher in the Rye. (What was everyone doing in the rye in the first place? Why not wheat? Or oats?) Also, main draw play in Miami is about to start, in what, ten minutes or so? The pressure is on.

Fortunately, this is just a blog, so I have the freedom to write myself into the experience the same way Rafa “plays himself” into a tournament (if I do say so myself). So, think of this post like a first round match and forgive me as I shake off the writerly rust. With any luck, my sentence construction & story-telling form will improve after I fling the extraneous (but hopefully entertaining) nothings into cyberspace. Here we go, book report style:

Things Arienna Saw At Indian Wells (in no particular order)

Tennis fans say the darndest things...

Tennis tournaments are good for many things, one of which is overhearing wondrous strange conversations. The grounds at Indian Wells were simply swarming with wealthy white people saying hilarious stuff. I haven’t seen so much botox and bottle-blondeness since last time I went to the mall in Marin County. (Which, I admit, was only a few weeks ago. It’s easy to park there.) Don’t get me wrong, I met many wonderful people in the stands at Indian Wells, but I also met with a lot of privileged ridiculousness. It’s surprising how many women over 50 think it’s appropriate to wear full-on tennis kit to watch other people play tennis. And it’s even more surprising to me that people will pay thousands of dollars for box seats and then not bother to learn any names besides Rafa and Roger, or is it Rafer and Roga?

It's also possible that I've become something of a tennis snob. Everywhere else in America, a depth of tennis knowledge has approximately the same relevance as membership to the International Philatelic Society, but last week my ability to tell Richard Gasquet from Gilles Simon was valued by actual others. (Okay, so not valued quite as much as the six-dollar iced lemonades, but definitely occasionally appreciated.) My hair might be a very un-Californian shade of brown and I might strike my yoga poses while wearing a Hanes t-shirt and old sweats, but damned if I don’t know that Delpo is taller than Dolgo! 

Here were some funny bits & pieces I picked up while out and about at the Garden of Tennis:

While watching Petra Kvitova practice:

Fan 1: “Look, it’s Caroline Wozniak!”

Fan 2: (with an air of condescention in her voice) “No, that’s Caroline Wozniack-eeee.”

At a Murray Bros doubles match:

Man in the seat behind me: “Are they twins?”
Man next to him: “No.”
Man in the seat behind me:“Which one is older?”

Man next to him: “Andy.”

Man in the seat behind me: “How do you know?”

Man next to him: “He’s bigger.”

Not two seconds later the woman RIGHT NEXT TO THE MAN BEHIND ME asked her husband: “Are they twins?”

Husband: (with certitude) “No, they’re just identical.”

Someone wasn't paying attention during tennis-nerd lessons or biology class.

  

Watching Rafa and Marc practice:

Woman behind me: “The one in green must be The Nadal.”

What gave it away? The Forehand? Or The Massive Crowd screaming Rafa's name? It has a nice ring to it though, right? The Nadal. I'll take it.

As Juan Martin del Potro and Roger Feder were warming up, a woman asked her husband: “That del Potro, he looks pretty tall. Is he tall?”

Her husband replied in a self-assured tone (husbands always seemed to know the truth of the matter): “It’s just the angle we’re at. Federer is just as tall.”

Wife: “Oh! Are you sure? (pause) You know, they do look a lot alike. Look at how similar they look! Everything about them.”

Yep, identical. Just like the Murray brothers.

Watching Reeshard practice:

Woman: “Can you tell me who that is?”

Me: “That’s Richard Gasquet.”

(Richard hits a backhand)

Woman: “Are you sure? I thought it might be the other French one, Simon.”

(Richard hits another backhand)

Me: “Yep, I'm sure.”

Woman: “Are you really sure? How can you tell?”

(Richard hits another backhand) 

Me: “His haircut.”

I won’t even get into the theories I heard about Rafa’s rear end, his undies, his water bottles, why he wears tight shoes, or how much over 30 Roger Federer is this year (at least a decade or two). Instead, I’ll end on a Feli note:

Fellow fan: “Excuse me, can you tell me who this is?”

Me: “Sure, it’s Feliciano Lopez.”

Woman: “Oh,” (pause) “I could sit here all day.”

Now you're learning.  

photos: Arienna Lee

Shutterbug: Rafael Nadal & Marc Lopez

Following up on my best-day-ever post, here are some more pictures of Nadal/Lopez v. Stepanek/Paes in Indian Wells. I'd planned on writing up a proper accounting of the match, but I didn't reckon with the beating my little grey cells would take after watching tennis on overtime for four solid days. At this point I can barely remember who was wearing blue (everyone?), let alone who hit an overhead to whose backhand to go up a break in the second. 
Instead: bullet points, and more photo highlights. (Full album is here. How did I manage to take over 100 (almost) in-focus photos? I'm impressed with my technologically backward self. And with auto-focus.) 

• Rafa was late. Naturally.  After Team CuteAdorableAwwShucks was introduced, Marc emerged, bag slung over one shoulder. But wait? Where's Rafa? Marc didn't appear to notice that his partner wasn't with him until he'd nearly crossed the court. He paused briefly and did a double-take, and then calmly continued walking. The crowd gave a gentle, knowing belly laugh. Not surprisingly, ours was a very pro-Rafa crowd.

• Ah, here he is. Carrying every single thing he owns.

• Rafa and Marc immediately began to chatter-- and didn't stop until the match was over. My favorite conversations to watch were the ones where Rafa was working both eyebrows independently and/or when Marc was doing that thing he does when he leans in toward Rafa with the top half of his body while simultaneously pulling away with the lower half, as if torn between talking animatedly (and at length) with his pal and rushing to the net to hit a volley. 

• The first thing Rafa did after taking the court was remove a very large moth from the behind the baseline. (These moths were approximately the size of bunny rabbits and flew around all week, occasionally banging into one's nose or left cheekbone.) He brought the bug over and set it down gently in front of the front row (my row). Women squealed. Rafa grinned a mischevious grin, similar to the one below (which I believe came after a particularly fine tomahawk forehand), but more tongue-in-cheek:  

• Marc hit himself in the head with a Rafa forehand. He un-crouched a moment too soon at net, and whammo. The shot bounced off the top of Marc's head and over the net, whereupon Radek headed it back. Another crowd-wide belly laugh. Marc smiled a sincere, slightly concussed, smile.

• Marc got a blister. Rafa was intrigued. 

• Rafa occasionally made fierce as-if-he-were-playing-singles faces. 

• Rafa toweled-off frequently. Nadal returns serve on the deuce side when he plays with Lopez, so that's where he keeps his towel (a clever move, considering the "receiver's choice" no-ad scoring). Therefore, my seat, just behind the baseline on the deuce side, provided ample opportunity for photographing Rafa and his towel. This can be fun if you're fond of towel photography.  

• Points were played. Volleys were dropped and driven. Returns were crushed. And the match was won. Unfortunately, I can't remember the order in which any of it happened, but I can tell you that I had a great time immersing myself in the action. Just as I had a great time watching the Doubles final today--both men played wonderfully well, but I did notice that Marc has not improved his trophy biting technique. Ah well. Next time, Marc, next time. For now, keep smiling.

Photos: Arienna Lee

Shutterbug: John Isner

While players were busy catching alimentary ailments at Indian Wells, I was busy coming down with a severe case of the shutterbug. Despite my complete lack of photog skills, I couldn't stop clicking away. Two things I discovered: (1) I need to learn how to use something other than the auto-focus on my camera. (Tennis players move quite quickly.) (2) Up close (too close?) John Isner's eyelashes look almost as long as his legs.

See the rest of my John Isner photos from before and after his fourth round victory over Matthew Ebden here. 


John came through the match in straights, 6-4, 7-5, and I only watched the first three games, but for a guy who is only 6'2" tall, Matt has a solid serve, not to mention a nice forehand volley. My prediction: We might be seeing more of Matthew. Or then again, we might not. 
Either way, here he is:

photos: Arienna Lee

One for the road

Things one wonders on semifinal Saturday:

a) why one didn't shell out for semifinal tickets when one planned her vacation

b) why one didn't also shell out for tickets to the final during said planning

c) why one can't apparate from one end of California to other, à la Ryan Harrison on the baseline

I've had a great week at Indian Wells and Nadal/Nalbandian made for a thrilling last live match, so I can't complain. But, oh, I do wish I didn't have to go. Expect a full report after I drive the length of California. For now, here's Feli:

And the allergic-to-clothes version:

More practicing

Here are a few more photos of Rafa's practice today. (I've got more pictures of many more players, but I think I'm going to need a solid day to sort through them!)

Practice makes perfect

During my stay at Indian Wells I've been arriving at the Garden of Tennis before the morning sessions begin so as to take a leisurely tour of the practice courts. The IW practice courts can feel as intimate as the main stadium can be distancing. I could imagine buying a General Admission ticket for one of the first few days of the tournament and spending the entire time meandering from one practice court to the next. 

Guess who I found tucked away at the very end of a quite row of courts today? David Ferrer. He was smacking backhands like his life depended on it and there were about half a dozen people watching (compared to the throng watching Caro jump rope). I even got to see a practice set (David lost) while sitting with a dozen or so tennis fans, not two feet from the court. Aside from Ferrer's occasional self-excoriating cries, the whole experience was sublimely relaxing. 

It's always good to stretch

Rafa's calisthenics gizmos don't hold a candle to Marion Bartoli's (i.e.they're not quite reminiscent of medieval torture devices) but things still got a little wild on the practice court today. Nadal giggled but he gave the sit n' stretch the old college try, thereby giving the rest of us a great photo op. Marc Lopez was also persuaded to try the stretchy bands. Alas, he didn't hold the proper sitting pose long enough for me to get a photograph. 

Stadium 2: the best place on earth

If you haven't been to Indian Wells before, you should know that if you splurge on a "box seat" --which doesn't involve any box-type structure-- you also get admission to some of the best seats on Stadiums 2 and 3. There isn't a bad seat in the house on the side stadiums, but the priority seating area puts you not twelve inches above the courts. And it's absolutely worth the extra cash when you have days like this:


Almagro d. Berdych 6-4, 6-0. 


This was about the cleanest match I've ever seen Nico play. When he's on, his ground game is massive. I feel like I need to repeat that: his game is massive. It was a pleasure to see his backhand at such close range--he generates amazing power from the core. In tomorrow's quarterfinal match against Novak he won't be able to use his cross-court backhand to exploit the backhand out wide the way he did to Tomas today. Where Berdych gets stiff when stretched out to his backhand wing, Novak gets extra supple. But from what I could divine about Novak from his match against Pablo Andujar, I'd say he's not quite in his immortal comfort-zone yet this week. If Nico can keep his head together and his serve as thumping and varied as it was this morning, he's in with a real chance. I'll be cheering for him. 

I caught David Nalbandian on his way off court after defeating Jo Tsonga 3-6, 7-5, 6-3:


I didn't see this match (no Jo at all for me!) but I owe Nalby big-time for forcing a third set. Without him I would have had to chose between Rafa's singles match in Stadium 1 and Ryan on Stadium 2. But thanks to David, I got a Rafa-Ryan-Rafa afternoon. 

Gilles Simon d. Ryan Harrison 7-6, 5-7, 6-1


Loved this match. It's great to see Gilles in such good form, and although he nearly drove Ryan bonkers, the kiddo hung in there longer than anyone expected. Ryan came back from 2-5 down in the second to force a third set--which was closer than the scoreline indicates. I'll be rooting for Gilllywater tomorrow, but looking forward to what's next from Ryan. ("Vamos Syndrome: The Harrison Strain" still in full effect.)

And last but certainly not least...
Rafael Nadal/Marc Lopez d. Leander Paes/Radek Stepanek 6-3, 7-5

I've got lots more photos from this delightful little match. I'll do a picasa or flikr type thing so you can all download them. I'll also write more about it, because it was a highly enjoyable experience. I got hit with a Rafa forehand winner! Also Rafa gave me a giant insect. Or rather, he brought a giant insect over to the sidelines and set it down in front of me. Also also, high quality doubles was played by all. 

photos: Arienna Lee