On Being Dogged: David Ferrer and Rafael Nadal in Barcelona

Rafael Nadal def David Ferrer 7-6, 7-5

Barcelona, ATP 500, 2012

The Dogged Daveed. The pitbull; the fierce terrier; the never-say-die grinder; little man with the big fight... and so on and so forth. David Ferrer is heaped with so many character-based descriptors that it’s easy to lose sight of the fact that he also plays a mean game of tennis. Commentators tend to praise David for his heart and courage in such a way that implies he has little else with which to arm himself on the court. It’s an odd way to portray the game of a player who has been sitting just outside the top four for over a year now. There’s also an assumption that David is strictly a defensive player, that his speed and grit give him the ability to react well to players with bigger games or grind down flashier opponents, but he’s not typically characterized as one who generates his own luck. David Ferrer is cast as the man who defies destiny, rather than the hero who makes his own.

It’s true that, at 5' 9" Ferrer is several inches shorter than is convenient for a professional tennis player. In comparison to the rest of the top ten his serve is rather less weaponized, and he doesn’t have a kill-shot that sizzles with brute power. In his more mediocre moments David does grind-on… and on. But apart from a poorly played tiebreak, today wasn’t a mediocre day. The straight set Barcelona final took two hours and forty minutes, almost double the length of the Nadal/Dkovic final in Monte Carlo, but it wasn’t a dull grindfest. Granted, the match was far from perfect. The quality dipped and veered, but both players brought the good stuff often enough to make it well worth the investment. 

Ferrer and Nadal are both defensive-minded players by nature, but that doesn’t mean they don’t also play stunning offense. Long rallies were peppered with should-be winners countered by dramatic saves. Nets were rushed and drop shots were carved. Points were often ended with heavy forehands curling off Rafa’s racquet, or frequently, with a sharp angled winner from Ferrer. David's ability to create angles out of almost anything thrown in his direction is one of my favorite things about watching him play. On clay he also weaves elaborate and clever paths to an understated winner or a deceptively simple put-away volley. So long as time isn't at an utter premium, a good day from David is an enjoyable one for me.

In the Barcelona final, David constructed points beautifully, throwing Nadal off his game early in the first set. To be fair, today’s Rafa was nervier by far than the Rafa of earlier rounds. There are those who blame direct semifinal contact with high levels of Fernando vibes for Nadal’s (relatively) poor serving/forehand performance today. Add the angsty Ferbrations to the fact that this final was one that Nadal was expected to win (the dreaded favorite!) and you’ve got a plausible explanation for Nadal’s up and down game. But a hearty measure of Rafa’s discomfiture, particularly in the first set, ought to be attributed to David’s smart, aggressive play. Often stepping inside the baseline, David took the ball early, changed direction seamlessly off both the forehand and backhand wings, returned serve like a man with a plan, and generally generated his own luck for the duration of the first set—or at least, until he earned his first set point. 

As Nadal himself acknowledged, Ferrer was often the better player in today’s final. However David didn’t win, and it wasn’t really because he got, as Rafa said, “a little bit unlucky.” Take Ferrer’s first break of serve to go up 2-0 in the first as an example. David played forceful, decisive tennis to take the game from Nadal, and then he played a tentative, error strewn service game to put the match right back on serve. This pattern of zoned-in aggression followed by general nerviness and anxiety repeated itself many times over—in big and small ways—throughout the match. For all that David plays with a big heart and a never-say-die attitude; he tends to play scared when he sticks his neck out in front of one of the big four. David had five set points to the good in the first, and after he failed to convert he played a dismal tiebreak. To his credit, he didn't fall away in the second set, but he also found himself in a familiar position, playing Nadal close, but playing one-down.

Ferrer had the game to hang in there with Nadal today, but it was Rafael Nadal who brought the decisive measure of doggedness to the final. David had fifteen break point opportunities and he converted only three. Did he squander a few? Sure. But mostly, Nadal stepped up his defense with impeccable offense. He amped his forehand when it needed amping, he dug out the passes, he found that cutting serve down the T when he needed it most. He made David unlucky. 

The Barcelona 500 Final was the 30-year-old Ferrer’s fifteenth career runner-up performance. Over the last decade David has earned a healthy fourteen career titles.  To contextualize, Ferrer's contemporary, the preternaturally gifted David Nalbandian, has eleven career titles and eleven finalist appearances. But as of today, at 25 years old, Rafael Nadal has fifteen titles at Monte Carlo and Barcelona alone. Throughout his career Nadal has appeared in 69 tournament finals, winning a massive 48 titles. 

Absolutely, Ferrer is a brave and courageous. There’s no doubt he’s a fighter, but the Barcelona final highlighted the reductive way his persona is disseminated to tennis fans. Some of the walls that block Ferrer's way have nothing to do with his lack of physical stature or his awkward backhand swing. If his tennis skills are often underrated, it must also be noted that Ferrer doesn’t approach every point with a fierce pit-bullish tunnel vision. Today, Rafael Nadal played the big points bigger and braver than David dared. 

Was the outcome of this final ever on David’s racquet? I’m not sure. But seeing his tears during the post-match interview, I couldn’t help thinking that he was closer this time— and that he knew it. I can’t say whether this makes me hopeful, or if it adds a little to the heartache. Both, perhaps.

As far as Rafa is concerned, a solid 500 final and back-to-back titles equal “fantastic preparations ” for his run to Roland Garros. For all that Monte Carlo is a Masters and Barcelona is as close as Nadal will get to a hometown tournament, they're just the beginning. Bring on the blue.  

Photos: Getty  

A thick fog of ambivalence. And Gilles.

Everything ought to be peachy keen. The sun is shining, a million and a half flowers are blooming, tomorrow is my day of rest, and Rafael Nadal is appearing in his second consecutive clay court final. But keen peachiness eludes me. Instead, a thick fog of ambivalence has descended my rest-day tennis prospects, clouding the view, dampening my excitement, and causing me to overwork my metaphors. Yes, Rafa is in the final. But David Ferrer is in the same exact final. The same one, guys! And the rules are ironclad: only one winner. I double-checked the fine print; there are no loopholes, not even for play station buddies.  

Bucharest is easy: both Gillywater and Fog-man (we are apparently calling Fabio Fognini “Fog-man” now, FYI) have been playing well lately, but I know little else about Fabio other than he sometimes does a theatrical bow type thing when he wins. It’s a mannerism that puts me in mind of Northern Californians who use the word namaste as if it were interchangeable with hiya or toodles. In other words, it’s more drama than strictly necessary or seemly. Gilles, on the other hand, is as familiar to me as a Harry Potter character, therefore, I’ll be rooting for Simon to take home the BRD Nastase Tiriac Quidditch World Cup. There, if only disapparition were so half simple. Splinching hurts.

By the way: this interview with Gilles is wonderfully Gilles. Why is Bucharest such an important tournament?  Bucharest is important, but there are other nice tournaments that he preferred to attend. The decision was difficult. Why is being in the top ten important? It isn’t. He’s done that already. He would prefer to be in the top five. If a person were to visit Paris for a day, what sights should be seen?  After asking if said persons get good weather—they do— Gilles declares they oughtn’t come for one day at all. They must stay a week. …and that about covers it. So unless you’re dying to know just how faithful Simon is to his favorite video game, Final Fantasy, you might not need to actually read the interview. Sorry. Or you’re welcome. Either way.

The championship running of the German Grand Prix is also straightforward: Petra lost to Maria, so I’ll almost be rooting for Vika. I’m no great fan of Azarenka’s style of tennis, but she plays it pretty darned well. Also I’m used to her cooing by now, and she does make The Face. Have you seen it lately? Before she serves she gives her head a shake to settle her ponytail on the proper shoulder and then she proceeds to a within-herself-stare-down of the other side of the net, holding it an extra champion’s beat. It’s no Serena glare, not by a long-shot, but it’s a settled, determined gaze and I find that I approve. I’d be fibbing if I told you that I checked to see who was in the Fes final. I know it’s not Sveta. That much I know for sure.

But what to do about Barcelona? I’m sure you all took note when I penciled David in for a Masters shield this year. What I didn’t tell you is that I rather planned on Madrid, not for any rational tennisy reason, just because it’s next and it’s blue. I figured that Rafa wouldn’t mind too much, on account of the fact that he doesn’t much like thin air or smurfy courts. And would that outrageous bling-fest trophy make a great counterpoint to David's quiet demeanor, or what? I also planned on David beating Novak in the final, perhaps taking Roger out along the way, and maybe Donald Young too, just for good measure. I like the way Djokovic/Ferrer matches look. They’ve got all kinds of zipping & zapping, plenty of directional sleight-of-hand and incredibly aggressive angle-making. Also, David looks so David when he plays Novak, and he often comes so close. So close. But it’s never quite enough is it?

Plot foiled!

So my super secret stealth plan of seeing Gillywater and Daniel Brands in the Bucharest final is foiled. First it was thwarted by a technicality as it turns out Gilles and Daniel are actually on the same side of the draw. But more importantly, it was foiled by Daniel Brands losing. He beat Ivan Dodig in the first round, a fellow named Zopp in the second, but then he lost to Matthias Bachinger this morning. However, I refuse to let my disappointment stop me from posting this interview with Daniel following his Zopp-related victory, because it is uproarious.

First, the woman interviewing Mr. Brands barely speaks any English, which is funny only because the interview is being conducted in English. Second, she pretty much only wants to know about Romania’s native son, Victor Hanescu. She asks Daniel about Victor’s feelings, about the relationship between the two men, and about The Incident. The Incident occurred at Wimbledon in 2010 when Hanescu spit and perhaps spoke unkind words at some spectators. I’d plum forgotten about the The Incident, let alone the fact Hanescu’s opponent and on-court-witness was Brands. I remember thinking The Incident was all rather strange because Victor has such a placid, melancholy (even gentle?) look about his countenance, and you can always tell everything you need to know about a person’s personality by the look on their face, right?  By the way, don’t you think Daniel Brands looks a wee bit like a youthful Daniel Craig? I bet he lost today’s match on purpose, on account of needing conduct some 007 business elsewhere in Romania.

The most amusing part of this interview is actually the fact that Victor “Nastase” Hanescu didn’t even play his homeland tournament. He lost to Rui Machado in the first round of Barcelona. Losing in Barcelona brings me to: Andy. The ATP and I are fast becoming concerned about Andy Murray. I’m aware that it was Milos on the other side of the net, and there’s really no shame in losing to Milos—but still—all this losing to other people besides the three ranked ahead of him bodes ill for world takeover come the grass season. (I think I’m going to just go ahead and refer to the combination of Wimbledon and the Olympics as this year’s grass season, if that’s okay with you all?) Also, I watched Milos in Monte Carlo last week, and unless he bought some brand new footwork in the past couple of days, he wasn’t exactly one with the clay. He played some excellent points but he also played many uncomfortable and disastrous ones, and as fast a learner as Milos is I find it hard to believe that he could out-move Andy on the clay, especially since Andy actually lived in Barcelona—a fact which the commentators never tire of reminding us. I’ve been able to watch approximately 12 minutes of tennis this week, and I’ve heard that Andy used to live in Barcelona at least half a dozen times.

Speaking of losing, let’s not even talk about Sveta. Begu, Sveta? Begu?

I've yet to see Rafa play in Barcelona at all, and I have to go to work in a few minutes so you’ll have to let me know how he does against Janko. I’ve enjoyed the Feli/David match that’s on right now, though. I’ll enjoy it more if Ferrer can force a third, but he’s serving at 4-5 down right now. Urk.


Okay, David saved three match points. It's 5-5. I'm late! More soon... 

To lose one tournament may be regarded as misfortune; to lose two looks like carelessness.

It’s official, 2013 will be the final year for the SAP Open in San Jose. The 250 will move to Memphis, while Memphis’ own 500 heads down to Rio. As much as I’ll miss the SAP, the sad fact of the matter is that tennis just isn’t in vogue in the United States these days. Who needs it when we’ve got the Tough Mudder. What’s a backhand to barbed wire? Who has room to remember names that end in -ova when there are fantasy football stats at hand? And Dancing to be done with Stars. Sometimes I wish the USTA would stop trying so hard—it makes tennis look desperate. I know Americans who are stunned, stunned!, when they find out that tennis is kind of a big deal in other countries. US fans will come back to tennis in their own time—or they won’t. 

The SAP Open is an hour’s drive from my house and I had a great time there, but there’s no denying that the tournament looked a little shabby, and not in the chic way. From the grim lighting to the half-empty seats, to the gray wall-to-wall taped to the hockey arena behind the back-court, the environment was far from lively. I still remember the sadness I felt when, in 2011, I was contentedly watching the forehand-to-forehand combat of Juan Martin del Potro and Fernando Verdasco, and I overheard a neighbor say to his companion, “It’s too bad neither one of these guys is ranked, I wanted to see some ranked players.”  Ironically, that semifinal match is the last time I saw Fernando Verdasco truly happy on the tennis court.

As I earnestly wish for a return to happiness for Fernando, I hope that the former-SAP Open finds a happier home in Memphis. But, until then, at least America can still offer the players clean showers.

Now seems an appropriate time to include a link to the the post I wrote in February about how maybe the SAP Open ought to be moved elsewhere.

Speaking of relocating things that are American: First Mardy Fish said “nah” to the London Olympics, now he says he’d rather not go to Paris in the springtime. Clearly, there’s something unclear happening here. I’ve heard rumors that he’s had thyroid trouble (mostly on the twitter), or that he’s got some sort of lingering something or other (on the tennis.com), or that he’s crazy, insane, got no brain (definitely on the twitter, many times over). If it’s psychological, then I’d say what’s happening is to be expected. Psychological growth is rarely a simple linear process. Forward progress is usually followed by a backstep or two. In general the bigger the leap forward, the more severe the backlash. Unfortunately, ATP rankings don’t take that into account. Neither do K-Swiss ads. For Mardy's sake, I hope whatever hurts feels better soon. (For the Kiddo's sake, I don't mind if Mardy doesn't step up for London.)

Photo: Arienna Lee

Without Memory or Desire.

From a surface perspective it sounds ridiculous to compare the field of psychotherapy—one of my other lives—to the career of a professional tennis player. Athletes are in a state of near-constant motion while it’s well known that therapists require comfortable chairs and deal in matters of quiet reflection. Both have need of chiropractors, but for very different reasons.

Yet there are similarities. Psychoanalyst W.R. Bion—who was both brilliant and strange—wrote that therapists ought to approach the art of listening “without memory or desire.” He didn’t mean that psychotherapists be removed or dispassionate, rather that we shake off the vice-grip of nostalgia and agenda. This isn’t easy for therapists to do because we enter the work with high hopes of helping our patients get better, and our patients often enter therapy because they're in thrall to the past. The task is an impossible one, but it’s not success we’re after, it’s effort. The process is key. We can’t ever be free of our memories and desires, but the attempt at freedom—the act of trying to let go of expectations, demands and anticipations—has the power to free the self for spontaneous gestures of the true self—and for tennis. It's life lived one moment, or one point, at a time.

The other way to do it—the Sveta-way— is to actually, literally forget the score. The highlights from Svetlana Kuznetsova’s Fed Cup victory over Ana Ivanovic are worth watching not just for the funny bit at the end, but for the bold way the women were slamming the ball around on the clay. When Sveta's playing well, she's thrilling. And Ana's not half bad herself. In case you missed it, Sveta recently hired a new coach. I should know better, but this gave me the memories and the desires.

How would you like your tennis today?

Tennis tournaments come in all manner of sizes lately. No sooner was the Monte Carlo Masters 1000 done and dusted, than did the Barcelona 500 get underway. There’s also a 250 in Bucharest which will either be won by Gilles Simon or, most probably, Daniel Brands. Oh Danny boy, the BRD Nastase Tiriac Trophy is calling!*

This might be poor blogger etiquette, but I confess that I’ve not yet looked at the Barcelona draw. After Monte Carlo justaboutalmost lived up to the hype, Barcelona feels a bit anti-climatic. I do know that Rafa has already done his best Where's Waldo? impression and is now scheduled to beat GGL tomorrow. (He's got the look pretty much down, but he needs to work on the hiding.) And a quick glance at the ATP homepage tells me that Murray is “safely through” his first match (the ATP worries about Andy). 


Also through today are Verdasco, Almagro, Anderson, Andujar, Farah- who I’ve never seen before, Gil- who took out 12th seed Granollers and seems to be playing well lately, and Hanescu. Okay, so I might have just looked at the draw. I hope that David Ferrer is recovered and playing well this week. He doesn’t know it yet, but I’ve penciled him in to win a Masters title in 2012. He can choose whichever one he wants. Yes, I know it’s a long shot, hence the pencil—but really, he ought to have one. He ought!

On the WTA side of the story, the Grand Prix of tennis is being run in Stuttgart and the women are also playing in Fez-Fes. I can’t help but wish the WTA didn’t label their tournaments with euphemistic monikers. I can never keep straight which one is better: a Premier event or an International. Both sound grande but the hidden truth is that one comes with more points than the other. One is merely Tall, while the other is virtually Venti. I realize WTA points are somehow different than ATP points—kind of like the way hedge-funds are different from dollars—but I feel like the tournament names are designed to obfuscate, and they're a little too much like a forced ice-cream social. Nobody says, “I’m heading to the WTA International event in Morocco tomorrow!” No, they say, “I’m off to the Grand Prix de SAR La Princesse Lalla Meryem!” Or simply, “I’m headed to Fes and it’s gonna to be fabulous!”

This week I can tell that being Premier is better than being International because tournaments sponsored by Porsches are better. The big news out of Germany is that Fran won a match and so did Sam—on the same day! This pleases me.

Incidentally, if you’re curious about how the WTA rankings system works, here are the details—I hope some of you find this useful because I had to wade through a lot of purple and pink before I found it.




*For those of you who don’t know, one of the first matches I watched in my return to tennis viewing was probably one of Daniel Brands’ best. For a few weeks I was confused about him, thinking he was the type to win tennis matches. And although I’ve long since realized reality, I have yet to give up hope. Go, Daniel, go.  


Photos: Reuters, Getty

Cauldrons, Crucibles, and Sweet Desire

Rafael Nadal def Novak Djokovic 6-3, 6-1

Not seconds after Rafael Nadal tore off his black Winged-Goddess-of-Victory headband, freeing his shaggy hair to flop onto his forehead, relief and joy writ large on his face, my phone rang. Before I even made it across the room to answer, the ding-bing of text messages vied for my attention. Meanwhile Twitter was frenetically running away with itself on my computer screen, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that even the Monte Carlo clay was trending. It was approximately 6:30 AM in California and Rafa fans were making their experience known. Emphatically. There was an extraordinary amount of vamoosing, depths of feeling were plumbed and then expressed in 140 CAPITAL LETTERS. Tears of joy were released, and above all, there was a collective exhale of the tension that had been steadily building for over a year.

Sporting events are known for generating hype and hyperbole, for exceeding the bounds of propriety, and for meaning more to their fans than they ever in a million years ought to mean to anyone. Sport and its heroes have the power to bewitch, plunging otherwise grounded individuals (and the ungrounded ones too) into a frothing cauldron of primitive emotional experiences—desire, adulation, rage, triumph, sadism, suffering, and, of course, ecstasy.

But the thing about cauldrons of primitive frothiness is that they have the potential to become crucibles for genuine change. When we let ourselves boil and roil, falling to emotional bits, we’re also presented with the possibility to reintegrate the pieces into a stronger whole—the question is whether or not we take the opportunity as it’s offered. And it’s not just the fans that are held in thrall by sport, it’s the athletes too. Professional athletes often arrive at the vocation as to a calling. Indeed, in tennis, many are actually born into their careers, much like Kings, Kennedys, and the occasional orthodontist. On the one hand, tennis is only a game. On the other, winning and losing become metaphors for life and death.

Seven straight losses to Novak Djokovic have meant a world of hurt for Rafael Nadal, but they’ve also provided a crucible for change. The changes weren’t drastic, and given Novak’s erratic performance it’s easy to second-guess whether they were there at all. The parts and pieces of Nadal’s tennis game—both technical and psychological— were much the same as always. The difference is that they’d been recombined, and in the process, annealed. The initial games of the first set basically tell the story of the entire match:

Celebratory Post Pending...

Rafael Nadal defeated Novak Djokovic 6-3, 6-1 to win a record-breaking eight straight Monte Carlo Masters titles. He also broke the losing streak to Djokovic that was driving the Rafa fans among us a little nutso. And he did it in less than an hour and a half! It’s probably going to take me longer than that to gather all my adjectives for a celebratory post. Because there will be a celebratory post, for sure. But right now I need to go outside, look at the pink sunrise—and smell the roses. Also maybe get a pastry. Or a nice danish.

But I’ll be back soon to heap praise on The Nadal and to talk about my feelings, always with the feelings.  

You cannot put a fire
out; A thing that can ignite Can go, itself, without a fan
Upon the slowest night. You cannot fold a flood And
put it in a drawer,— Because the winds would find it out, And
tell your cedar floor.
-E.D.

(Thanks to @jesna3 for reminding me that Emily Dickinson was a Rafa fan.)

photo: ap

C’est Normal

This post was brought to you by: 

The Nadal; the ache of incurable longing; 

something somebody said Gilles said; 

and the number 8.

“For him it's normal to be in the finals, he is used.” –Gilles Simon, after his semifinal loss to Rafael Nadal in Monte Carlo, translated from the French by Twitta

Tomorrow the tennis world will bear witness to a final that is both normal and (relatively) historical. It's possible that Rafael Nadal will win his eighth straight Monte Carlo Masters title tomorrow. If not, it's possible that the sky will fall. (i.e. Novak Djokovic will win his eighth straight tournament final matchup over Nadal.) Either Rafa will radiate the peachy glow of promise fulfilled, or Sunday will open like a cavernous pit of burnt dust and bitter despair, swallowing his fans and those too-pale gray shorts whole. To paraphrase the poet Pablo Neruda, cold flower heads will rain over the hearts of Rafa fans. I won’t make assumptions about what victory or loss will mean to Novak this week in particular, and I’ll keep my fingers crossed that I won’t hear too many alls-for-the-best theories during the match tomorrow.

Given the hefty stakes, the opportunity for Rafa to finally get some of his own back, and the profound numerical significance of it all (“most umbrellas have eight sides”), I was surprised to find myself feeling a little empty after the semifinals concluded today.

One Point at a Time.

Novak Djokovic d. Alexandr Dolgopolov 2-6, 6-1, 6-4

The weather in Monte Carlo was leaden and dull by the time the Serbian number one seed, Novak Djokovic, took the court against the 16th seeded Alexandr Dolgopolov, the Ukrainian whose game is universally acknowledged as uniquely entertaining, if not always such stuff as victory is built on. But the gloomy weather was nothing compared to the emotional heaviness on Center Court. Novak Djokovic learned of the death of his beloved grandfather, Vladimir, while on the practice court that very morning. Novak waded through waves of grief, Alex made semi-bewildered attempts to summon his aggression under tremendously awkward circumstances, and the sky spit out fits of gray water. Television spectating was not particularly enjoyable and I imagine that being there in person must have been worse. But I watched anyhow, and doing so reminded me of the debt of gratitude I owe to tennis. 

Tennis helped me push through the three long years it took me to write and defend my dissertation. When I began the process in 2008, it had been almost a decade since I’d touched a racquet and a good half-dozen years since I’d watched a match on television. At this point I can’t even remember how or why, but when I started writing I also resumed playing and, in 2009, I began watching. I started with the slams (the “old familiars”), but then I kept going deeper, and deeper. Why, there was a whole wide world of tennis to explore: 1000…500…250…WTF! I discovered streams. I watched match after match on tiny squares of computer monitor while I wrote, edited, threw angsty tantrums and indulged in destructive-cum-creative bouts of my own private madness. The very sound of tennis became associated with the surging electricity of productivity: back-and-forth, onward-and-onward, ask-answer. Tennis helped me contain a volatile, amorphous process and move through it one point at a time.

Indeed there’s not much else like losing oneself in a the feeling of a tennis match to distill the energy of life down to an essential “Carpe Diem.” Tennis is about as relentlessly goal-directed as life gets. Yet as 2012 unfurls, I find myself struggling with life questions—existential, relational, vocational, all the -al’s, really— that require less doing and more being, and I’ve been wondering how tennis (and this blog with it) fit into this new nebulous, transitional space.

As Novak and Alex began their match, I began to get increasingly frustrated with tennis. The commentators fumbled to fold the deepest experience of loss into a simple “triumph over adversity” storyline. It wasn’t working, and if their self-conscious tones were any indication, they were clearly aware of this fact. The failure to tidy up Novak’s pain didn’t reflect on the commentators personally, it’s that sport itself has little use for ambiguity. In the sports-world when there is losing there is always winning—that’s the rule— whereas in life, loss often arrives all by its lonesome. Bereavement is the most lonely of all experiences because not only are we faced with a new and painful experience of loss, but the grief that necessarily follows insists on reminding us that we are, and have always been, fundamentally alone. Not surprisingly, on Thursday, the hard lines of the tennis court were proving too narrow and inflexible to contain the complexity of the emotional experience being played out on the sodden Monte Carlo clay.

The Moody Skies of Monte Carlo

Potholes in the backcourt, thunderclaps overhead, drizzles & downpours—and grief. So far the Monte Carlo Masters has played host to one sprained ankle (Poor Pico!); a sore shoulder (Johnny Keats is not pleased); a broken elbow, another sprained ankle, torn ligaments in the wrist (all on the same person, POOR Benny!); and to cap it off Novak Djokovic learned of his grandfather’s death on the practice courts this morning. Novak then played, and won, his round of 16 match against Alex Dolgopolov (2-6, 6-1,6-4) and collapsed into a heap of sobs immediately afterwards.

This morning, I, er, Johnny Keats, composed a mostly-humorous lament in response to David Ferrer’s early exit from the tournament, but when I heard about Novak's grandfather it hardly felt appropriate to post it. Instead, I find myself moved to trying to put words to a slightly deeper aspect of my tennis-viewing experience. But “deeper aspects” take more time to sketch than my lunch break allows, so until I'm able to string together a longer succession of blogging-minutes, I’ll leave you with a few upbeat tidbits:

Some Verses on “The Nadal”

Dear Readers,

It appears that this Monte Carlo post will be cut short due to legal contract issues. That’s right; my agent tells me that some during the Sony Ericsson Open I signed some sort of contract that dictates that a certain percentage of my posting space be devoted to some type of Tweeting Poet. Of course, I have no memory of this. It’s too bad, because I’d planned on giving you all the gory details about Poor Pico and his ankle (the only tennis I saw today, and it hurt just to watch); then I was going to tell you about how I was right about Poor Emo Feli and the Burly Backhand Man; and maybe I was also going to tell you that I was apparently wrong about Tsonga and Kohlschreiber being an exciting match. I just thought, on account of Kohlschreiber's tendency to have flashes of jutting brilliance that often last an entire set, that the match might be an exciting one. Remember when Andy Roddick said that we should all learn to pronounce Philipp’s name? Well not, the “Philipp” part—most of us know how to say that—it’s the “Kohlschreiber” part that can get tricky— although really, it’s quite logically spelled. To be scrupulously honest, Andy didn’t exactly mention PK by name, but he sort of advised sports fans to learn some names other than Rafa, Rog & Nole and I think he makes a good point. Anyway, Psahjp Kdjskfer lost to Jo in straights, 6-2, 6-4 and from what I hear, it wasn’t anything much. Maybe Jo is just such a big-shouldered fellow that it just appears as if he doesn’t move so well on clay? Could it be that he does invisible slides?

Anyway…ahem… My editor tells me that I’m contractually obligated to wrap things up now. So fine. This happens to be MY blog, but whatever. Without further adieu, this tweeting OdeToTennis person wants to read you a little poem he wrote about Rafa... (But if you ask me, there’s far too much schlock Rafa poetry out there already, I mean really, who does this poet person think he is? Keats? Eliot? It’s tiresome. Furthermore, why does it need to be blogged if it was already tweeted? I ask you that?…  [Note from the Blog Editor: The remainder of this blogger’s post has been removed due to the sheer whininess of the content. While this blogger is usually the easygoing sort, the fact remains that she rather hogs the space. Blogs are post-postmodern uber-intersubjective constructs and the deconstructed discourse doesn't belong to her any more than it belongs to well, Rafa. It exists in the cyber-space betwixt and between! In this Editor’s opinion, the OdeToTennis poet is a respectable artist, even if he is slightly precious and inclined toward dramatic overstatement, and maybe a wee bit of plagiarism. Also, it’s possible he’s given to self-medicating when his favorites lose tennis matches, plus he says “vamos” rather too often. But at least he has a sensible girlfriend-slash-Muse. Poor thing, she’s his voice of reason and she never gets the thanks she deserves. It was she who set up the contract with us as a matter of fact, and she drives a hard bargain. Apparently she’s friendly with a woman named Mirka who gave her some good tips (via text and chewing gum) and the contract is iron-clad.]

@TheTennisMuse On this, the eve of Rafa’s 1st 2012 MonteCarlo match, I want to tweet-ith some verse on The Nadal in your general direction.
— Johnny Keats (@OdeToTennis) April 18, 2012

@OdeToTennis That's nice dear. Tweet-ith away.
— BrightStar (@TheTennisMuse) April 18, 2012

@TheTennisMuse Are you sure? I’m a little nervous. My temperament is passionate and confident, yet sensitive like Rafa's knees.
— Johnny Keats (@OdeToTennis) April 18, 2012

@OdeToTennis Yes, dear. Please just tweet-ith.
— BrightStar (@TheTennisMuse) April 18, 2012

@TheTennisMuse This one is called “The Game of The Nadal” or “VAMMOOOOS RAFA!”
— Johnny Keats (@OdeToTennis) April 18, 2012

@OdeToTennis How original of you. [sartalics]
— BrightStar (@TheTennisMuse) April 18, 2012

[Note from the Blog Editor: Blog posting via Tweet becomes tedious for editors and moreover fails to be conducive to the rhythm of rhymed verse. Therefore the actual poetry of Mr. Johnny Keats (an alias if ever I did hear one) will be rendered in plain text, but it can be traced back to his twitter account. Perhaps you'd like to visit him there? He's woefully in need of followers. Poets, even fake poets, are very sensitive about these things.]


The Game Of The Nadal 
or VAMMOOOOS Rafa


The Tennis of Rafa is a difficult matter,
It isn't just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, Rafa must have THREE DIFFERENT GAMES.

First of all, there's the game Rafa practices daily,
Complete with flatter forehands hit with Babolat frames,
And half-serves and lobs not too crazy--
A sensible everyday game.
 

There are fancier forehands if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Sometimes they’re out by a meter--
But they’re still part of a sensible everyday game.

But I tell you, Rafa has a game that's particular,
A game that's peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his credit extracurricular,
Or gather his trophies, or cherish his pride?

Of shots from this game, I can give you a quorum,
Such as buggywhip forehands, backhand banana passes or body serves,
Such as Cowboy lasso follow-thrus, or else fistpumps with decorum-
Shots in a game of a man with most special verve.

But above and beyond there's still one game left over,
And that is the game that you never will guess;
The game that no human research can discover--
But THE NADAL HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.

When you notice The Nadal in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his game:

His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Game.

@OdeToTennis Um, dear? ... I thought you were a Ferrer fan?
— BrightStar (@TheTennisMuse) April 18, 2012

@TheTennisMuse Oh. Right-o. VAMMMMMOOOOOOSSSSS DAVEEEEEED!
— Johnny Keats (@OdeToTennis) April 18, 2012

Juan goes to Monaco

Juan Monaco def. John Isner 6-2, 3-6, 6-3 

at the US Men's Clay Court Championships

Pico won Dirty Wimbledon! And then they let him take a bath. (Blake and Querry also did the traditional honors at the club house pool when they won the doubles final, but pictures of the pair didn’t persist in popping up on my twitter timeline every two minutes and I’m far too world-weary to google right now. You know you’re tired when the thought of googling inconsequential information feels almost as tedious as googling actual news.)

As it turns out, I’m requiring more time to recover from hosting a workshop on Mama & the Meaning of Life (aka: attachment theory and early relational trauma) than Juan Monaco is going to get between playing his final in Houston and his first round match many thousands of miles away in Monte Carlo. Pico takes on Robin Haase of the Netherlands in approximately ten minutes. OOP is here.

Houston’s Clay Court Championships use “American Red Clay” and I wonder if it requires much adjustment for the players to switch over to the crushed brick in Monte Carlo. According to the Har-tru website, it’s easier to slide on European clay and the darker American cousin plays slightly faster. (Anyone have cross-continental clay court experience?) I’d be more worried about Pico if Robin’s previous match hadn’t been a loss to the 752nd ranked, Lamine Ouahab of Algeria in the Casablanca 250. (Lamine then went on to lose to 544th ranked Sergio Gutierrez-Ferrol of Spain, who then lost to Pablo Andujar, also of Spain, who won the whole tournament!  — Look at me getting all googly on the extraneous facts, a little light blogging always gives me some spark— Interestingly, Lamine is now ranked 548 and Serigio is all the way up at 376, which just goes to show how powerful a couple of tour-level wins can be to the lower ranked players.) Haase has a 6-7 record this year, and barring total exhaustion, I think Monaco will be too high on his highest-ever-ranking to come down just yet. He now sits, washed and pretty, at a career-high equaling 14. 

After watching bits of Casablanca and Houston I must admit that the American clay makes for crisper television but it’s a touch dreary. It was a little like watching that new version of Great Expectations on PBS, the one with the Burberry model version of Pip, there was something innately depressing about the visual experience. The Har-tru courts looked like something that might be found, smothered in dead leaves, in Mrs. Havisham's backyard. Or maybe it was just the rain. 

Anyhow, I think I still need a day or two to recover from being the hostess with the mostess, but I’ll be back for the Monte Carlo’s well-heeled madness for sure. For my money, the most intriguing Tuesday match is Tsonga v. Kohlschreiber (rotten luck for PK, unless, of course, he wins). The match I earnestly hope is deadly dull (for Andy’s sake) is Murray v. Troicki. Interesting things might go down on The Court Des Princes, such as, for example, Fernando. (What's this I hear about cortisone shots to the knee? Not good.) Also, Nishikori v. Ramos is rather a battle of two men who are improving a lot, so that's neato. Feliciano Lopez has a first round encounter with Stan the burly backhand man out on Court 2. Alas. Life can be bleak for a Feli. Mikhail Youzhny plays Frederico Gil on Court 9 and we haven’t seen the good doctor since Dubai, where he beat Richard Gasquet and Mardy Fish before losing to Roger. I know, that doesn’t really mean anything much, does it? Okay, he has a 10-3 record this year. There, better?

Novak and Rafa are also playing in this tournament, but they’re not due to take the court until sometime in 2013. They have, however, had many media and PR appearances and the pleasure of being repeatedly quoted out of context. Also, Novak joined the club for people who wear bad-ass sunglasses on cloudy days while accompanied by girlfriends with expressive eyebrows that are visible despite wearing sunglasses of her own that are bigger than the entire 1970s. These are the kind of pictures that their kids will mock mercilessly. In other words, Nole and Jelena make a stylish couple:

Photos: Pico, AP; Novak, Getty

Speaking of crocuses…

This post is happening because I can’t sleep. The reason I can’t sleep likely has to do with anxiety over a certain sound board and mixer that might refuse to make & mix sound during a conference I have to host on the morrow. I’m also anxious about the other thing that will go wrong. No matter how diligent the planning, some unforeseen “thing” always goes wrong. The problem with unforeseen things is that they’re not foreseeable, much like the unfolding of a tennis tournament draw. [Key the musical segue to the obligatory mention of the Monte Carlo draw…]

The Monte Carlo Draw

The Monte Carlo draw can be found here. Clever and amusing analysis of the draw can be found at The Next Point and Queridorafa. The former predicts that Nadal will win everything on his way to losing to Djokovic, unless he doesn’t. The latter predicts that Rafa will lose to everyone before he beats Djokovic, er, actually, before he beats Paul Henri Matheiu in the final. Both made me chuckle and both have jokes about Andy Murray’s haircut, which is fortunate because I haven’t been able to think of a good one. (Is it me, or does the buzz-style really set off Andy’s quadriceps? It adds definition. Or is that a weird thing to say?) After Miami and Indian Wells and their system of extra-special byes, the Monte Carlo draw feels fairly straightforward—the Cliff’s Notes single-page edition. I was happy to see David Ferrer on the opposite half of the draw from Rafa, because OdeMan and his Tennis Muse intend to cheer wildly for him, and now I can join them without compunction. Of course, despite assertions to the contrary, OdeMan is not exactly known for his constancy so he might find himself cheering for half the Armada by the time the tournament is through. Oh and probably for Donald Young. #represent

Monaco-a-Monaco

There’s no way around it; this post-semifinal victory interview with Juan Monaco is nothing short of adorable. Sometimes there’s incredible tennis, and sometimes there’s the guy who reminds you of the perfect cross between the jock soccer-player and the stoner-skater-boy you had crushes on when you were sixteen.

And is it just me or does it feel all kinds of confusing that Pico is playing in the final of a tournament all the way across an entire ocean from a tournament that will already be underway before he takes to the dark red dirt tomorrow? In my own careful analysis of the draw I was able to ascertain that he does not have a bye in the first round, which means Monaco will be due on court in Monaco (sorry, couldn’t resist) in a little less than five minutes after he fails to break John Isner’s serve.

Although according to Pico he and John are good friends (it’s an NFL thing), so maybe he knows a secret way to make John play as tired as he usually looks? We’ll find out soon enough.  

“IJKFBOANFIIHG658302!”

Yesterday was a difficult day. The urge to complain at-length borders on the profound but out of affection for you, my dear readers, I’ll refrain from ‘paying it forward.’ Much. Suffice it to say that the day involved the dreaded technology, including an hours long search to discover an itsy bitsy gray button marked “IJKFBOANFIIHG658302” on a professional grade sound mixer. When depressed, said button prevented said mixer from making any actual sound. And it was sound that we—two psychotherapists, an event planner, and a librarian—were so desperately seeking. Now add that to the typical manic misery of Friday rush-hour coinciding with the guest appearance of thousands of drunken, and yet driving, baseball fans and you have a blogger who wants nothing more than to teleport home and watch the kiddo play the tennis—and also maybe Pico and Kevin Anderson.

But no! It might be that Mercury is in retrograde, or that the rare electrical storm of Thursday evening addled my DVR (and the Tennis Channel with it), but whatever the reason, Technology was clearly feeling recalcitrant. Despite having set my DVR to record all appearances of “US Mens Clay Court Championships of the Galaxy” and regardless of the fact that the programming that was recorded was labeled “US Men’s Clay Court Championships: better than Wimbledon,” it turned out to be live-action from the Casablanca 250. Ironically, it was the same live-action that was re-playing itself on the Tennis Channel when I arrived home. Whose brilliant idea was it to show Casablanca twice and the first two men’s quarterfinals in Houston not even once? I get that tennis is less popular than Obamacare in America, but really, televising a minor tournament in Morocco instead of an equally, perhaps even superiorly-minor tournament in the US can’t be helping matters. Or perhaps the Russell/Harrison and Monaco/Anderson matches were televised, but were mysteriously labeled? Mayhap I should have looked under “Davis Cup replay,” or even “IJKFBOANFIIHG658302?” That’s the kind of thing the Technology Gods would do to a work-weary blogger on Friday night. 

As I watched a few minutes of Casablanca’s Igor Andreev/Jeremy Chardy match—which was enough to remind me that Igor has a cool forehand and Jeremy has loose cannons—the Tennis Channel’s intrusive spoiler of a scrollbar informed me that Juan Monaco “blew” by Kevin Anderson 7-6, 7-5. Since there is some difficulty with score-verb agreement in that description, I’ll just assume that this is one of those matches about which one ought not to make assumptions. I also read that the kiddo went out to Michael Russell in three sets. My Friday was not improving.

It was then that I decided it was time to step away from the tennis. I had the sneaking suspicion that I was about to start rooting for Chardy, and really, no good could come from that. But before I turned my back on the clay dust for the day, I turned to twitter to recreate the Friday adventures of the player Brad Gilbert has mysteriously dubbed, “Ryan Express.” (It would seem that clever nicknames for Harry the Kiddo are as difficult to come by as footage of him playing tennis matches.)

Here is what I was able to divine from my timeline:

Championship Weekend

As I waited in line at the grocery store today I listened to the customer in front of me chat with the cashier about baseball. Would it be better for the season to start slowly and then build to a crescendo of victory, or would it perhaps be best to get some quick wins up front? Both customer and cashier agreed that it would be best to get a few quick wins and then just not stop winning. Happy to have settled on a practical no-fail strategy for the San Francisco Giants (or perhaps it was the Oaklands A’s) the customer hoisted his 100% recycled canvas tote full of Greek yogurt and sprouted garbanzo beans onto his shoulder, and with a final nod to the cashier, disappeared into the windy San Francisco mid-afternoon. I was next at bat, and the cashier gave me a warm smile as he asked, 
“So are you a baseball fan?” 
Knowing I was about to deliver a harsh blow to our chit-chat, my guilt made me state my preference in the form of a question, “Uh, sorry, ah, um, not really?” 
The cashier asked a real question in response, “Oh, not a sports fan are you?” 
Expecting a confirmation of my non-sportiness, he looked crestfallen. My compassion function kicked into overdrive. There he was, selling people weirdly thick yogurt all the live-long day and all he asked in return was to discuss the prospects of the San Francisco Giants. (Or was it the Oakland A’s?) I know what their outfits look like, but I could tell that wouldn't cut it. He was looking at me with big, liquid, sad-face eyes. What could I do to fix this? Would he like some sprouted garbanzo beans? They’re right over there in isle 12, it would only take a moment. Or maybe a nice single-origin cup of coffee? That usually does the trick for me… Wait, of course! I’d tell him about tennis.

“Well, I do like tennis,” I chirped.

“Oh? You’re a tennis fan?” His face brightened considerably.

“Yes, I know it’s unusual.”

“No,” he hurried to reassure me, “No it’s not! I’m a tennis fan too!”

Now I was the one with the big, liquid eyes. “You are?” Perhaps I’d found my grocery-store soul mate.

“Yes!” He nodded emphatically, “I always watch all the slams.”

“Oh.” I paused, trying not to let the disappointment show. “You’re not by any chance watching the U.S. Men’s Clay Court Championships in Houston this weekend are you?”

He looked at me blankly, “They have tennis courts in Houston?”

Okay, maybe that’s not quite what happened.

A Rafa Ramble: making special reference to Springtime, Monte Carlo, and the Cult of Ariadne

"From the bluff head where I watch'd to-day, I saw her in the doldrums; for the wind Was light and baffling." – Lord Byron

Today I find myself deep in the doldrums. Life baffles, buffets, and bruises. Progress is elusive, and everywhere I turn there are uncertainties most dire! So let’s see if I can’t cheer me up by elevating tennis to a place of unnatural importance in my life and writing about Rafa. Shall we? Alrighty then.

In this week of momentum-building speculation there’s one question looming large on the near-but-all-too-elusive horizon: Whose house is Monte Carlo this year? Rafael Nadal hasn’t lost a single tennis match at the Monte Carlo Masters in seven years— which is longer than many marriages last, so clearly Rafa and Monte Carlo are on intimate terms. On the other hand, Novak Djokovic calls Monte Carlo “the place where he avoids paying Serbian income tax” and Pierre is happy by the seaside. So the MC is a like a second home-sweet-home for Nole. So the question is: will Rafa be able to win his 800th straight title in Monte Carlo next week? Or will Novak go all Agassi on him and break Rafa’s “strength,” thereby sending Nadal into a tailspin for the rest of the clay season, at which point John Isner, Roger Federer, and Fabio Fognini will probably win everything else from here to eternity.

See what I meant about the doldrums?

On Tuesday (my apologies for the post delay, the doldrums again) I mentioned a pet hypothesis that entails Rafa being “like a crocus” and while it’s not exactly a theory that leads revels in optimism, I suspect it will ultimately bring brighter colors, winds of progress, and a general springtime of blog-post-writing, so here goes: