Happy birthday, Rafael Nadal

This article is about a man, who on this very day, 27 years back, did followers of the game of tennis a huge favour by stepping into the world. Small and insignificant, he was born in a region where only football is watched, cherished and talked about, in a family where the only person who had ever touched the skies of sporting glory was an uncle who kicked a ball with his feet.

Nurtured by the red soil of Spain, the boy grew up in a world where he was taught to believe that once a game starts, one does not budge till a) the opponent is battered to little bits or b) the world ends and one is forced to stop playing. Legend says that when he had reached the age where most other kids come back from school complaining about not having enough time for video games, the boy was fit to choose between playing either football or tennis professionally. He was that good in both.

He chose tennis.

He was taught to play by his uncle. Trained in pretty much the same way a commando is taught to fight in the harshest conditions, the boy played a gruelingly regimented schedule. Learning to strike the ball by adding enough spin to make it bounce miles above the opponent’s head, the boy mastered tennis on the harshest courts, crudest rackets and the un-furriest of balls. A natural right hander, the boy played tennis with his left, thus gifting him a combination of natural balance on his right wing and technical balance on his left. The result was that wrong footing him would be as easy as out-swimming a great white shark in the ocean.

When he was twelve, the Spanish government implored his family to move him to Barcelona to hone his talent. His uncle refused, saying that an able athlete can be trained anywhere. When he was fourteen, he was taking sets off French Open champions like Carlos Moya in practice sessions. When he was sixteen, he reached the fourth round of Wimbledon, notifying the tennis world that there would be a slight change in the top order soon.

Then the young man touched the surface of red clay, where from the time he unleashed his lifelong campaign, he has lost fewer matches than the fingers a human being has on both his hands. He proceeded to win the French Open a record seven times, falling at that venue only once to a Swede who never managed to repeat the feat. He then edited the title-card of being a ‘clay-court specialist’ by winning at the hallowed lawns of the All England Club twice, before rounding up the set at Melbourne Park in 2009 and Flushing Meadows in 2010. His tally of 11 Grand Slams and counting is second in today’s game only to his arch rival, Roger Federer, who he has defeated twenty times in their thirty meetings. Their rivalry reached its peak when he dethroned Federer in a Wimbledon final which the bards will talk about for years to come.

This man’s name is Rafael Nadal. He has changed the perception of the world ‘athlete’ and redefined what it means to fight out a match. There have been times, while watching a match where he plays the leading role, when you see the ball go out of the screen for a good two seconds, just to see it being whacked for a winner from an obscenely far corner of the court. It is imperative to understand while playing Nadal that approaching the net for a volley is a laughably stupid thing to do, as any ball falling short on his side will be clipped, curved, banana’d or lobbed for a winner. It’s even more stupid to think of challenging him in a baseline duel, as out-rallying Nadal makes approaching the net seem easy as pie in comparison. How does one beat him then? The answer is simple – take the racquet and with all the top-spin you can muster, hit him on his head. Remember though, that although his Goliath biceps and imposing physique might render this choice of attack futile, his greatest strength lies within his head, from where the ‘giving up’ button has been removed.

All of this without a hint of court abuse, temper tantrums and cat-calling screams. Off court, the humility that one sees stitched in his demeanour makes the champion even more of an enigma. What kind of person would, after winning the French Open four times, actually take his father’s permission for buying a sports car, and agree to buy it only after winning Wimbledon?

Superlatives run out while talking about legends of the sport. Eventually, writers realise they don’t matter. Our quest to find words to describe people that inspire us is cut short by the realisation that even as we think, our protagonist would be practising on a French court somewhere, trying to better the record we mentioned a few hundred words back.

While Rafael may not possess the natural flair and panache of players like Gasquet, Federer or McEnroe, he stands as a testament to the fact that champions can be trained, if they aren’t born in a package. He stands as physical evidence that while not everyone can become a great sportsman, a great sportsman can come from anywhere.

Happy birthday Rafa. May the sight of your buggy forehand entertain sports enthusiasts as long as your knees allow you. We extend our very best wishes for your attempt to collect your eighth piece of silverware at Roland Garros.