I couldn’t summon up the courage to watch the last over of the 1993 Hero Cup semi-finals and remember peeking out of the half-shut bedroom door to steal a glance at the television, placed at a vantage angle in the living room, every now and then. South Africa needed six runs to reach the finals. Sachin Tendulkar bowled an “unbelievable” over and I came out of my hiding place only when India had won by two runs.
During the 1998 Sharjah qualifier hit by a desert storm, while Tendulkar was blasting his way to 143 against Australia in the crucial tie, I had the shroud of the bed sheet to shield me. Once India qualified, I danced with the bed sheet wrapped around my waist. That was probably the only time I celebrated despite India losing. Australia won the game by 26 runs, but India had qualified for the finals. In a thunderstorm-struck Calcutta, the heavens too seemed to rejoice.
On Sunday, January 30, there was a big dent on my orange sofa. I had sat on it, transfixed for close to five-and-a-half hours (heavily induced by superstition), watching Rafael ‘warrior’ Nadal waging an epic battle and finally, winning. No dent in his self-belief there and neither on the affirmation that agar kisi cheez ko dil se chaho toh poori kainath use tumse milane ki koshish mein lag jaati hai.
...and finally relief and joy
I am glad I ‘watched’ it, with my heart in my mouth though, and didn’t flinch away. Just like my hero who dealt with all the blows from Daniil Medvedev, head-on. Pain and relief. Agony and ecstasy. Wounded pride followed by boss-kaun-hai-maloom-hai- kya moments. Oh, Rhythm Divine! The topsy-turvy-ness of it all was so cathartic and life-changing. As the masters say, it’s all transient. Pleasure and pain. All that matters is now.
And, how beautifully did it play out in Nadal’s game. He seemed to have forgotten that he was two sets down. Or, rather he’d put it behind and moved on, very quickly. A key lesson. The commentators called it a “mountain”, but the great Spaniard seemed to be so much in the now. One ball. One serve. One game. One moment at a time, wringing out excellence from each second, giving it his all, as if his life depended on the match. Much like Arjuna and the legendary tale of his concentration. Match reports might have started to be keyed in, but Nadal was not to be written off. Not just yet.
The 2-6, 6-7, 6-4, 6-4, 7-5 comeback was hard to describe. What Rod Laver Arena was witnessing probably just happens in a perfect film script or a novel. Or, a superhero film maybe. “I have no sense of humour about losing,” Nadal had once written. On Sunday, it seemed, the thought of a loss never crossed his mind. He never believed he could lose. The power of conviction, gumption and an unbelievably steely mind that’s capable of cutting out the nervous clutter, an enviable asset that probably takes years to hone.
“I don’t believe that my happiness, my future happiness, is (going to) depend on if I achieve one more Grand Slam than the others or if the others achieve more Grand Slams than me,” Nadal had said before the finals. He was therefore free from the burden of expectations and played to win, just like he would at any other tournament. The record may have been at the back of his mind, but he was not chasing it, which is probably why he didn’t crumble. Expectations can be pressure. And the 21st Grand Slam title is a ‘great expectation’. He played and fought like he usually does, never leaving without finishing the job.
Once Nadal sent the ball into the cheering crowd and Rod Laver himself took out the cell phone to capture the victor, I just breathed a sigh of relief. The stab of pain that I had felt in my chest when Medvedev was on top was washed over by a swell of pride. My prayers had paid off. Not too sporting I guess (Nadal is a great sport and had called Roger Federer one of the “blessed freaks of nature”), but I felt it was only fitting that Nadal won. Medvedev at 25 would get many more chances. It would be plain cruel if a 35-year-old war-battered veteran who wasn’t too sure if he’d be able to play again just months before the tourney, leave aside raging all over the blue court, gunning for his 21st Grand Slam glory, was denied a victory.
I have always loved Nadal, for which I have always got flak from my Federer-loving friends. An indomitable fighter with an emotional core and an innocent smile. Just the kind of man I like. Ever the gentleman and a great ambassador of the game too. His autobiography Rafa: My Story, is a sneak peek into the family guy he is and his legendary rituals. Before a match, he follows a certain routine. He always eats pasta. “No sauce, nothing that could possibly cause indigestion— with olive oil and salt, and a straight, simple piece of fish. To drink: water”. He always takes a “freezing cold shower”. Then comes music that “sharpens that sense of flow”. Putting on a bandana is “another decisive moment of no return”. His on-court rituals on Sunday seemed like his offerings at the altar of tennis. Tugging in the hair. Wiping the brow. Straightening the towel. Meticulous and to be executed with perfection, like the discipline of a command. All of it fed into the system called Rafael Nadal. Yet, that system is not mechanical. It’s flesh and blood. It bleeds and heals. And, the scars bear testimony to the journey and an era of playing with the best, against the best and emerging as the G.O.A.T.
When Nadal ‘bit’ into the Australian Open trophy, his trademark style, all seemed okay in the world. A fitting finale to a great evening. He believes that a “great tennis champion plays at his best in a Grand Slam final”. A life lesson. The bigger the platform, the greater the thrill to make it your own. And, ‘when the going gets tough, the tough get going’. Not Ekla cholo re, though. In this case, most of the Rod Laver Arena, chanting his name and praying for his victory with bated breath. Goosebumps.
What’s reassuring was we didn’t watch fiction. This was life, with the crest and trough, reiterating once again that “where there is a will, there is a way”.
“Vamos!”
