What a difference a few weeks can make. Just last month I, and many other pundits, were writing off Rafa Nadal as a worn-out warrior on the irreversible slide into retirement.
A first-round loss at the Australian Open, and a series of uncharacteristic losses on clay (both to one-handed backhand players) after a lacklustre 2015 had many alarm bells ringing.
His forehand, the bedrock of his game and the bane of everyone else’s, looked weak and his legs deservedly weary. Doubt was scribbled all over his frown and Nadal admitted himself that he was riddled with anxiety during matches.
What a curious case he has been. One of the most mentally formidable athletes in all of sport, his self-confessed despairs were brutally honest and quite frank. Here was a man who had done it all – roaring back from regular injuries, conquering Wimbledon, and rising above Roger Federer and Novak Djokovic.
There was no room for doubt.
It’s well known Nadal’s modesty is borderline unbelievable in the truest sense of the word. “Every other player is great, every match will be very difficult, Federer is much better than me, no? I’ll try and keep up” is a fairly accurate synopsis of his career interviews.
His words were taken with a pinch and then some, for how could such a giant of the game be so unsure?
Repeated success usually instills a, somewhat deserved, permanent arrogance in the minds of sporting giants, they know they’re the best, and they feed off this belief when they need it most.
Yet Nadal has remained forever cautious, acknowledging his precarious position at the summit of the game for a decade as constantly fallible. Any loss dents his confidence, and another match must be won to restore his mentality to its previous shape. This peculiar inner working to his psyche seems frail and incompatible for a player of Nadal’s calibre.
But Nadal is more unique than most.
I once wrote that Nadal’s greatest weapon lie not in his forehand, speed or mentality, but in his humility.
His unwavering respect for his opponent has allowed Nadal to tap into a most precious resource for an athlete.
Fear.
To most athletes fear is crippling. Fear is a virus that festers in every sinew of your body and clouds judgment to a stun. An uncontrollable fire burns the possibility of performance to ash.
Yet for Nadal, fear is fuel. It is the ever-present flame that he has managed to tame and direct into his game as an orchestra of relentless forehands and unwavering motivation.
Intensity personified.
He should have burnt-out by now; such is the demand his style brings. His legs should be shot and his mind heavy from the grind of travel, interview, play, repeat.
Yet here he is, the flame burns on after dying down to a flicker for 12 months. Nadal is back.
Wins in Monte Carlo and Barcelona have involved vintage displays of knockout forehands and youthful scrambles in the dirt. The ‘King of Clay’ is deservedly dubbed once more.
He hasn’t played Djokovic, the litmus test for where a player’s game is, but one gets the feeling he’s number one on the Serbian’s radar this clay season.
How the hell he found this confidence and form is beyond me. Perhaps the old adage “form is temporary, class is permanent” deserves a run here.
I was wrong and am so happy I was. I wrote off a legend and will gladly eat my sweet pessimistic words. Nadal is back and the clay season is well and truly alive.
Game on.
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