Okay, folks a little Federer and a little Nadal this morning for your reading pleasure. First (just so Tari and Tim can can stop holding their collective breath), the Mighty Fed anecdote: I have a friend whose teen-age daughter worked at the US Open. This little chica lives and breaths tennis, and she had acccess to Arthur Ashe stadium. On the day before the men's final, she was standing against the pale-blue cinder-block wall in the hallway next to the entrance to the men's locker room. A moment later, who should emerge but - Roger Federer.
Said teen-ager froze up and had trouble breathing. Finally, she managed to squeeze out the words, "Roger, you are a god!"
TMF looked at her, smiled, and said, "Thank, you." Parenthetically, I find it amusing that he didn't respond with something on the order of, "Don't be silly, I just happen to be pretty good. . . make that very good. . .at tennis." But then, I guess that's the difference when you're Roger Federer, not Radek Stepanek.
Anyway, this girl then showed that she's no blubbering, confused teen-ager by advising him: "Remember, hit to Murray's forehand."
TMF looked at her reassuringly and said, "Don't worry, I know."
End of anecdote.
Now, instead of dropping a juicy tidbit about Nadal, I'm going to reiterate, one last time, why I call Rafael Nadal Jet Boy, since it seems that each time I use the name, a few warty little trolls come out from under the mossy bridge to whine and stamp their tiny feet in indignation. Nadal has always reminded me of a cartoon character - a cross between Diego (of Dora and Diego fame) and an action hero on the order of Spiderman. This boyishness is part of his appeal, and those who perceive some sort of slight toward Nadal in that nickname are sorely in need of an imagination (or disposition) transplant. Personally, I imagine legions of grown, grumpy, woefully literal-minded men would like nothing more than to be accused of seeming "boyish", or being indicted for having seemingly boundless exuberance, energy, sincerity and charm. But maybe that's just me.
While Jet Boy has matured nicely into a model tennis professional (and, it seems, human being), I still prefer the original nickname I coined (at about the same time I came up with TMF). I use it affectionately, even though I try to make a point of not getting emotionally vested in any player. And yes, the nickname does contain a nod and a wink to one of my all-time favorite bands, the New York Dolls, who recorded the eponymous song. If you don't like that, you can call Nadal anything you want, including a "tennis god," on your own blog. Or close your eyes when you arrive at those two offensive words and pretend they say, "Regis Dei Rafat" or something. It don't make no never mind to me, although all those little tooth marks on my ankles get irritating from time to time.
I don't mean to shortchange you Rafa fans in this post; your own reward will come when I write a surprising story for Tennis magazine on an aspect of Nadal's career that has barely been touched - at least by the Anglo media. I don't mean to be coy, but a lot of other journalists read this blog and I don't want any of them to get in print with a similiar story before ours appears (gosh but I wish print journalism could be as immediate as its Internet-based counterpart!). So you'll have to wait a bit but I'm pretty sure the payoff will be worth it.
I'd better get to work on may Davis Cup post now, so talk amongst yourselves - T-minus 1 day and counting!
--- Pete