The days start late here. One o’clock, nice and civilized, is the designated hour for a coin toss and a warm-up. Why do it earlier? There’s plenty of time, Americano. The spring night is long.
The day sessions stretch out into early evening, when the sun, bright and hot all day, disappears behind the pines and the lights come on. That’s when the night matches start, Roman-style.
It begins, as things tend to do here, with the buzz of a hundred scooters and boxy little “smart” cars. As schoolkids and day-tripping families file out with their ice cream cones and New York Yankees caps, motorbikes are there to greet them in the parking lot as the sky gets black.
The lot fills up and overflows and spills to the gas station across the highway. (A couple cars are parked with one wheel on the sidewalk, the other on the highway.) Scooters are lined up in every direction, their black bodies and clear-plastic face guards making them look like giant insects. In the U.S., this would have the look and roaring sound of a biker rally. Here, stylish Italians of all stripes take off their helmets and walk toward the courts. It’s 9:00. Time for the night match.
The men wear black shirts unbuttoned to reveal crucifixes; pinstripe suits with starched-white shirts; leather jackets with black jeans and white shoes; brown sweaters over collared shirts. Some walk with short, strutting steps, hands thrust in their pockets and chests out. They don’t wear shorts. The women may be dressed in black skirts or white suits or tight jeans or high heels or comfortable shoes. They don’t wear sneakers.
They file through the gates. It’s a large crowd but not a mob, and not in a hurry.
"Ciaociaociaociaociao . . . ciao!”
In the food court, 20-somethings in perfectly ripped jeans line up for pizza and beer and listen to salsa. In the exclusive hospitality village next door, it’s dark suits and long skirts and dresses and cocktails. Both groups pass by four shining silver Mercedes that are on display at the center of the Foro; a few of the men take pictures of the cars. Then everyone converges on the stadium, a tall wooden structure that juts straight up between the pines.
Inside, the lights are on, but it’s darker than night matches at other events. There are four small banks of lights high above, not enough to fully light the court. Both players produce four shadows, never a good sign lighting-wise. Somehow, though, this heightens the effect of the evening. The fans in the upper seats are obscured by the darkness and glare of the lights. You can see heads and bodies up there—a lot of them; every seat is filled—but you can’t make anyone out. The court is a dark orange, and the net and lines a gleaming white by comparison. Trees hang over the top rows of bleachers and there are no stars in sight. It’s too cool to be a sultry evening, but that’s the general idea.
On the way in, ticketholders pass pretty young girl ushers who dance to the techno played over the stadium speakers. As fans take their seats, they glimpse man of the moment. Rafael Nadal is at the bottom of the arena in a turqouise and black Nike getup. He’s taller and more imposing than he looks on TV; he kind of hulks over his side of the court, shoulders hunched, in his usual trance of self-exhortation. This is the guy with the Streak, the Federer-killer, as most fans in Rome tonight know.
Nadal is popular here, but among adults there’s a sense that he's an oddity. They're not sure how to take him. Not only is he a top pro, he’s also the guy who lines up his socks before serving, cleans the lines with his foot before returning, wears loud clothes and long pants and plays a freakishly physical game. Nadal has been the undisputed king all week among the Italian kids at the tournament, but I get a slight feeling of distance from the upscale adults tonight. It’s similar to the way I’ve seen him received in Paris.
No matter, Nadal is unstoppable. Mikhail Youzhny, the infinitely less flamboyant man on the other side of the net, plays some terrific tennis in spurts, but it’s clear even to him it’s never going to be enough. He’s just run into a brick wall. Still, Youzhny makes it fun. At 3-1 Nadal, they play a series of spectacular points. On one, Nadal makes an outrageous get, circling around a ball that had gotten behind him and was about to hit the ground (the crowd was already clapping for Youzhny) and eventually winning the point with a ripped backhand crosscourt pass. There’s a little glare on the ball that makes it look like it's jumping off Nadal’s racquet.
Youzhny fights with his backhand, but he’s pushed back all night, and he misses a bunch of forehands while running to his right. Meanwhile Nadal blisters forehand winners past him to his left and right, and to add insult to injury throws in a few strategic—and well-hit—drop shots. He bullies his way through the first set 6-2.
As the players sit on the changeover, the fans take the opportunity for a nic fix. When Nadal serves to begin the second set, there’s a haze of smoke heading up into the lights, into the trees and sky, and out over the court. If it's wasn't so cool, it'd be an even more sultry and Mediterranean night.
Yesterday I mentioned Nadal’s defensive skills with his two-handed backhand. Tonight I was struck by how rare it is for Nadal to do anything other than crush a midcourt ball or a sitter with his forehand. In many ways, his putaway forehand is ideal—it’s got net clearance, safety, and it kicks forward when it hits the dirt.
Has doubles helped Rafa? He mentioned that it improves his returns and volleys, and he made one excellent, instinctive move at net to cut off a sure Youzhny pass. He also took every opportunity he had to be aggressive with balls that landed near the service line. Nadal’s forehand swing has been cut down—a possible goal of Uncle Toni, who has said recently that Rafa needs to expend less energy over the long term. There’s no reason for Nadal to have an elaborate swing on his forehand. Tonight he returned a let serve with just his wrist—no arm, no shoulder—and got enough pace that the ball ended up smacking hard into the tape.
The second set went in similar fashion, with Nadal rolling to win No. 74 in a row on clay. He also exacted revenge on Youzhny, who had beaten him the last two times they had played. Tomorrow Nadal may get some more against Novak Djokovic, who looked ready to go down in the second set to Marcos Baghdatis, before Baghdatis came unglued and gave it back to him. As well as Djokovic has played, Nadal looks like he’s at the top of his game.
Tonight, after Nadal whipped off his headband, shook out his sweaty hair, and gave the crowd a final fist-pump for the road, the speakers blared some Euro club pop to exit by. The ushers danced, and everyone filed out. Some went for more pizza and beer, others put their helmets back on and pulled out onto the highway.
“Ciaociaociaociaociao.”
It had been a quick night match.