The Interpretation of Tennis: Rafael Nadal's Ruthless Self-Test

The colosseum is daubed in red. The atmosphere flamboyant. It is time for the battle to begin. The two opponents take position on either side.

One of them, the more muscular one, attempts to pulls a lever at his side of the battlefield. It seems very cumbersome, and though every other competitor knows its existence, no one ever tries a hand at it.

For they know what it is that it takes to pull it all the way. The effort expended at it is just not worth it. It most probably is going to be a lost cause, and the physical and mental tiredness accrued on attempting to move that heavy lever is not going to do any good to them—it is not going to win them anything.

The muscular one keeps heaving at it. He is unable to move it at first, but he then lets out a war cry, and in one painful convulsion of the body, his left arm breaks loose and pulls the lever far above his head.

On the other half of the battlefield, the earth starts shaking. It finally cracks open, and a yellow orb of fire seems to burst out of it towards the skies at an angle, threatening to pass right through the opponent's head.

The most muscular man in men's tennis (perhaps "former" prefixed) takes tennis to mean much more than probably any other player who has wielded a racquet.

All aspects of his game seem to point at a belief in tennis, much like a belief in God and religion.

For what is it that forces a man to keep running after lost causes, at 40-0 down on the opponent's serve even when he is a break up? Isn't it rational that a point in a lost game is a no-point? If it is not belief, what is it?

Rafael Nadal runs—always. He is cursed to do it—to pursue dead ends. He is cursed to keep fighting the impossible.

Each stroke that Nadal hits is a painful one. The only question is whether it is more so for him or the opponent.

He virtually works himself onto the ball. The ball stays in contact with the racquet for longer than in the case of most players, absorbing more of the movement of the racquet face on it.

Following every stroke is a cry that could be given mixed connotations. A cry of triumph over failure or of pain?

The forehand hooks at the last moment, trying to impart whatever the body has left in it in the form of topspin and altitude. Perhaps in an attempt to pull the ball up at the net that is nearer and then bring it down before it probably goes out of the baseline due to an improbable error of judgment.

When the received strokes become flatter and pacier, he moves back, away from the baseline to give himself more time. What if he doesn't have enough time to reply properly and hits out?

Yes, it is a losing game on hard courts. But though he might lose, the opponent has to win the match by earning points the hard way. He is going to give himself everything so that he hits the fewest number of balls out. He should not commit mistakes.

He is not going to lose because of something he did. It has to be because of something the opponent does.

His body might give up, but it shall forever remain a slave to his will.

Rafael Nadal in more ways than one uses tennis to test his character: "If I lose in the fifth by a heavy margin, it means I am not mentally tough, no?"

He makes sure he plays well within his comfort zone at all points of time. It is a game built on certainty and self-calibration. When he plays, he wants to try to hit only what he can hit, not just anything he might want to. There is not even a sign of attempt at something unpractised.

Because of this approach, he needs to put in a lot of work on his strokes, to expand that comfort zone to include more scenarios that could happen on a tennis court.

This would mean that he would need more matches and practice under his belt to keep going. A break in that routine and you would see a dry patch, as is now seen.

Such a reluctance to take anything that would in the remotest of imaginations be a risk comes with its bag of negatives. The level of play and concentration has to be at a high level throughout. Thus, though there would be moments where the opponent outplays him, he would be there to take the chance when the opponent's level drops off a bit.

On the other hand, since this attitude of stroke play is assisted by an almost unending ability and readiness to keep running, the going could get tough for the opponent when he is on the go. No mistakes, no let offs. This surely is the extremity of defensive attitude.

When he is in form, you might feel that you are playing a wall with a small number of holes, each the size of a tennis ball, right through which you have to hit to get a point. Nothing would bounce back from the hole-less part of the wall that is too long, and neither can you out-hit the wall.

When he is playing even better, you might get the feeling that the holes are moving too.

He kept pulling at the lever, not considering physical fatigue. He kept pulling like his life depended on it.

He started overcoming his opponents one after the other. They tried in various ways to overcome his heart and body. But whatever they had, it couldn't equal these qualities.

And so, due to greater exertion that he subjected his body to and the lesser exertion that his opponents subjected theirs too, his body started giving up over time. The spirit was willing, but not the flesh.

But now that Rafael has rested up, let's hope to hear more of those battle cries next year—not in pain, but in triumph.