There was a time when men’s tennis risked becoming a dictatorship. The surface, the rival or the time did not matter: victory was for Roger Federer. Uncomfortable laughter could be heard on the courts, because the Swiss received serves at 210 kilometers per hour that he subtracted like someone saying good morning. The surprise grew, because the champion did not sweat, nor did he ruffle his hair, nor did he shout. And disbelief spread among the old guard, starting with Andre Agassi, when they saw how that kid who previously bleached his hair with hydrogen peroxide and listened to Metallica was becoming the epitome of elegance, success and excellence. The question was not how many major tournaments Federer would win, but what number he would break the record for Grand Slam trophies won.
And then they arrived one night in 2004, and a 17-year-old boy, number 34 in the world, named Rafael Nadal Parera.
It is played in Miami. “Turn on the TV,” says the legend, never confirmed, that the Spaniard transmits to his loved ones. What is certain is that on the other side of the net is Federer, winner of 28 of his last 29 matches, champion of the Masters Cup, crowned in Australia and cradled on a streak of 12 consecutive victories. Nadal reaches impossible balls, converted into the sea wall that resists the onslaught of the ocean and expels it out of sight with a blow. Win by double 6-3. And that day begins something more than a mythical rivalry (24-16 for the Spaniard) and an unexpected friendship.
Because since then Nadal, in victory and defeat, returns to men’s tennis the most important thing in any sport: uncertainty. He who doesn’t have a sure winner. The expectation of being able to see a unique match, which measures two rivals capable of beating the other at any time. That is the magnet of a powerful rivalry, brimming with contrasts, fire and water, rock and opera, sleeveless T-shirt and branded polo, which even attracts tennis to a new audience.
And something else: Nadal paves the way for others. Would Novak Djokovic as we know him have existed without Nadal showing that Federer was human? Would Carlos Alcaraz have won on the grass at Wimbledon without Nadal first breaking a streak of four decades without Spanish victories in the men’s draw?
Surely yes: impossible to contain two infinite talents like those. But Djokovic and Alcaraz, like Andy Murray, would have had to get to where they are in a different way, treading on unknown ground, without someone first having crossed Federer’s jungle with machetes, opening a path, saying, follow me, it’s possible, this is where arrives.
It first happened at Roland Garros, on land, where Nadal overshadowed the excellence of Federer, an accomplished earthling, for years. Then it happened on grass, at Wimbledon 2008, on a day of clouds, lightning and thunder, which changed everything. And in the end, with all the barriers broken, it also happened on cement in a big final, Australia 2009.
That day, Federer cried (“God, it’s killing me“, God, this is killing me), and Nadal hugged him. The dictatorship had mutated into rivalry, and finally, into open competition: there were Djokovic, the one with the most major titles now, or Murray, eternal contender with a brilliant resume; or even the Argentine Juan Martín del Potro, who managed to sneak into the era of greatest splendor of the four. They all fed off each other, they all improved each other, and the three internalized, each in their own way, the message that now remains at the center of Nadal’s legacy: believe and believe; fall and rise; overcome defeats and injuries; keep going and going until you can’t anymore.
Now that that day has arrived, tennis says goodbye to the man who revitalized it and looks to the insatiable Djokovic to make official the beginning of a new era when he too says enough is enough.
Juan José Mateo He covered Rafael Nadal’s emergence on the circuit for this newspaper.
