When Rafael Nadal triumphed in the 2005 French Open, he was still just a teenager. The Spaniard won 21 more Grand Slam titles, and became the second most decorated man in tennis history. He retired this week after Spain were knocked out in the quarter-finals of the Davis Cup by the Netherlands. His final match, played in front of a home crowd in Málaga, ended in a loss in straight sets to Botic van de Zandschulp, the world number 80. It was a dispiriting and yet strangely fitting end to his career.
If Federer resembled a Renaissance artwork, and Djokovic an acrobat with a racket, Nadal was like a scrappy kid
The Spaniard could have retired more gloriously at this year’s French Open, where he has an unsurpassable 14 titles, and where he left his most extraordinary legacy. But Nadal, who was bashful in interviews and away from the court, was either too humble for such a send-off, or too keen to help his country win an unglamorous tournament.
He’ll be remembered as the sport’s greatest clay-court player and, together with Roger Federer and Novak Djokovic, part of the triumvirate that ruled tennis’s golden era. But whereas his great rivals seemed ethereal or otherworldly, Nadal was compellingly human. If Federer resembled a Renaissance artwork, and Djokovic an acrobat with a racket, Nadal was like a scrappy kid. He was unrelenting and pugnacious, intimidating in the power of his strokes and in the strength of his will.
The Spaniard had incredible stamina, especially in the first half of his career. Recall his five-hour triumph at Wimbledon in 2008 (the second-longest match in the tournament’s history) when he toppled Federer, the king of Centre Court.
Nadal’s style was all-action, high-octane, and high-testosterone. Commentators, in their lazy way, often described him as a matador. But whereas bullfighting aspires to grace, Nadal was usually inelegant. While Federer glided around the court, and Djokovic elasticated himself to the baseline, Nadal powered across the terrain – much more like a bull than a matador.
His great technical assets were his groundstrokes – the double-handed backhand that he fired cross-court, and the heavy topspin of his forehand. Nadal’s powerful topspin was a key weapon on clay – particularly on dry days, when the ball bounces higher. Nadal could push his opponents further and further behind the baseline, but also hit flatter shots that made them unsure whether to step forward or back.
Then there was his speed and endurance, which deflated opponents who thought they had won a point, only for Nadal – straining every sinew – to hit the ball back. This style left a physical toll. Nadal suffered serious injuries throughout his career, causing him to miss at least 15 majors. Whereas Federer made tennis look easy, and Djokovic never seemed to tire, Nadal made the sport look hard.
Part of this was thanks to his fastidious grunt, which was much more tolerated – either because of its low pitch or due to sexism – than Maria Sharapova’s shrieks. Together with the stubble and the biceps, the grunt was part of Nadal’s extreme virility. Even so, it was always more pleasant, more genteel, to watch Federer.
There were few public complaints, and his peers – including Federer and Djokovic – were more annoyed by how long it took him to serve. Standing at the service line, Nadal would choose his balls, pick at his underwear, tug his shoulder, rub sweat from his face, bounce his prefered ball, and then toss it in the air – regularly exceeding the time allowed, without receiving a penalty. The delays could be irksome, yet it was heartening to see an elite sportsman be so superstitious. Amid the clenched fists and raised knees, there was always the hint of human frailty in Nadal.
Nadal will always be compared to Federer and Djokovic – peers he had both the fortune and misfortune of coinciding with. But whether one watched from the sofa or the stands, the Spaniard had a special appeal. Compared to his great rivals, Nadal was always more relatable – pluckier and earthier.
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