Rafael Nadal- It must be love
It had been the month of my life. First, I had graduated from university in Spanish. Then my friends and I had spent an entire week partying travelling from club to club, buffet to buffet. And now, the highlight of it all, I was at Roland Garros on the day of the finals. Nadal versus Djokovic on a slow surface both with masterful semi final matches and perhaps at the peak of their forms. I couldn't wait.
What I had done was stupid. Ignorant, immature and for sure I would regret it afterwards. I had bought a second row seat just a few metres from Rafael Nadal's playerbox. It had costed a fortune and I was already in debt from my four year course at university. And it was all for one reason. I wanted to see Rafa in person. My idol, my crush even when I was at twenty two years of age. Ever since the Australian Open 2009 he had become my obsession and I knew everything about him. His birthday, his number of titles, his height, his racquet, his style. If asked a question about him I would most of the time answer it in a snap and if I didn't know the answer I would find out. Over the years I had come to love him, love his shyness, his handsomeness, his modesty and I dreamt of the day when he would return my feelings. Me, four years younger than him. Moderately attractive (in my opinion) and quite was way out of my league. Yet me had so much in common. Our love of tennis, our curly brown hair, our ability to speak Spanish and our shyness. All I had was hope.
The time was one in the afternoon, the final would be beginning in a few hours. I wanted to have a look around Roland Garros because I knew that this could be the only time that I would ever come here. I entered the facilities through gate P and walked upwards past a garden looking for the centre court, Phillipe Chatrier, and the boutiques. I walked past court 18 seeing court Suzanne Lenglen...wait. Out of the corner of my eye I saw motion on the court. Could it be Rafa? I walked back casually and walked round to have a look from the outsides. No, it was John and Patrick Mcenroe practicing for the senior doubles event. It was a privilege to see the legends but I could not stay for long because a thought had popped into my head. If the Mcenroes were practising then maybe Rafa would just be on another of the courts. On seventeen was Sharapova screaming her head off but sixteen proved my hunch was correct. I heard the familiar clunk of heavy topsin against a racquet, some speaking in quick Spanish and the thudding of running. I ran around the edges of the court to the stands where I was annoyed to find that there were already tens of people watching, blocking the view. It was frustrating to be able to hear but not see anything and even more so when everyone around me started clapping as he had obviously hit a brilliant shot. But eventually a family moved and I moved quickly into their position in watching the Spanish superstar. His beautiful brown curly hair was shiny with sweat and his bright pink shirt clung to his body as he prepared as best as possible for the test up ahead. He was looking in good form although was hardly being tested in the training but the thing that reassured me most was that he looked calm and confident. That made me the same. Annoyingly, the training promptly finished but my annoyance was not to last for long as Rafa pulled off that soaking shirt revealing his perfect chest with his delicious abs. Too quickly he pulled on another shirt and started to leave. The crowd shifted to the door pulling out pens and novelty sized tennis balls to get the famous signature. Much to my delight he stayed to sign although his team went ahead.
The crowd were animals.
"Rafa!"
"Come to me first!"
"Here Rafa Rafa!"
They screamed. Rafa was smiling but I could see tension in his eyes, he didn't want to be doing this. He wanted to be back in his hotel relaxing before the test ahead.
"Maybe we should let him go home now guys?" I suggested trying to withdraw some of the arms that were reaching out to get something signed.
"F*** of kid," an man pushed me back. I was not ready for the push at all and lost balance face planting on the floor. A hand from one of the nicer members of the crowd came down to help me up and I took it gratefully. It was sweaty and red with the marks of holding a tennis racquet faintly there. I knew without a doubt that I had grabbed the hand of Rafael Nadal.