In Search of Role Models--Marcia

The Australian Open just wrapped up. Temperatures were at an historic high. Andy Roddick, one of the last Americans standing, said, "Well, I did pretty well today, considering the weatherman was predicting death." He and a comer named Djokovich were the last to play with the roof open. There were riots among Serbs and Croats. Cypriots and other Greeks keep the grandstands lively with soccer chants and body paint, and there were always Australians in large numbers out on the grass drinking from beer steins the size of oil barrels.

During all of this Rafael Nadal played one of the most stunning matches of all time--and he's already played some of the most stunning matches of all time--that tells you how stunning it was. It was so spectacular that when it was time to leave for work, I seriously considered lettting us all call in sick. I had to peel myself away from the TV, but in a rare move I left it on, so I wouldn't have to try to find the channel when I came home later. As I shoved my key in the lock 3.5 hours later and walked in the door I heard an odd sound--the familiar pock, grunt, pock, grunt of two men smacking away at a little green ball. The thing is, coverage wasn't supposed to pick up for another hour . . . could it be . . . was the match from this morning--still? Yes.

A friend called. I rudely hung up on her. Then I called her during the commercial. We agreed at the next commercial I'd run up the block to her house, and we'd watch together. When I got home at the match's conclusion, there was a message from Sherrie the sandwich girl at the Deli to please call when I got in. I was sure my husband had finally had that heart attack.

When I called the line was busy, no doubt Mercy Flights.

I called my mother-in-law.

"Shirley is Dan Okay?"

"I think so, I just talked to Andy a minute ago."

Wouldn't my brother-in-law have told their mother that Dan had either amputated his fingertip chopping chicken, or been wheeled out on a gurney after all those years of steak, tots, Raisinets, and bacon ends? Hmmm. It's hard to say.

When someone finally picks up at the Deli, it's Sherrie.

"Sherrie, Oh My God, Is Dan alright?

She starts to laugh. HaHa. "Whatever you do, don't tell him the score."

It turns out they're all down there shaving turkey slices, making sandwiches, washing dishes and sweeping floors and watching another network's airing of this amazing tennis match.

Sherrie says, "So, tell me who wins."

"I'm not telling you who wins. That takes all the fun out of it. This is the match of the century."

"I have to leave before it's over." This from someone I'm sure has never watched a tennis match in her life!

"Maybe not," I say coyly, "Call me before you leave and I'll give you the score."

Rafael Nadal and Fernando Verdasco, two muy guapo young Spaniards played for 5.5 hours. They played until well past 1:00 a.m., in one of the most physically taxing, exciting, bravado- filled brawls I've ever had the pleasure to watch.

Rafa won by two points.

Commentators were beside themselves. Words like epic, historic, impossible, freak of nature were being bandied about. The truth was, it was an historic moment. The two freaks played the longest match in tournament history.

Shortly after, 92 seconds later, the sports casters immediatly began forecasting Rafa's demise at Roger Federer's hands in the final. There was no way Rafa was going to be able to come back, with less that a day's rest, restored, recovered and able to fight against The Great Roger Federer.


Everyone was simultaneously stoked and bummed at the same time. Yeah Rafa, poor Rafa . . . but yeah Roger.

Roger is the Australians' darling. They love him and make no bones about it.

Roger was to become a legend, equaling the record 14 Grand Slams of Pete Sampras' career. All of the legends of tennis, still alive, were present for what would inevitably be Roger's crowning as the new king. This was his chance to regain his #1 ranking, become the best player in tennis history, and prove that Rafa will never be able to win on "hard courts" like those at the US and Australian Opens.

It took almost five hours, but Rafa did it. Rafa won the Australian Open.

Then came the trophy ceremony. The director of Tennis Australia took the mic and announced that Australia loves Roger Federer and he is their favorite player. Well, if I'm Rafa, how am I supposed to take this? The crowd agreed, applausing wildly. The Legends were already lined up, ready to receive their initiate. Then Roger took the stand, and was handed his massive silver platter. He tried to speak. His voice cracked. He looked at the crowd, he heard their cheers, he saw Rod Laver, his own personal God, and his face cracked. The ice king, broke apart. It was shocking. The world stopped breathing. I thought his long time girlfriend Mirka, was going to both barf and jump over the grandstand wall to try and scoop him up.

After several attempts at controlling himself, the world could see that we were going to have to cut to commercial quickly, or get him off the mic. The director complimented him again for his grand contributions to the game of tennis, put his arms around him and asked if he'd like a break. Roger stepped down.

Then the world's #1 player, the first Spaniard ever to win the Australian was called to the stand and handed a keg-sized silver cup. This is the part where the champion usually raises the cup over his/her head, smiles as big as Austalia herself, and brings out the roar of the crowd. Rafa had certainly earned it. Instead, he tucked the trophy under his armpit, left the dias and went to put his arm around his rival. He put his head to Roger's head, his sweat-soaked mane shielding his eyes, he spoke privately to Roger, gave him a squeeze and then motioned for Federer to take the stand again. Roger did, but barely. He said his thanks, said it was "killing him," and left the rest of the ceremony to Rafa.

When Rafa took the stand again, it was still without the flourish and glory of most champions. He quietly looked to his friend and said, "Sorry for today, Roger, I know how you are feeling right now. But remember that you are one of the greatest champions from history and you will go on to improve the 14 (Sampras' record in Grand Slam titles)." He briefly held the trophy aloft, thanked everyone and went back to stand with Roger.

This to me was even more stunning and shocking than anything I'd seen so far.

Tears rained down my face. I was so glad my sons were watching. Already, by the age of 10, there are young athletes, kids, who think they are God's gifts to the world, because they are fast, or can hit a ball, or knock someone over in a football game. Here is one of the greatest athletes in the world, humble even during his crowning achievement. This is the kind of child I hope I can raise. One that can be good without also making others feel bad.

Rafa's coach, Uncle Tony, told him when he was young, "just because you can hit a tennis ball well doesn't mean you're better than anyone else." That was a lesson that seemed to have stuck. It's not what most Americans are teaching their children. I know this, because I've already been watching it for years at the sidelines of my son's baseball, basketball, hockey, and tennis games. We worship our athletes--teach them to be cocky, self-assured to the point of absurdity.

If this story appeared at all, it was all about Roger's tears. Few if any talked about Nadal and his great act of compassion, elegance, sacrafice, and sportsmanship at what surely was one of the greatest moments of his own life. To me, this was a story worth splashing across the cover of every magazine and newspaper.

How disappointed I was yesterday, when even Tennis magazine failed to acknowledge the greatness of this moment, this brand of champion. Tennis magazine did not feature a single photo of Rafa with his arm around his opponent anywhere in the magazine, needless to say on the cover. Nope. The cover featured Roger Federer swinging his classic backhand. There is not even one mention of Nadal, his "epic" matches, or his otherworldy sense of what it means to be a good sport. So perhaps this is a moment that was merely a blip on the world's radar, but, it was for me an astonishing, astounding, heart-wrenching and heartening glimpse at what it means to be a true champion and a great man.