What’s In A Name?

This essay was originally written in December 2015.

This is a story about birth and rebirth.

Eleven months ago, I asked a bartender if I could move a heavy wicker chair over in front of a television.

Actually, I didn’t ask. I motioned. He nodded. It was blindingly bright, hot, and humid. The shade of the bar provided a magnificent respite. I dragged the chair — much, much weightier than it looked — across the cool floor and planted myself into its deep cushion. Sage green. Hannah, my traveling partner, already had her head in the drinks menu.

I wish I remembered what we ordered. I’m going to take a highly educated guess and say Tiger lagers.

There were a handful of other Westerners sitting with us — memorably, two tall, tan, blonde Australians smiling and drinking and holding hands. Perhaps most importantly, though, they were watching the Australian Open — like us.

It sounds silly to admit I considered the timing of the Australian Open when I booked my trip to Vietnam in January 2014, but I’d be lying if I said otherwise. Hannah knew it was on my mind, and as we flew from the chilly, hustle-bustle of Hanoi to the sunwashed beaches of Nha Trang, I warned her: you can laze the days away on the sand, but I’m parking myself at the bar with the Aussie Open.

In case you’re wondering, the bar was on the beach. By no means was I trading a view for a volley.

Hannah had moved to Hanoi a year earlier with her husband. Visiting them was the first time I had stepped foot on the Asian continent, and my goal was to recharge from Real Life. Reading, exploring, drinking, people watching, eating, laughing — the things one does when they are with good friends in good places. Pho. Banh mi. Egg coffee. All of these things — and making sure my Australian Open suicide pool picks were up-to-date in timely fashion, lest my league-mates accuse of me of somehow using the time difference to my advantage. Alas.

Tired from the sun’s rays, we savored our crisp beverages with advertisement-worthy “ahhhhs.” Then the tennis lessons began.

“Alright, do you know how the scoring system works?”

“I know it doesn’t make sense.”

“Great. So far, so good.”

Hannah was tolerant as I explained the techniques that differentiated Berdych from Nadal, Janowicz from Monfils. The Australian couple next to us, if they were listening, remained attentive to the court on screen.

A few hours later, Hannah concluded she didn’t totally hate the experience of watching tennis. I considered this admission a success.

“You know, the women’s final is tomorrow.”

“I’d be down to watch that.”

We sat, at first, in our hotel room, watching Maria Sharapova and Serena Williams hit, so strongly, the ball across the court, across the court, across the court — ah, net! Darnit. Again. Serve, high. Ace. Serve, high. Out. Serve, high. In.

“Man, they’re pretty good. Killer outfit.”

Amateur tennis commentary at its finest.

We took advantage (see what I did there?) of a commercial break to bolt down to the lobby. It was happy hour and, of course, discounted cocktails were a priority. We asked the bartender if she could turn on the match for us. She did, and we made ourselves comfortable on the lobby couch with snack mix, our necks cocked at an unfamiliar angle, straining to see a relatively small screen stuck in the top left corner of a room.

Edge of our seats.

Serena won, of course.

Because of course Serena won.

We posited strategic insights. If only Sharapova had done this, then maybe she could have had a momentum shift. But Serena was just so good. So good.

And then something crazy happened: months went by and Hannah had a baby — four weeks ago. You know what she named her son?

Rafael.

Before the choir of tennis angels sings, let it be known that my dear friend did not name her child after Rafael Nadal and his name was not in any way influenced by her relatively new interest in professional tennis. But still: Rafael.

There are, as far as I’m concerned, only two other notable Rafael’s in the course of history, and even that statement comes with two asterisks: 1) The spelling of these famed characters is “Raphael,” not “Rafael.” 2) The second notable “Raphael” is named in homage of the first.

I’m referring to the High Renaissance painter and architect Raphael, of course. And beyond him, the — well, you know. The Ninja Turtle.

What’s in a name?

Hannah shared a story about how her Thai night nurse visited and began speaking about — you saw this coming — tennis. Tennis in Thailand. Her favorite player. Her favorite player’s brother. Hannah messaged me. What was it about her son’s name that inspired near-strangers to share their love of the game with her?

I can’t pinpoint the first match I ever watched Rafael Nadal play, but I can pinpoint watching him beat Roger Federer in the 2005 French Open men’s semifinal and my subsequent identification as Team Fed.

I clung to that identify for a long time.

At some point, studying the art of tennis became far more interesting to me than studying the art of player fandom. I could remain “Team Fed” until the cows came home, but Rafa’s ascent and athleticism was too much for me — and the world — to pay no mind. Nadal’s groundstrokes demanded attention; his sleeveless shirts, headbands, and serving routines were charming bonuses.

2015 was the first year Rafael Nadal did not win a Grand Slam singles title in nine years.

That’s an incredible statistic that speaks to not only his dominant prowess (particularly on clay), but the significance of his run stopping short of ten. The lay tennis fan may ask: Is it him? Is it the other players in the field? It is, frankly, both. Recovering from a bum wrist in a pack of increasingly strong top 20 players puts one in a challenging position.

The Australian Open is just over two weeks away. Nadal has only taken the hard court championship once, in 2009, in an epic five-set match against Roger Federer. This year, one would be near-delusional to consider Nadal a realistic front-runner: Novak Djokovic has for months been in an indefatigable league of his own, and Roger Federer, Andy Murray, and Stan Wawrinka are playing some of the best tennis of their careers. Even with a recent title win over Milos Raonic in Abu Dhabi, the mention of No. 5 Nadal commands respect, but not, at least right now, paralyzing fear.

But what’s in a name?

I tend to liken tennis to the movie title, “Any Given Sunday.” Anything can happen. Case study: Serena Williams’ loss in this year’s U.S. Open semifinal, despite being one of the most undeniably dominant competitors in the modern era. I like to think tennis’ unpredictability is part of its appeal — for both fans and players.

Whether it’s the sentimentality of knowing a new Rafael in the world or an eager anticipation of the Aussie Open and the possibilities that awaken with the new year, I (and quite a few others) can’t help but wonder whether now’s the time for a Nadal resurgence. Not just vintage Nadal, but maybe even a stronger Nadal. He is, admittedly, “the game’s biggest question mark.” But how awesome would it be to see Rafa step foot Down Under and pound those impenetrable, unreturnable behind-the-baseline forehands down the line once again? Dazzling — that’s what it would be.

Stranger things have happened.

What’s in a name?

In Rafael’s case: hope.