Rafael Nadal Is A Super Fun Play Pal And Ever-Charming Grinder Of Souls
Tennis is a fun game and Rafael Nadal is a super fun guy. No one has as much joy and thrill as Rafa Nadal at the French Open — that is where his fun side comes out in full!
Some other words to describe his free-spirited style of play out on those Martian red clay courts are: menacing, pugilistic, downright world-ending, steroid-ragey, serial killery, assassination-ish, spirit-snapping, hope-stomping, overpoweringly destructive, abnormally vicious, and soooo cute! He really has such soulful brown eyes.
Court Philippe Chatrier is the perfect playground for Rafa’s Rocket Ship arms. They send a subtle message to all his buddies: Get ready to die fast out here. There can be no doubt the blasting cannon muscles help a lot with his angles and precision on his shots also, but most importantly with his apocalyptic domination and relentless dismantlement of the self-belief of his good pals.
Occasionally it happens that an opponent wins two or three points close together and Nadal doesn’t mind at all. He likes for his playmates to “bring it” and feel comfortable showing what they can do; you can tell he likes it a lot because the grunts get angrier and his eyes become charming infernos until he has thoroughly shown his latest close friend that he is a very, very good player too.
I sometimes think of Nadal’s derriere cheeks roaring and glowing like jet afterburners as he soars around the fiery-colored court like the newest modern war is on — because, I mean, wouldn’t that be cute too? He does have such an imagination.
Ahh, the grunts. How can I describe them? There are many kinds of climaxes in life — music. Movies. But the majority of Nadal’s sprawling moaning grunts which attend his “groundstrokes” are more reminiscent of a certain kind of climax that “comes” from an area of life most often referred to by a three-letter word starting with “s” and ending with “x.” Another adorable aspect to his game: his mother must be so proud, he is such an angel.
Maybe that’s why the grunts are allowed total free play no matter how many children are in the stands. They’re allowed to spread out over the court and seats and slip inside the eardrums and brains of all spectators; even people milling around outside the actual stadium have no trouble hearing. Even folks outside the entire complex, the venerable Stade Roland Garros, perhaps out walking their fine Parisian poodles or French bulldoggies, can very well hear the thrusty, climaxy sounds of maximum exertion; no doubt they are infected with a sensation of pure and infinite innocence, too.
I imagine it’s like hearing cries of humpback whales in the distance: so haunting. So romantic. There’s nothing else to do but keep walking the doggie and make it home quickly and get safely inside.
God, Nadal must be so fun to play with! Especially when you make it over to his very own playpen, Court Philippe Chatrier, where he feels most at home.
If it were me who had the pleasure, I wouldn’t be able to wait for that particular moment when my body is completely depleted and sore and numb, wrecked, basically, and my spirit feels perfectly razed, too, and bulldozed into the crushed red brick of which the clay surface is made, and then I look at the scoreboard to confirm the utter futility of all my very best efforts — BUT THEN IT’S TIME FOR REFRESHMENTS! Maybe two chocolate-covered energy bars and a tall chilled glass of milk. Can you order in advance?
But even if you have to take whatever they’re serving, it is such a lovely moment made possible only by the exceptional generosity, thoughtfulness, and endless light-hearted friendship of Rafa Nadal.
I mean, sure, my soul is completely ground to dust beneath my reddish-brown soiled shoes, but I’ve got the biggest smile-and-milk-mustache combo you’ve ever seen.
To Rafa, my sweetest friend!
