Archive of Our Own

“There was a door

And I could not open it. I could not touch the handle.

Why could I not walk out of my prison?

What is hell? Hell is oneself,

Hell is alone, the other figures in it

Merely projections. There is nothing to escape from

And nothing to escape to. One is always alone.” 

“Rafa… ¿Qué pasa?”

Rafa was sitting on the bench on the sidelines, after one of the usual training sessions at his Academy in Manacor. The place, as everyone knew, housed the Museum with all the trophies and tributes collected during a career that lasted about two decades, and it was there that tennis players from all over the world occasionally went to train. Roger Federer had also visited it several times over the years, and it was teeming with material evidence of Rafa’s dedication to the sport and what he himself symbolized for tennis, as well as of the unquestionable love of family, friends and fans. 

And yet there, in the very beating heart of his own small universe, seated on the throne of his personal kingdom – different, but just as significant as the great Chatrier had been for him in the Parisian springs – Rafa wasn’t looking happy at all.

When Carlos Moyà approached him with that question and Rafa looked up, he didn't need to answer with words – his eyes said it all.

Carlos slowly dropped onto the bench next to him, so close that their knees almost touched. He put his right hand on Rafa's shoulder, who looked back at the ground between his own feet, slightly bent forward, and shook his head. 

“Me duele,” Rafa simply said. “Me duele mucho.”

“¿Es la cadera?” 

But Carlos could easily guess that it was not the hip that Rafa was referring to. The injury, the last one, had certainly been terrible and unexpected – Maria Francisca had rarely been seen in tears in the stands but, being a woman and Rafa’s wife for years, of course she must have foreshadowed, before many others did, that this time was different. 

Everything would be different, from then on.

Carlos hadn’t been too worried, at first. There had been the surgery - everything had gone  smoothly as planned - and then, the verdict of the doctors. The Nadals had requested the opinions of several specialists; many consultants had taken turns at Rafa's bedside - as many as a multi-millionaire athlete of his caliber could afford. But the response had not changed - and Carlos had begun to be seriously worried. 

Someone - perhaps Marc, who was the most optimistic among them after Rafa himself, of course - someone, in moments of worst despair, had even brought up Murray and his titanium prosthesis. 

Look at Andy. Look at him. The man’s still in the game, you see? It did not prevent him from keep playing...

But no one had dared to mention the second part of the truth: that Andy, while always being the favorite champion of all British and many non-British fans, had never really gone back to who he was before the surgery. In fact, even though it had been truly a success - a mechanical part almost perfectly replacing the piece of bone with which he was born, wow, God bless the Queen and biomedical engineering - time had passed and time is something that not even the most sophisticated of sciences can fix.

Time is unforgiving, no one had said it out loud, and yet - in that very tidy, very clean and quiet room of the private clinic in Barcelona, with the sun coming in through the windows and Rafa looking extraordinarily tanned, even more than usual, and also extremely tired, against the whiteness of those sheets - yet, everyone had thought so. 

I will fight, I always have. I will do everything to come back one more time.

Yes, but you are 37 years old now… You should also consider that this might be a losing battle.

The fact that those words came from Toni, the man - the general - who had shaped the discipline into young Rafa’s bones through the hardest trainings and pounding mantras repeated day by day and had never lost faith in him - had been the first sign that the situation was serious, long before reality smashed with full force on Rafa’s face like an insect on a windshield of a car. 

Rafa had been silent for a while - deeply shaken, but without showing it too much, in Rafa style. Then he had looked up from his own hands resting on the sheets - and had smiled his usual smile, resigned but also hopeful. 

Well, at least it's worth trying, isn't it?

“No, it isn’t,” Rafa replied to Carlos, shrugging his shoulders with a grimace - the grimace of disappointment his lips had become accustomed to in recent months. "It's not the hip. I barely feel my hip now, and only when I push too hard. It’s... It’s everything else, Carlos." A tense silence fell between them, as heavy as a blanket thrown over their heads. Looking back at him, Rafa whispered: “The truth is, I’m not ready to come back. Not yet. I’m not going anywhere, in this state I’m in." 

Such words, coming out of Rafael Nadal's mouth, sounded unfamiliar and new to those around him. They were used to hearing him talk incessantly about the next goal, the next tournament, the next clay court that he was eager to step on, cradling victory in his arms once again. 

In a silence even heavier than the previous one — the air itself seemed to be holding its breath - Rafa waited for Carlos' reply. His reaction, as Rafa's coach and fraternal friend, could make all the difference between despair and illusion, between disappointment and breakdown. 

"Okay," Carlos said eventually, and that was it. "If you don't feel ready, it’s okay. We will not rush things, of course. You'll come back when you feel like it."

I'm not coming back, Rafa’s deepest fear silently spoke through his eyes – though his mouth: “Yes, I think it's best," still said. 

Hard to tell if he himself really believed it. Probably he did. He wanted to believe it because he needed to believe it. 

Not yet would become never again - but, in August 2023, Rafael Nadal was still not sure.

***

It wasn't easy, but Rafa looked like he was handling it, somehow. Not only, he was being quite good at managing it - in fact, when everyone else around him was getting caught up in hysteria and the media from around the world were breathing down his neck to announce the date of his return every other week, he kept his cool. 

Cool and collected. Keep your inner balance, that’s the most important thing.  

A deep breath through your nose. Now, breathe out through your mouth.

Focus your eyes on a fixed spot - that is called “drishti”. 

It was the first and last yoga class of his life. Maribel had recommended it to him, thinking it could be good for him, but Rafa immediately understood that it was not his thing. He was bored - his muscles quivering for something more dynamic, and all the meditation made him feel drowsy. Once finished, his first thought was to write to Novak. 

"You'll never believe it but… I've tried yoga and yes, now I understand why you like it and I don’t." 

This happened during Rafa’s first months off. 

There were two possibilities, then. 

If in a good mood, Novak would send him a series of mocking emoticons and type: “Nahh. Rafa, listen to your friend: you need something stronger than yoga…" - with the three little dots at the end of the sentence meaning everything and nothing, in pure Novak style. At which Rafa would just roll his eyes in turn and let that go as usual, because he was by now a master at avoiding tricky paths. 

On the other hand, grumpy Novak would just ignore Rafa’s message for days on end — and then call him up straightaway, peremptorily and unexpectedly, on a Saturday morning or a Friday night, saying: “Sorry, it took me a while. I was trying to figure out if you’re a genius or a moron, and guess what.” That would tear a slightly exasperated laugh out of Rafa, because when Novak was at his best, he was a damn funny guy - a little over the top, as usual, but always in style. 

But this could have happened until a few months earlier. Things were different now, because, while Rafa was struggling to his feet, Novak was grinding out Grand Slam finals across the globe - winning two out of three. Just a year younger than Rafa and still radiant with all the energy that, on the contrary, seemed to have been sucked out of Rafa's body all at once. 

A veil of bitterness had settled on their relationship, driving a wedge between them. Something that had not been there since the early days of their acquaintance. Something that hurt both of them, only in different ways (but at least Novak had his achievements to be proud of). 

He and Rafa hadn't spoken since June, when Rafa had undergone surgery - then, it was Novak who took the first step with a cautious message: "Rafa, I know you're not happy to talk... I just hope you're doing well”. On Rafa's part, there would have been plenty of opportunity - even better than a yoga class - to congratulate Novak over the months, and perhaps not just with a pre-formed message on social media. But that number - record 23 Grand Slam titles - hurt a bit, in his condition - in the condition of someone who could hardly make it through a second set but who, until the year before, had snatched a resounding victory from that same rival in his beloved, bewitched Paris. 

That’s why Rafa eventually changed his mind and didn’t text Novak. He decided to leave him alone - wasn’t that the right thing to do, after all? Isn’t it true that everyone gets what they deserve? Novak his glory, Rafa his ordeal. And if he had ever thought that it was just unfair - that Novak had everything and he nothing more - the thought had quickly vanished from his mind. 

Life distributes rewards and punishments blindfolded, that's it. Rafa had long since come to terms with that. 

Over the following months, while his body was acting up almost daily and his nerves were crackling just under his skin, Rafa really tried everything not to lose his mind.

At first, he had thought it would be a matter of a few months for his body to grow familiar again with the movements he had known since he was a child – in the end, however, almost a whole year had passed. A lifetime, in the career of a professional athlete who was over thirty-five. Time makes the good equal to the bad, the brave equal the cowardly, and even the strongest all equally weak. 

Rafa tried not to think about it too much – thinking is the enemy of succeeding, Toni used to say, and Rafa still remembers it today, years after his crazy first Wimbledon victory, when the cards on the table had unexpectedly turned in his favor. Back then, Toni’s advice had worked - and if it works once, it can work again, no? 

So he made his way back on the court expecting the usual fluidity from his own body, ease of movement and lightness of step - but his body betrayed him. 

(It would betray him for months. It would never stop, actually.) 

Every time he was feeling a little better - the slightest improvement immediately turning into a glimmer of joyful hope, like hitting a top spin the way he used to, or successfully returning a sneaky drop-shot without his legs protesting - every single time he deluded himself that he was finally going to make it, that he was on the right track, he was going to join the next Masters 1000 - and fully return to competition, eventually. 

Competing was his life, and he missed it like air. Not competing to win - as it was still for Novak, as it had been for Roger, in his day - but for the pure pleasure of putting himself to the test. He was addicted to the thrill that only fighting furiously against every opponent, trying to give his best in every match, could give him.

(Competition is like a drug, just less harmful than the shit you can buy around, Toni - always him - had once said. In fact, I'm not even that sure… Look what this obsession did to your body.

That time Rafa had looked at him arching his left eyebrow, incredulous and vaguely annoyed. Are you serious, Toni? I remind you that I’ve been the product of your obsession in the first place, even more than mine. 

A flash of guilt in Toni’s brooding gaze. Perhaps, I’ve pushed you too far. I trained you as a kid to suffer, but later, when you became a man, you lost sight of the line between pain that is useful and pain that is an end in itself… I wonder, do you need pain, Rafael? 

…What?! 

I wonder if you haven't gotten to the point where you need pain to feel alive, because there has been so much of it in your existence that you can no longer keep it apart from life itself… 

What are you saying, Toni? That I'm some kind of hopeless, self-defeating masochist? I'm not. Look at me, come on. It’s me. I’m still that kid, in a lot of ways - and you did absolutely nothing wrong.)

Everything, in the last two years, had been pretty much suffering, for Rafa. 

But he was doing great, he was handling things just fine - they said.

*** 

And it may seem so, in a way. In fact, he doesn't smash rackets on the ground and doesn't throw balls into the stands. He doesn't scream, he doesn't swear, he doesn't make gestures. He doesn't spit bad words on those around him. He doesn't pour his anger out on his coach or his team. At home, he is the same as always, even more cuddly than ever with little Junior. 

Impossible, one could say - simply not human. How can he be so self-restrained? 

Rafa never cried out of physical pain, that's true, but now a different kind of pain is eating him alive.

Still, he doesn't cry. Not even once. 

No one, at least, has ever seen him cry so far. 

(Only once Maria Francisca, coming back home earlier than usual and opening the bedroom door, had seen him sitting on the bed in the dim light, holding his hands over his face. "Rafael... ¿Qué pasa?" At which point the shell had begun to creak and the dam had broken and Rafa had simply been flooded with emotions. “Nothing. The problem is that I have nothing, in the sense that I have nothing left, I have lost everything. You understand, Mery. You, who know me well, tell me, do you understand me? Because I can't tell anyone else, only you, and if I can't tell you either, I'm finished. I’m a broken man. Maybe I still can't see it but everyone else can, everyone else says so… What do you think, Mery… am I finished?”) 

That night, Maria Francisca had held Rafa close for the longest time. She hadn't told anyone about that – because Rafa didn't want to. Not because he was ashamed - shame was one of the emotions that least belonged to him - but because he didn't want people to worry more than they already did about his health and his future. About his career and his hip and his foot. About his ATP ranking dropping like a stone in the water - which made a full comeback less and less likely, and climbing back up to the top a superhuman feat.

Your body can’t take it anymore - it’s screaming at you in all possible ways, with every tear, every twinge, every injury. 

My body is sabotaging me. 

Your body is a victim of yourself and you are a victim of your body. What are you going to listen to, brain or heart? 

It was still the heart, of course, that screamed the loudest. 

He’d had to swallow the bitter pill several times. Every time he felt a pang in his thigh and had to stop and lean forward, gasping breathlessly, waiting for the twinge to pass – every time he couldn't serve the way he wanted, or his forehand slumped to the net, or his legs didn't run fast enough to reach a ball. Every time he told himself that he was almost there, he was there - right there - but then his body cracked and... oops, he had to take one step back. Yet another. For every step forward two steps backwards, like a deadly game, a dance macabre that dragged him further and further away from the finish line. 

What had once been a piece of cake for him seemed far beyond his reach, now. 

Every time he registered for a tournament - stubbornly naïve and optimistic, – every time he had to give it up, more or less at the last minute, because he woke up feeling sore in an ever-new part of his body, or with his head spinning and nausea from the too many painkillers he had to stuff his stomach with to simply get going in the morning. 

(When is the right time? The right time is today. Today is my lucky day… Today I will be fine.) 

Every time it happened, he was reluctantly forced to tell the fans and the whole expecting world  on social media that no, his long-awaited return would still have to be postponed, once again, because he was not yet ready.

(No, today is not the day… Not yet.)

Every time it happened, he was afraid of disappointing everyone.

But what he feared most was that, for the first time, he had no control over his own life. For the first time, he had no idea when the right moment would come – how long that not yet would last.

*** 

Then the new year came - 2024 - and little Rafa learned to walk and say "papà". Since his son was born, tennis had shrunk to just one part of Rafa’s life – and even though it was no longer the part that mattered most, it was still the one that hurt him the most. 

It had always been like that, after all – playing tennis had been the greatest pleasure and the greatest suffering of his life. Toni was right, after all - in Rafa’s mind, the two things could not be separated. He had never had easy victories, except in rare cases. With monsters like Roger and Novak, among others, on his way, he had never expected to win easily or without paying a price.

The problem was, the price to pay had been too high for him, right from the start – first a foot, then  both his knees, the wrist, the ankle, then the back, the rib, the abdominal tear, finally the hip, until his whole body had paid duty to a sport that demanded everything he had, and even what he didn't have. Only a rigid self-control, the strictest of disciplines - Toni actually called it “the tyranny of the mind over the body” - had allowed him to get where he was. Was it an obsession, as Toni said? Well, Rafa couldn’t tell. But one thing he was sure of: in the end, the obsession had outweighed the talent.

(Yes, but at what cost?…

A cost I’m still willing to pay.) 

So, his body said no – but his heart screamed yes. That’s why he wouldn’t quit. Simple as that. 

His goal, at the beginning of the year, had never been the Australian Open – he knew he wasn't ready, but he really couldn't wait any longer. He wanted to test himself in an official tournament after eleven months away. He was chomping at the bit - temporarily deaf to the voice of reason telling him to spare himself a little longer. 

The instinct of self-preservation said no - but the doctors, unexpectedly, said yes. 

Carlos and Toni locked themselves in a room, just the two of them, and talked for the longest time - when they went out, they exchanged a look that meant that, even if they did not agree with Rafa one hundred percent, they were resigned to the fact that they could do nothing against his iron will. 

So, one week later, Rafa left for Brisbane. 

***

Just try not to break yourself, okay? Another injury, even a minor one, would be fatal now.

But how could he promise not to, when all he was used to doing – what he had been raised to do – was to give it his all, sweating blood, minute by minute of every set of every match?

You would’ve been the perfect soldier, loyal and devoted to the cause. You don't spare yourself, and you don't even know what self-preservation means. This is more than sacrifice. This is called self-annihilation. 

You say it like it's a bad thing... For me, it is not. 

Of course. You are a dead horse, man. 

Yet, that try not to break yourself never stopped echoing in his head throughout the first months of 2024. Rafa knew that his team was right: if he got injured again, he would never recover - and not yet would easily turn into not anymore.

So he judiciously obeyed.

It was strange, however, very strange, to have a body again not only to eat, sleep, walk, take his child in his arms – have it do what he loved to do more than anything - that was playing tennis - and still feel like it was no longer his own, or different from how it should have been. 

His team, on the other hand, was happy: for the first time, Rafa looked less anxious to fritter away precious energy. He was more cautious, almost self-preserving. He - who had always worn himself out, without sparing a single bit - he was finally starting to make a thrifty use of his body. 

Rafa had almost stopped talking to the guys, because they couldn't understand how he was feeling inside. He just pretended to go along with their observations, from time to time.

From time to time, he found himself talking to his own reflection in the mirror - and whenever he began to fear he was going crazy, he always found a way to keep his feet on the ground. 

(You’re doing great, Rafa.) 

(No, I’m not. I’m slower. I get tired more easily.) 

(It’s called aging. It’s in the natural order of things. Don’t panic.) 

Actually, nobody could understand how hard it was for Rafa to play feeling like he had a dead weight attached to his foot. We are such stuff as dreams are made on – and Rafa felt precisely like that, fragile and tenuous as if his soul were made of dreams and little else, crushed by the sluggishness of his own inert body. 

The first months of 2024 were terrible and full of questions - empty of answers. 

The answers did not come, but the defeats did – and the doubts grew and grew.

***

It may be a matter of physical adaptation, I don’t know… He doesn’t do so bad in training. There are better days, and worse days. 

Yeah, well, the way I see it, he’s rusty, he just needs to go back to play again and again. I'm not saying that he’ll be as good as new, but not being able to practice all that time certainly didn't help. 

So, just get him to practice, that’s your suggestion… But you know what doctors said. He must not try too hard. 

Oh, yeah, easy-peasy. We all know the guy, Carlos: you can’t hold Rafa back for too long… Besides, how can he be competitive again if he must not try too hard? 

… I have no idea. Just…  just let’s see how it goes, okay? Time will tell.

Time would tell.

Meanwhile, in addition to all sort of conflicting and even unsolicited advice, poured in from all sides, came the usual questions from journalists - questions to which Rafa himself had no answer, questions that were always the same. Frustrating, and nonsense. 

How do you expect me to know how my body will react to the next match? How am I supposed to plan the following tournament when I don’t even know if tomorrow I’ll wake up in pain or not? 

Between one futile question and another, "retirement" was invariably the word he heard most often  - a fixture of every interview and press conference. 

I come here every day and every day you ask me the same question. It seems that you want me to retire. It escaped him, the umpteenth time the “R-word” was brought up by the reporters. A drop of water slowly hollows out the rock. Rafa was a hell of a stubborn rock but, sooner or later, these questions would have worn him away anyway. 

Sometimes, he felt like he was in a room with a hundred vultures perched all around, just waiting  to pounce on the corpse. And the corpse had to be his - but, for now, and unfortunately for them, he had no intention of drawing his last breath. 

However, he kind of understood them, the journalists. They were just doing their job - and people were desperate for news of him, good or bad. 

But the fact was, he wasn’t ready for what they expected of him, whatever it was. 

He wasn't ready to go forward, but he wasn't ready to take a step back either – he was stuck in a sort of limbo, unable to move in either direction.

He could not think of retiring, honestly – his mind recoiling at the mere word like a fractious horse at its own shadow – but, at the same time, he had to admit that the present looked nothing less than nebulous and the future more and more like a no through road.

What to do, then?

Time, take time, it had been the advice of the wise men.

Taking time – and seeing how his body would respond – was the only thing he could really do, so as not to rush decisions that he could later regret.

Too bad, however, that time is never borrowed. It makes no concessions. 

Time is paid for at full price, never going back.

***

There was one thing that was helping Rafa through the storm and keeping him afloat - apart from his son, of course. 

Roger.

Roger called him often. While Novak's calls, before they lost touch, came completely randomly, Roger would call Rafa on a regular basis - in perfect Swiss style, it’s appropriate to say. Usually, it was Sunday evening. Usually, around seven o'clock. Wherever he was, Roger called him up - Rafa was almost always at home, on his favorite island, while Roger could be anywhere in the world, at any time. Still, he always seemed to find the time and the way to call Rafa, about once a month. 

The tone of their conversation could be quite unpredictable. 

It almost always started with the two of them affectionately teasing each other. 

You can be everywhere at once… wow. That would be a dream. 

That would be God.

Exactly. You. 

… Haha. Hilarious.

Ok, not really all at once but… Seriously, Roger, tell me how can you be at a concert, shoot a documentary, attend a charity event, make a speech at a college and go on vacation in Southeast Asia in just a few months?  

… And you’re forgetting the TV commercials.

Don’t you ever feel like you need a break? 

I’m already on a break, Rafa. I’m retired, remember?

Yes, I recall I was there when it happened. So… that’s what you do when you retire? 

Pretty much, yes.

You know me. I don’t like the idea of leaving Mallorca for too long.

Why are you getting into that now? Rafa… you have not retired yet. 

Sure. But it… it may be not that much away. 

As soon as Rafa broached the subject, more or less obliquely, Roger immediately became serious and attentive, any hint of joke disappearing from his voice. 

How you feeling today? he ended up asking. The thoughtful question was a constant of Roger’s calls - at times, when he was particularly worried about Rafa and couldn't help himself, it was the first thing he would say, as soon as he heard Rafa pick up the phone and say “hello?”. 

Rafa's answer was a constant too: I feel better. My goal is to get a little better every day. But, in order to do that, I have to make an effort day by day.

Tell me, you’re not trying too hard, are you? Roger had once teased him on the phone, but he was thinking the same thing as Rafa: it had never taken him so long before he recovered from an injury. 

My efforts are not enough, Rafa had said, lowering his voice to a whisper. It's my body, Roger. It is not ready yet. I'm scared. It never happened to me before. 

Roger had gone silent for a few seconds – mostly out of shock, because it was the first time that Rafa admitted to him, with his usual candor, the most human of all emotions. He, who was the most human of the Big Three - less divine than Roger himself, less a robot than Nole - had never been truly afraid before.  

After then — after the words had rolled out of Rafa’s mouth so that it was no longer possible to take them back — fear had begun to take shape and crawl in the ethereal space separating Rafa   and Roger, from one corner of the world to the other, from one end of the line to the other, like an unwholesome stench.

You injured yourself many times, Roger had tried to console him - or was he just consoling himself? Even worse than now. You have always recovered. You just need more time, Rafa.

More time… 

Rafa had heard of that before. And time was really the only thing Rafael Nadal just didn't have. 

And, deep down, Roger knew that too. Only he couldn't say it, not yet – not if Rafa didn't say it first. So Roger had continued his act, with his heart throbbing with terror for Rafa's fate with every single beat. 

You'll recover, you’ll be fine, Roger had insisted, stubbornly. You'll get over this too. 

Roger had always been quite good at playing his part, although less than Novak (who could boast an unrivaled expertise in that) and whenever Rafa pointed out how similar the two of them were in that respect, Roger reacted as if Rafa had offended him personally ("Are you really comparing me to Novak, Rafa? Seriously?"). 

You'll get over this too. You got to where you are by overcoming pretty much everything. I know nobody who’s more resilient than you. Nobody.  

This time it was Rafa's turn to be silent. 

But…What if this time it was different? What if this time, no matter how hard I try, I don't succeed?

There was an implicit question in Rafa's voice - a quiet desperation buzzing between the lines, bouncing from one syllable to another, before eventually fading into the longer and longer silences following each sentence.

(Would you still love me, Roger, even if I failed?)

Roger had not hesitated for a moment. 

If you don't succeed, well, you’ll still be the best – because you will have tried and tried, despite everything and even to the detriment of yourself. You are who you are, Rafa, and that’s one thing that will never change.

Yes, but what makes me who I am? My 14 titles at Roland Garros?… Do you think I’d be less myself without them? Would you like me anyway without them?

Of course, and even more, because, in that case, it would mean that I might have won a few more myself.  

Rafa had laughed, for the very first time since the beginning of their conversation. 

Okay. Right. Anyway, I’ll try not to disappoint anyone, those were Rafa’s last words, before hanging up.

I'll try not to disappoint you, that was what he really meant. 

Roger had got that, but Rafa hadn't given him time to reply, and Roger had been left staring at the phone in his hand, the words stuck in his throat. 

(And even though I know you don’t want to hear that, Rafa, you know that I’d still love you, no matter what.) 

***

Rafa lived the first months after his defeat in Brisbane as wrapped in a sort of cocoon, estranged from reality – sometimes he was sitting on a pedestal made of fears and uncertainties, some other times he was trampling on a minefield, unsure of how to move, where to put his feet, how far to go. 

He hated feeling so insecure. 

He hated the feeling of not being able to rely on his feet and his hands and his breath and the rhythmic pulsing of blood in his arteries anymore. His body turned against him like a dog sinking its fangs into its master’s flesh, down to bone. It felt like being ousted by an intruder - only the intruder had Rafa’s eyes and mouth and legs and lived just within himself. 

And, guess what, he couldn’t get rid of himself.  

The first answers - and the first real shocks - came with the clay season. Brisbane had been on a hard court, ok - Rafa could have made up all sorts of justifications (it wasn't his favorite surface, he had just returned after a year, yada yada yada...), and yet he hadn’t – but the defeats in Barcelona first, then in Madrid and finally in Rome meant something different. 

Had he expected them? No. 

Had he hoped for something better? Yes, always – on the other hand, if he had no longer had any hope, he would not even have set foot out of bed in the morning.

Those defeats stung for a long time. Rafa felt like he was disappointing everyone who believed in him – in order: his parents and Maribel, Toni, Mery, his staff, his country and his fans. And Roger. They stung because this time he had truly believed he could make it. But, once again, he had had to step back, slow down to the pace of an old man and finally stop, stumbling, hindered by his physical limitations. He, who would have liked to fly high like an eagle and spring forward to the top - that, in fact, was his way of living life. 

In chains, he replied one day to someone who asked him how he was feeling. In a cage. My body has become a cage. 

That was true. What had once been a power machine, fully functional, was now threatening to drag him down with its dead weight.

Giving up had never been an option - and even if it was slowly becoming harder and harder for him to dismiss the idea, he didn’t want to surrender yet.   

I’m still fighting. Still making an effort every day. 

Some have called you the greatest competitor in the history of sport. I wonder, can you win against the greatest competitor? 

Are you saying that I should just stop fighting myself and accept things as they are? 

Well, that doesn’t sound so bad…

Sounds like the end of my life to me.

Rafa…

I’ll keep on trying. One step at a time, no? That is the trick. If I can’t run, I’ll walk - and if I can’t walk, I’ll crawl, but no one can tell me to stop. I’m going to leave on my terms, not on those of others. I have every right to decide for myself. And as long as I feel there is something left to squeeze inside me, I will squeeze it out. 

His own team supported him sort of resignedly, no longer believing in a miracle but still having faith in the man who had risen from the dead too many times not to know when the last time would be.  

Carlos and Marc had tried several times to talk some reason into Rafa - Toni would just shout at his obstinacy and leave, slamming the door behind - but to no avail. 

I asked him again and he said: “Stop being a pain in the ass, Marc. How many times do I have to tell you? There’s no damn quitting for now. Go and have some relax.” So, yeah, I guess the kid’s in a good mood. 

It will be an ordeal. It already is. 

He prefers to call it “a farewell tour” and I think he’s right. At least, it sounds less macabre, doesn’t it? 

Barcellona Madrid Roma. Beads in a row on the string of a rosary. 

A wreath for the dead. 

Tombstones collector, I told him, what you gonna do? Buy yourself an entire graveyard? 

Oh, God. Were you attempting humor or what? 

…It didn’t work, anyway. 

We’re with him, no matter what. If he wants to go down this path, we’ll follow him down this path.

That’s what I was trying to say. 

And what did he say?

The same thing he told the press: “When I decide to retire I will let you know”.

So, I guess this is not the end yet.

Not yet. You know what he says: it’s not over until it’s over. 

There is only one word difference between not yet and not anymore - and it’s so subtle. 

Often, it is only in someone’s head.

***

Well, then, here we go... I wanted to tell you that I made a decision. 

Pupils dilating, they were all holding their breath around the room. 

I'm going to Roland Garros. Whatever the cost. No, Toni - I already know what you're going to say - don't say it, please. If there is a tournament for which it is worth giving everything and dying out there for me, it’s this one. It's Paris. 

Resigned sighs. Screeching of soles rubbed nervously on the floor. Nervous coughs. 

Toni, Carlos, Marc, Gustavo - they were all there, exchanging knowing glances. It seemed the only thing left to do for them, silent looks having long since replaced any words of wisdom. 

Not for Toni, however. He would not have been silent. 

There's no doubt you'll give it your all, Rafael, of course you will. The point is, how much do you have left to give? We must think about the Olympics too. We have to save energy, develop a tactic. In your condition, you can't afford to give yourself away aimlessly. No, no, don’t interrupt me please, I’m not done. We know that Roland Garros and the Olympics are both two huge goals, but they are also too close to each other. In my opinion, you would be better off choosing one of the two and focusing only on that.

Thanks for your sensible advice, Toni. But it’s precisely because they mean a lot to me that I will try both, one last time. For better or worse. 

You're risking everything. 

What else should I do? I didn't become number one without taking endless risks, Toni. You taught me that.

Yes, and like I told you once, sometimes I wish I hadn't. 

Without another word - with the most bitter expression on his tanned face - Toni got up and went out. Rafa’s gaze followed him. He was utterly speechless. 

Carlos, noticing Rafa’s sour face, was in an instant at his side. He’s just terrified for you, Rafa, that’s why he’s acting like this, he said, bending over him and squeezing Rafa's shoulder warmly. We all are, actually. None of us want you to get hurt again. Please, don’t blame him too much. 

Rafa was very still under his touch, his gaze slightly glassy. Carlos could read the bewilderment in his pupils. 

I’m not blaming him, Carlos. I just don’t understand, Rafa finally murmured in a low voice. I became exactly what he wanted me to be. How can he tell me now that I'm wrong?

No one - not even Carlos - had the answer to that legitimate question. Everyone looked away from the raw suffering exuding from Rafa's gaze. He looked like a child waiting for a caress and receiving a kick instead - having done nothing to deserve it. 

I've known you since you were a little kid, Carlos said after a while. And I’ve know Toni since before. If he didn't love you so much, he would accept any of your decisions without arguing. Especially this one.

He’s my uncle, I’d expect him to be on my side…

Maybe he thinks that taking your side is no longer good for you.

That’s when Maria Francisca walked in. It took her half a second to guess, from the atmosphere in the room, that something big had just happened. She marched straight to Rafa, took his face in her hands and tilted it up, looking right into his eyes. What others avoided, she was not afraid to face. 

After a few moments she said: Rafito is asking for his dad. C’mon, let’s go. 

Saying so, she gently took Rafa by the hand and dragged him away - gently but firmly. Rafa just let her - he was feeling like a hunk of driftwood abandoned on the shore. But later that day, when he took Rafito on his lap and the boy clung to Rafa’s neck with his little arms, giggling with delight, the dull pain in Rafa’s heart begun to subside. He looked up: Maria Francisca was staring at them - her large silent eyes and her soft elusive smile reminded him of some characters in a painting by El Greco. Rafa motioned her to come closer. When she did, he held out his hand to take hers. 

He took a deep breath.

You still matter to someone, you see? Everything is fine. 

After all, what they say about love is true: sometimes it kills you, sometimes - it saves you. 

***

Roger had gone to visit him at his Academy in Manacor at the beginning of the year. They hadn't talked much about Rafa's physical condition, nor about tennis. In fact, they had talked about something else entirely — anything other than Rafa's physical condition or tennis, to be exact. 

Apart from those two things, they still had a lot of topics to talk about. 

At some point, they had simply stopped talking and focused on the unspoken undercurrent that linked Rafa's heart to Roger’s, moving bidirectionally in a silent and continuous flow of energy. The same energy that made the blades of grass stretch and grow, imperceptibly but inexorably, more and more every day - the same one that minutely pulped the corpses down to their translucent bones. Roger was holding Rafa’s hand, and that was all.   

That had been the last time they had seen each other in person and had been able to touch and breathe in each other. The following months had been pure torment, exacerbated by distance, only superficially soothed by Roger's long, punctual phone calls.  

Stop asking me how I'm doing, Rafa cried out, during one of those calls. You already know the answer,  Roger. It’s always the same. Nothing ever changes.

Ok, I’ll change my question, then. Roger paused. Are you happy, Rafa?

Rafa wasn’t expecting that - he fell silent for long minutes. 

No one has asked me for months, he said at last, thoughtfully. And you haven't asked me in years, Roger. 

I remember what your answer was the last time I asked, Roger said - just as softly, just as tense. Is it still the same, Rafa? Has nothing really changed?

Rafa pondered for some time. He could stay utterly still while struggling to untangle his thoughts and translate them into the words of a language he had not been taught as a child. Those were the only moments in which Rafa - a human being always on the move, always vibrant with barely restrained life - would stop and keep a quiet state for more than a little while. In those moments, Roger would take the opportunity to look at him and freeze in his memory that image of Rafa that was always darting off before his eyes, refusing to be captured. 

Not really, Rafa replied, stirring Roger from his reflection. I have my son. Something has changed, actually. 

But while he was listening to Rafa’s steady breath on the phone, Roger had suddenly realized one thing: that, in the end, time had caught up with Rafa too. All that vital energy of his had been locked down like a firefly in a jar, ceasing to spread. 

Even Rafa had to stop, eventually. 

(Time is unforgiving.) 

Listen, I have to tell you something, Roger said point-blank. I've been trying to hold it back for months, but I can't take it anymore. I can’t. I'm worried about you, Rafa. I'm worried sick about you. You understand? 

Rafa could almost picture Roger's face in his own mind as he was speaking – dark, deep wrinkles of concern between his eyebrows and forehead, his eyes looking even more deep-set than they usually were, as they did when uneasiness seized him. Rafa himself had rarely seen Roger like this - maybe only the very few times on court when one of his shots turned out bad or just not as he expected. 

Rafa took a deep breath, struggling to keep the inner balance that Roger’s words threatened to shake.

Don't be worried, Roger, please. There are already too many people who worry about me. I’ll tell you, it’s completely useless…

It's useless because you’ll do as you please, right? As always. Against all advice. 

Whose advice?

Mine, to name one. 

Roger wasn’t even trying to soften the tone anymore, joking without really joking as he used to do  – to prevent himself from being overwhelmed by his feelings for Rafa. 

Oh, yes, I was forgetting, you are the injury and retirement expert… He could hear a smile in Rafa's voice, but he wasn't sure it wasn’t ironic. So, what does the expert recommend? Give me your opinion, please. 

Roger felt his own lips curl into a smile almost reluctantly. As a friend? Or…?

As a professional, Rafa cut him short. The man of inner balance, the one who’d always get you back on the track whenever you’re about to derail. Roger's center of gravity. For once, the roles were reversed. I want to know… If I were only Rafael Nadal and not Rafa to you, what would you tell me to do, Roger?

Roger remained silent, burdened with a responsibility so much bigger than himself. 

(You’d tell me to stop, wouldn't you? Just say it, Roger. And maybe I will.) 

Suddenly, Roger recalled a moment from years before, when Mirka, who was still playing professionally at the time, had injured her foot and he, unable to stand her suffering any longer, had strongly advised her to hang up her racket for good. 

Mirka blindly trusted his judgment. Hence, she had thought very little before giving up and following Roger's advice.

But it was a whole different ballgame with Rafa - Rafa didn't even know what bowing out meant. And Roger would never get away with just a yes or no. With Rafa, everything was more complex, less delineated, more atrocious and tender and sometimes desperately meaningless than with Mirka. 

Even his own retirement had been easier for Roger - everything would have been easier for him than this: facing the hideous suffering that Rafa’s farewell would cause him. 

Look, I’m being the usual selfish now, but I don’t want to feed you a lie… I don't want you to stop, Rafa, he confessed, swallowing hard. I wish you would never leave tennis.

But do you think it would be better for me if I did? Rafa insisted, relentless as usual.

Roger chose to skillfully skirt around the question. I fear for you and for the stresses you are putting on your body. I don't want you to get injured again, or to push yourself to the limit. Once you’re that far gone, there is no turning back.

Rafa said nothing for a while. You haven’t answered my question. 

Roger sighed. Please, Rafa, don’t push me to the wall. He sounded troubled and defeated. You know the answer yourself. 

Yeah, I think I know, Rafa said slowly, his voice a little more than a whisper. I know that you, just like Toni, don’t want me to break either. And yet, it sounds strange coming from you, because you…

(…because you broke me so many times. More than anyone else. And I’m not talking about my body. That can heal, even if it no longer seems to be able to do so, now. It's everything else that stays broken.)

Rafa didn’t say it aloud - nonetheless, Roger could guess every thought that went through Rafa's mind without him opening his mouth. When you have known someone for so many years, words become unnecessary. Besides, some things are better not said, ever, not even when they are true - especially when they are true. 

Rafa, promise me you'll stop before it’s too late. Just fucking promise me.  

Rafa was a little taken aback by Roger’s outburst. He stayed quiet for a while, and when he talked he sounded genuinely heartbroken, almost on the verge of tears. 

Okay. 

Just one word - that was all Roger was needing.  

Thank you, Roger breathed. He was feeling relieved but also kind of chocked up with tears, and his eyes were wet. Can we stay like this, without talking, a little longer? I'm not ready to let you go yet. 

Yeah. Sì. 

So they stopped talking for a while - but the silence on the line was by no means empty of thoughts. Far from it.

(I should have left at the peak of my career as you did, so everyone would remember me as a winner. Instead, I chose a slow agony.) 

(I chose the easier way because I was afraid of losing and making a fool of myself. I was terrified. That's why I retired before the decline became unstoppable – no longer a gentle slope but a precipice. I'm just a coward, Rafa. I don't know how to fight like you. I can't accept defeat, I don't know how to do it. But it's far easier to leave as a winner than as a fighter, without looking for justifications, without putting on any mask. Only the unvarnished truth.)

(Maybe this is just a stupid dream. Maybe there is nothing remarkable about holding on to a past glory that is no more, no? It’s just one step after the other, then you fall down, hit the ground and it’s all over. There is nothing remarkable about holding on to the past for fear of the future.)

(It's the first time you’re feeling so fragile, isn’t it?)

(I'm not the indestructible machine everyone thinks I am, Roger. I never was, not even in my prime.) 

(Even then, your true strength lay not in your body, but in your mind. Mentally you've always been stronger than anyone I know.)

(I may have been a little overconfident, in recent times. Now it’s time to come to terms with reality.) 

(I don't think you've ever been overconfident, Rafa. I know it's hard to say goodbye. I told you, the main reason I retired is because the fear of failing and seeing myself fail in front of everyone was stronger than everything else. You don't have this fear, Rafa, blessed you. You don't know how much I've envied you over the years.)

(You know what, Roger, I have no chance at Roland Garros. The thought is killing me, but that’s how it is. I’m never going to stand three sets against any top ten player. It’s sad, but that’s ok. It’s the Olympics that I am aiming for. Playing doubles with Carlos, I think there may be a little hope of success...)

(You absolutely deserve this, Rafa. I'd do anything — I'd make a deal with the devil — for you to have it.)

Rafa had smiled. (You should make a deal with Novak, then.)

(Why? Is he the devil, as they say?)

(No. He’s the one who will get the gold, if I fail.)

*** 

It went exactly as Rafa had feared it would be.

He crashed into Zverev's granite determination in the first round of Roland Garros - and could not even scratch the solidity of the young German’s game. 

Rafa's disappointment was scorching and that was one of the worst experiences in his life. He had no illusions of victory, just a little hope of moving into some more rounds, at least, before being inevitably taken down.  

But that was just not meant to be. 

He refused any tributes from the affectionate crowd and staff – he could not believe, so recent the disappointment, that he would never return to that court that had been soaked in his sweat in many and many games and that had rewarded him with some of the greatest joys of his career.

By the time Rafa walked into the empty locker room and took the bag off his shoulder and dropped himself down on the bench next to it, he was finally starting to see. To fully understand what a part of himself - and everyone else around him - had already known for some time. 

There must have been a moment - a tiny moment in time - when not yet had slowly become not anymore, and he must have missed it along the way. 

Roger hadn’t said it aloud, but he must have thought it too. He simply didn't want to hurt Rafa any more than he already was. 

However, there was still one last attempt to be made, one last test to go through, one last goal in Rafa’s mind. 

I’ll be back here in less than a month. Same place, same court, same crowd. This time it won’t be just for me, but for Spain. 

That was definitely worth a shot. After that, he would drown his conclusion. 

For the moment, it was not over yet. 

***

Båstad was such a brief intermission that Rafa lived it all in one breath, as if in apnea, from beginning to end. His inner eye and all his senses were already pointing to something else — he was seeing Paris, again, the Chatrier, again, and the screaming crowd looming before him. 

However, he had needed Båstad for one last confirmation (the one he had not wanted, the one he would frankly have spared himself, if only things had turned out the way he had hoped).

(A few evenings before he left Mallorca, he had found Mery crying in the kitchen, her arms on the table. She had sat up straight, wiping her eyes, as soon as he had walked in, and Rafa had immediately broken off in the middle of his chattering and stood terrified at seeing her like that, completely undone, her make-up smeared from tears all over her cheeks and her bottom lip quivering. He had cradled her wet cheeks in his hands and asked: is this because of me? Mery had dried her eyes, sniffed, adjusted a lock of hair behind one ear. Then she had stared into his eyes and said the words  - like nails driven one by one into his body: I can't bear to see you suffer like this anymore. I wish you would stop, but you can’t seem to do it. I would like you to find, if not happiness, at least a little peace. Tell me, what am I supposed to do with you?)

And then Rafa had definitively realized that keeping on fighting beyond a certain point does not only hurt yourself, but also those who love you the most. It was almost selfish, on his part, to force all the people who loved him - Toni, Roger, Mery… - to just stand back and watch him slaughter his own body. 

“I’m going to Båstad and then to the Olympics and it doesn’t matter if I win or lose, I’ll quit after that anyway. I promise you. You hear me? I promise you.” 

He meant it. He would do it, because his body could not stand it anymore, and neither could those around him. Besides, he needed some closure before finally starting to heal. 

So he had gone to Båstad.

It had even seemed to be going well, for a while – even better than all the tournaments he had been playing since the beginning of 2024.

But it was only a false alarm - a defeat in the final instead of in the quarterfinals, or in the round of 16.

Nothing had changed.

(Nothing ever changes.)

(Are you happy, Rafa?)

He was asking himself that question more and more often.

Until that moment, there had really been no need to: he was playing tennis, having fun, winning. Of course that made him happy. 

Of course, that happiness was not pain-free.

But since when had the scales begun to tip the other way? Pain overcoming joy and no longer being worth the effort? 

More and more often he happened to sink into a sort of gloom - in those moments, the same old bitter thoughts would start gnawing on him, and he would talk to himself trying not to go out of his mind. 

(You don’t know when to stop, Rafa. You just can't see the line... You could go on and break yourself and still try to get up and start fighting again. But this is insane. Dedication beyond a certain extent becomes psychosis, it becomes masochism. Everyone asks: what are you waiting for, Rafa? Until it’s too late?)

(… Maybe it's already too late. I probably should have been done at my last Roland Garros, in 2022. But…)

(But Roger was right. It’s easier to leave as a winner than to fight to the end…) 

….

(Are you happy, Rafa?)

***

Young Charlie, here, is all fired up. Seriously, you should see him. He just can't wait to practice with you.

Yeah, I guess so. Poor kid, Rafa joked. Anyway, tell Carlos that it is my honor to get to play alongside the number two tennis player in the world - and by far the best tennis player in Spain in recent years. 

He heard Juan Carlos exchange a few words with someone on the other end of the phone.

Don't joke, man, he said. Playing doubles with you is a dream come true for Charlie. You are and will always be the legend of our sport. So, make sure he doesn’t get too excited. I don’t want him to get cramps and fuck up the Olympics.

Rafa laughed. Juanki was in a good mood. I won’t let it happen, I promise, Rafa reassured him. I need Carlos as much as he needs me. Neither of us will waste such a huge opportunity.

Yeah. You know he’ll fight more for you than for himself, right? This is only his first Olympics, while it will most likely be your last. Charlie knows this very well. He knows all the implications. He will struggle not to miss any ball, not to be less than perfect. So as not to disappoint Spain and not to disappoint you, Rafa. He wants to give you the ending you deserve.

Rafa remained silent. A lump in the back of his throat betrayed the unexpected gratitude that was overwhelming him along with memories of two years later, when he himself had wished the same thing for Roger - and had played one last doubles with him, hoping to get one last victory for Roger, so that he could end his dazzling career on a high note. Now, the fact that Carlos was determined to do the same for him filled Rafa with emotion, with sorrow - with tender despair. 

Thank you. Tell Carlos that it means a lot to me. He's a good guy, we must be very proud of him. 

We are… Wait, he wants to say hello. Rafa heard Juanki pass the phone to Carlos and, shortly after, the latter’s young voice bursting with joy. Hey, Rafa, see you in Paris! Once again.

Yeah, once again. See you there, guys. Bye.  

He hung up, feeling very shaken. 

The difference between Carlos and himself was that he knew that things hardly ever go the way we want, while Carlos still believed that everything was possible. 

Therefore, if Rafa deserved one last joy for himself, Carlos also deserved to witness one last miracle, to believe that heroes can live on as long as we need them - that the last time is not really the last. 

He was Carlos’ hero and role model - he could not fall apart while Carlos still looked up to him. 

Thinking about it, falling apart was something he could never allow himself to do.

(Are you happy, Rafa?) 

So, he would fight one last time. For Carlos, for Spain, for the fans. And for himself, of course.

From that perspective, it was not selfishness on his part — it was simply what he did best.

***

There is a saying that goes something like this: “you often meet your destiny on the road you took to avoid it”.

Rafa knew, in a way, what his destiny would be, even as he ran towards it, unhesitant and unrestrained – hopeless but aware, faithless but detached – and he knew that sooner or later he would collide with his fate and everything would explode into a thousand pieces.

He had spent many sleepless nights wondering about the name and face that his destiny would wear. It could have been anyone, but at the same time it would not have been just anyone –  it was enough to take a look at the top of the ATP rankings to get an idea of who the laws of chance could put in his way.

That's why, when the name was finally drawn, Rafa was not that surprised.

It was just yet another confirmation - the one he had not wanted, the one he would frankly have spared himself.

Fates were against him, there was no doubt. The name was just yet another sign that it was time for him to put an end to his career. 

He could no longer postpone the decision. 

***

Rafa had always known that that particular challenge had only been put off over the long months he had spent away from a tennis court - and that Novak had certainly been eager to play him once again for ages, probably in the last match for both of them. He must have been waiting for years to even the score, to extend the count of his own victories - thus, avenging the ghosts of past defeats hovering over that same court. 

(As for Rafa, he was already feeling like a ghost himself - the ghost of who he had once been).

Novak had been waiting for him all along. 

He would set himself a goal and keep it in mind, and he would be fierce and relentless and hell-bent on pursuing it. He would not make any concessions to anyone, let alone to his longest-standing rival - and his longest-standing, hopeless love. 

A bit of yearning, a bit of revenge. 

There was no alternative for Rafa but to hit the arena and let himself go through any kind of beauty and terror in there. 

So, one last dance before you go, Novak texted to him, as soon as the draw was out. It had been exactly eleven months since they had last spoken to each other. Sounds almost romantic, don’t you think? Then, without waiting for an answer: Mind you, I won't go easy on you.  

Rafa knew it was Novak's twisted way of warning him to be on guard. A sort of apologize in advance for an inevitable debacle.

I’m not expecting anything different from you, Rafa replied. Do your thing, Nole. I will be ready.

And this time he was. There was only one last thing to do before meeting his destiny. 

***

Just after the draw came out, after Novak's message – while many people around the world metaphorically tore their hair out of their heads and ran to buy popsicles and popcorn, waiting spasmodically for the big match and taking sides for one or the other player – Rafa called Roger.

I was just about to call you, Roger said. I watched the draw live. 

Rafa called him very few times on his own initiative - it was almost always Roger who showed up with a phone call, as in an unwritten agreement. Over the years Rafa had been busy with other stuff, and he knew that Roger had been busy too - however, they had never stopped spinning the thread that, unraveling the past, weaving through the present, knotted them to the future. 

Now, all of a sudden, the ghost of the past was about to break into their lives again, in the form of a tennis showdown that was over before it even began. 

Did you expect it to be Novak? was Roger’s first question.

Rafa pondered on his end of the line, head down, biting his lip. He was absent-mindedly looking at his own feet as he wandered in circles, without keeping track of his steps. Ever since his fate had ceased to be a mystery to him, he couldn't stay still again. He was feeling the adrenaline mounting in him. 

Honestly, yes. I feel like I knew from the beginning that it was to end like this. If I’m supposed to lose, if this has to be my last time, Roger, he’s the guy. There is no better opponent than him. Apart from you, of course.

Yes, but I quitted two years ago, Roger said softly. Andy quitted too. I hate to say it - I really hate it - but you're right. Novak is the only one left. Then he added, a little tensely: But I don’t see how losing to Novak can be the best way to end a professional career.

The pale echo of laughter vibrated in Rafa's voice. Well, I might win. 

Do you really believe it?

If I had believed it, I wouldn't have called you, Roger. Rafa sighed. And I wouldn't have spent the night staring at my hands wrapped around the handle of my racket and thinking about what will become of me tomorrow… Yet, I will go and play anyway. And you know what, once I enter the court, I will start to really believe it, as I have always done, not just pretending. And I will believe it until the end - that I can win, that I have even the slightest chance to make it. Toni used to told me that the only truth is the one living inside your head – the only real world the one your own mind builds. Mind can turn things around and decide the results, more than talent do, or skill, or... Roger, are you still there?

Yes. I'm still here, Rafa. Roger's voice was full of indescribable tenderness. I would spend hours listening to you speak.

Rafa laughed, slightly embarrassed. You’re making fun of me, as usual. See, my English is no longer that bad now.

Yeah, I noticed. In fact, it used to be like that, but not anymore. Roger paused. I already told you that I'd give anything for you to win tomorrow, right? And it's the same thing that at least half the world is hoping for. 

Yes, but don’t forget the other half.

Hmm, we bet the whole Chatrier will be cheering for you? It's your backyard, after all. And Novak has never been welcome there.

Even with the crowd on my side, Novak is going to win anyway.

You also have me on your side...

… but Novak is going to win anyway, Roger. This gold has been his reason for living through the years. Nothing will stop him from getting it. Not even me. 

Roger growled in objection, but wisely chose not to retort. I hate all that. 

Don't, Rafa said softly — he sounded strangely calm now, and serene. As one who has put a full stop somewhere - one who has found his raison d'être, his true inner peace. One who’s ready for a closure. If not a miracle, at least it will be a relief. I'll call you when it's over, okay? 

Ok, I'll be waiting. And… Rafa?

Yes?

Don’t worry, you’ll be fine in the end.

I'm not worried. I have you, Roger, no? 

…yes. Yes, you have me. No matter what.  

“But our beginnings never know our ends” 

End