“You need all the fortune you can get playing Nadal,” the commentator says. Another bright, sunny day in Paris. Rafa resplendent in turquoise all over – down to his socks and shoes. Am enjoying his new style of shorts: short and tight. They’re a long way away from those grey baggy monstrosities of his youth.
The other chap, Almagro, is putting up a fight but we’re now 5 – 0 to Rafa in the third set.
“Back for the last rites on Philippe Chatrier in just a minute,” John Inverdale says, as he gives a quick round-up of the-action-elsewhere.
Almagro holds his serve. 1 – 5.
Rafa is serving for the match. Bounce-bounce-bounce-bounce before his ball toss. His OCD hasn’t stopped him getting to the top, of course. It can’t be as severe as Seb’s one.
Look away for a moment and Rafa’s won. Then it’s the on court interview: he pulls a turquoise sweater on and speaks in French and English. Love him.
“I try my best and I try to enjoy every point,” he says, scraping a hand through his hair. How lovely. A good way to live.
Slinging a turquoise racket bag over his shoulder, he lopes off the court.
We’re waiting to see my psychiatrist. Mum and me, that is. Rafa is still in Paris. It’s hot in the waiting room and am missing my afternoon sleep. The attached photo is one of Mum’s black irises.
Happy Thursday everyone!
*2013. By Michael Ennis. Detective novel set in 15th century Italy.
Scars, Tears and Training Bras 