I always get a tinge of sadness watching a battle-scarred lion being forced out as king of his pride. I'm not really sure why. After all, he had a great run, perennially vanquished his foes, and enjoyed the spoils of victory. Maybe it's just a reminder of the brevity of life, the ephemeral nature of strength and success.
Whatever the reason, I'm having the same feeling watching the King of Clay, Rafael Nadal, as he girds his loins to defend his own domain at this year's French Open.
Ever since winning his record ninth title in Paris last year, Nadal has been struggling. He was out with yet another injury for much of the second half of 2014 but this time did not return with supremacy as he has after previous setbacks. He has suffered eyebrow-raising defeats in the early rounds of tournaments. This spring in the European clay court events leading up to Roland Garros, where he used to gobble up titles like tasty tapas at a Spanish sidewalk cafe, he has hoisted nary a one. He is the five-time defending champion in Paris but this year is seeded only sixth.
He said recently, "If I go to Roland Garros [and] I lose [and] I don't play well, life continues. It's not the end of the world. I won so many times there. I don't want to [win] 15 Roland Garros. That's for sure. It's normal that I can lose. Losing is part of life." And then he added: "I am sure that I can be competitive."
Competitive? Nadal has never been competitive in Paris. He's been dominating, leaving everyone else with a highest hope of second place. Something is not right with him. He knows it, and so does everyone else.
But what exactly is "it"? Is he still nursing an injury? Is his intimidating physicality on the wane as he nears 29? Is doubt, pressure, expectations, or perhaps a personal problem cluttering his mind?
It could be one, some, or all of the above. Nadal himself may not even know. Such is the razor-thin margin at the upper echelon of the game, where the slightest, even imperceptible, drop in anything results in an uncharacteristic unforced error on a big point or a once-infallible forehand missing by an inch instead of cleaning the line.
Unlike Roger Federer, whose strokes and movement are simple and sublime, Nadal brandishes a complicated array of extreme grips, muscled movements and swashbuckling swings with torquing contortions. For goodness sake, he's actually a righthander whom his uncle/coach turned early on into a lefthander. If Federer is a Mercedes, then Nadal is a muscle car that needs to be tuned just right to blow the competition away. And that is what he has been at Roland Garros for a decade, an indomitable blend of power, spin, speed and tenacity, perfectly suited for the grinding rallies of clay court tennis.