Rafa Unrevealed

Hachette

Rs 595

Pages: 320

He speaks so little in public that when Rafael Nadal gives you 320 pages of his life’s story,there is no option but to devour and savor every word. But don’t pick up the book if you expect as sensational a story as Andre Agassi’s Open,for it’s not. Unlike the American’s Hollywood-styled tell-all,this is an islander’s journey of transforming into a Superman on the tennis court,when,off it,he is only Clark Kent. There is no mud-slinging,no what-happens-inside-the-locker-room tales,but only acceptance — that Roger Federer’s game is better than his,and a foreboding that he has no “clear tactical plan” against Novak Djokovic (he has lost four finals in 2011 to the Serbian).

The lavish praise of his competitors is just what he is — a Nadal,taught to praise his rivals in defeat and always keep the “good face”. Keeping the good face — not revealing one’s inner emotions — is so important to the Nadals that he and his uncle Toni Nadal (also his coach for more than a decade) almost split at the 2010 US Open because Toni thought his nephew hadn’t guarded his thoughts well enough on the court. Rafa eventually came around,just like he had several times in his childhood when his uncle “startled him to attention” by throwing balls on his head,called him a “mumma’s boy”,rebuked him for celebrating victories and told him he was never going to be good enough. On the eve of his first French Open (2005),if Rafa doubted his ability to win,“this was the part of my brain talking that Toni had conditioned”. Why did he put up with all that? Because Rafa believes that “being obedient is a sign of intelligence”. Eventually,though,he comes to the realisation that Toni is not the “all-knowing magician of my childhood”.

But that is about all that you will get Rafa to reveal. Most of the book offers examples of the humility of Nadals (the Grand Slam winner cannot buy a flashy sports car of his choice as the neighbours might disapprove); the “umbilical connection” or his insistence that his game’s stability depends on his family; no one cares to watch him practise at the city club the day after he completes a career Slam because Mallorcans don’t make heroes of human beings; and his discipline —tennis training even on a beach holiday with friends in Thailand.

The epic 2008 Wimbledon final between Federer and him dominates over half the book and doesn’t leave much scope to build a chronological or anecdotal record of his earlier life. For example,his girlfriend of six years,Maria Francisca,is shoved in the penultimate chapter and summed up in a couple of paragraphs. She gets to explain why she does not travel with him to tournaments: “…Just the idea of me hanging around waiting on his needs all day wears me out.

It would asphyxiate me.” You get the picture.

There’s not much to the contention that it was too early for an autobiography of Rafael Nadal — even if he is only 25. Rather,the question is if he was ready to tell his story at all. By the end of the book,you know Rafa the tennis player,and his vulnerabilities better — “Federer would presumably retire before I did… (but) Djokovic would be dogging me right to the end…” — but do you know Rafa the person any better? No,only as well as he wants you to.