Racquetology A musicologist writes … about tennis.

A decade into work on his first symphony, Johannes Brahms claimed that he would never finish.  “You have no idea what it’s like to hear such a giant marching behind you,” he complained. 

The colossus in question was Beethoven, who had managed to badger Brahms from beyond the grave.  Though it must have been annoying to be haunted by a composer prone to blunt, repetitive tunes, Brahms persisted in his work, and at age 42 he unveiled his first symphony, which was met with lukewarm enthusiasm.  “Beethoven’s Tenth,” quipped Hans von Bülow. (Outside of this comment, von Bülow is best known today as the cuckholded end of a love triangle that involved his wife and Richard Wagner.)

If ever a man in tennis was poised for the punishing visitations of history, it would be Rafael Nadal.  After winning his second consecutive Wimbledon title (having not played in 2009), Nadal was anointed king for a season by the press and dubbed by Damien Cox “the new Federer.” Now he had won back-to-back on the dirt and turf twice, evoking the feats of steely Swede Bjorn Borg, who accomplished the French Open-Wimbledon double three times. Believers and doubters alike breathlessly proclaimed Nadal’s ascendancy to a historical pantheon of greats who both defined and transcended their eras. No longer did the Spaniard govern a clay-court kingdom in Federer’s all-court empire.*

Few players, when faced with history’s cold, hard reality check, are able to convert it into a fantastical playground of winning streaks, spectacular shots, and sweet victories. Federer and Nadal have both done that. But like their games, their pathways to the pantheon couldn’t be more different.

History has been a courtship for Federer—a warm embrace filled with glowing inevitability. Faced mid-career with the prospect of breaking Pete Sampras’s record of fourteen slams—and heartened by a lack of rivals save Nadal—he somehow managed to keep History on his side of the court. When hapless foes faced Federer, hoping to bludgeon him with the weight of History, they found the Swiss bantering with it instead. As he inched ever closer to the crucial mark, Federer’s self-assurance blossomed into megalomania, as he and History colluded to produce the golden number fifteen, obnoxiously paraded on his jacket immediately after his record-breaking triumph at Wimbledon last year.

What’s remarkable about Federer is that he never went through a Brahms phase. He just became Wagner instead.

If Federer openly courted History, Nadal seems determined not to notice its coquettish glances. The tennis world may have crowned him king, but the Spaniard continues to shine Federer’s shoes, open his coach doors, and hover helpfully at his banquets. Despite his 14-7 record against Federer (5-2 in major finals on all surfaces), Nadal claims that anyone who thinks him better than the Swiss “don’t know nothing about tennis.” He points to a disparity in major titles—16 for Federer, 8 for Nadal—as evidence. A fair point.

But what’s strange is that Nadal is already acquainted with History. He won four straight French Open titles, tying Bjorn Borg. He is the only player to have won the French Open, Wimbledon, and an Olympic gold medal in the same year (2008). He holds the most ATP Masters titles, recently passing Andre Agassi and Federer. And he posted an 81-match winning streak on clay that will likely never be broken.

Is Nadal a fairweather friend, privately acknowledging History while publicly disdaining it?

Maybe Rafa has a strategy that Brahms wished he’d dreamed up. If Nadal played tennis knowing that there was a giant marching behind him, he wouldn’t have the “necessary calm” that he claims to feel in important moments. So most of the time, in his eyes, the giant simply does not exist. Nadal blithely hews down the opponents right in front of him, not worrying about whether he’s about to be squashed by a colossal foot.

Once in a while he betrays his own guile, most recently by commenting on his desire to perform well at the U.S. Open, where a win would secure a career Grand Slam and entrance to the Holy of Holies in Open Era tennis.

But these lapses are unusual, and good thing, too. Self-deception can be a powerful ally in the performing arts. Just take it from Brahms.

*(Indulge an excursion for a moment into an alternate reality where clay is the standard surface. Consider how different the tennis landscape would look: Federer would have six major titles to Nadal’s fifteen, and hard-court specialists like Roddick would be hard-pressed to maintain their top-ten rankings with fewer events played on their favored surface.)

The plantation and the country club may be worlds apart, but few could blame Andy Roddick for feeling he had found a new meaning for an old song.

Had he decided to drown his sorrows at a London pub, Roddick might have inspired some plaintive strains of melancholy from the locals, who favor the American almost as much as that other sporting Andy.

If there are no second acts in American life, why does Roddick keep showing up, fully outfitted and ready to perform? Roddick, the sentimental favorite at Wimbledon, suffered a five-set loss to Yen-Hsun Lu in the fourth round, and his loss begs a timely, if arcane, question: After losing three times to Federer in a Wimbledon final, is it now his destiny to repeatedly absorb heartbreaking defeats?

The language of destiny may seem out of place in the American sports vocabulary. We tend to see ourselves as a choose-your-own-adventure, pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps sort of bunch. Roddick, a hard-working, consistent player–the only player besides Roger Federer to occupy the ATP top ten rankings for the last nine years running–fits seamlessly into this narrative. Armed with a blistering serve and forehand, he earned his first major title in–where else?–New York, and since then has dedicated himself to scaling the heights once more. His game today as the world number eight is more complete than it was in 2003, when he topped the rankings and won his only major title. No longer can he be caricatured as a tennis-playing Popeye with a heroic serve.

But alongside the narrative of the self-made man is the American fascination with the occult. Following the dramatic triumph of the Red Sox in the 2004 World Series, the aura of mysticism clinging to feverish celebrations of the broken curse could be seen from Stonehenge. The pungent stench of unwashed uniforms lingers in the locker rooms of teams hoping to keep their winning streaks alive.

What of Andy’s destiny? Will the tennis gods ever break from their eternal dueling to smile auspiciously on the downtrodden American?

In a word, yes. But Roddick has to do his part. Not the part where he retools his backhand, gets a new coach, or improves his fitness. That’s the self-made man part. That part’s been done.

What Roddick needs with his protein shake is a tall, frosty draft of delusion. And he can get it courtesy of Goran Ivanisevic.

Goran, the colorful Croatian known as much for his oddball behavior as his lethal lefty serve, powered his way to the 1992 Wimbledon final, where he lost in five sets to rising star Andre Agassi. He was twenty years old at the time, with the promise of future major titles well within his sight.

Two years later Ivanisevic returned to the Wimbledon final, this time facing Pete Sampras. He lost in three sets. The following year he lost to Sampras again, this time in the semis. At his third Wimbledon final in 1998, Goran faced a familiar foe and lost, in five sets, to Sampras, who was being regarded by many as one of the game’s greatest players.

Injury and inconsistency dragged Ivanisevic’s ranking out of the top 100, until in 2001 he received a wild card into Wimbledon. He was ranked 125 in the world. There was no reason for him to believe that he could win the title–except that there was no reason for him to believe he couldn’t do it either. Facing Tim Henman in the semifinals, a rain delay helped Goran regroup and win the match. “This is destiny,” he said. “God wanted me to win this game.”

Call it destiny, call it faith. Call it delusion. Whatever it was, it worked. In a rare Monday final, Goran defeated Pat Rafter, 9-7 in the fifth set, the only wild card ever to have won the tournament.

Cynics might claim that destiny should have sided with Henman that day, backing the Brit to his first Wimbledon final. But fate is a fickle thing, and perhaps it favors the outlandish over the ordinary. (Goran: “The trouble with me is that every match I play against five opponents: umpire, crowd, ball boys, court, and myself.” Note that he does not mention the opponent on the other side of the net.)

In 2011 it will be ten years since Goran’s mysticism propelled him to his only major title. Maybe next year is the year that Roddick will quiet the self-made man and awaken the mystic. Maybe he will have some help as Goran did, when Sampras—29 years old at the time—lost in the fourth round to a young Roger Federer, who will be 29 at next year’s Wimbledon. Maybe Roddick will learn the language of destiny and complete his second act.

Let’s just hope he doesn’t need a wild card to do it.

For the next two to eight days — whatever remains of his Wimbledon — Rafael Nadal will face a series of questions that will linger long after the tournament is over:

Will his knees hold up long enough to keep the number one ranking?  How about to win the U.S. Open?  Or to make up more ground on Federer’s haul of Grand Slam titles?  Will Nadal change his punishing style of game in order to stop punishing his own body?

Only the last of these can be answered definitively.

Not on your life.

Sure, Nadal has made changes to his game over the years: a faster serve, an effective backhand slice, better volleys, more aggressive court positioning.  All are valuable tactical adjustments that will both extend his career and allow him to play more successfully on hard courts.  But Rafa’s indefatigable will is not up for negotiation.

The irony in his position is easy enough to spot.  The quality that made Nadal a champion may be the same one that prevents him from winning more championships.  But what is often lost on sportswriters and casual followers of Nadal’s career is evident to the Spaniard’s fans.  Rafa’s game is less about transcendent flights of greatness than victories born of increment or improvement — the kind hard-fought daily in lives around the world.

Disease, aging, grief, trauma — pick your poison.  Chances are, everyone carries a burden that seems painfully unjust (or perhaps just painful).  Every day you wake up seeking small victories, but sometimes, inexplicably, a gear slips, a foot trips, and you are sliding back down the hill like Sisyphus, destined to fall again and again and again.

So it is with Nadal.  There is no justice that a twenty-four-year-old athlete with the constitution of un toro should suffer chronic knee pain in the prime of his career.  But Nadal, with his gladiatorial practice sessions and disciplined pre-match routines (causing him, most recently, to miss meeting the Queen of England) finds his will at odds with his body on a fairly regular basis now. 

He can change aspects of his game to preserve his form and keep up with a new generation of racket-wielding giants (see del Potro, Isner, & Co.).   But he can only change so much before he ceases to be Nadal.

Though Nadal’s legacy will always be connected to Roger Federer’s, at some point his game needs to be appreciated on its own terms.  Federer’s aesthetic grace makes winning look easy.  Nadal’s laboring and grinding, his concentrated scowl, his vulnerability despite an imposing physique, show his champion’s heart more plainly.  It is a heart we recognize, because we all want to claim it as our own.  The assured determination of Nadal’s game reflects the spirit we wish to have in our darkest moments.  Every match he plays is a master class in how to live.

Battle on, Rafa.