Yesterday, I watched as Rafael Nadal won his ninth French Open. Considering he is twenty-eight years old, his command of Roland Garros seems unimaginable.
Somewhere between sets 3 and 4, I came to realize that Rafa was doing what a man whom I greatly admire advises his male friends to do on a date.
Rally.
To win a match on the red clay, it’s not the serve so much as getting the ball back to your opponent, and doing so with consistency.
There are too many dates where there’s no rally. The man, and sometimes the woman, talks endlessly about himself or herself.
Thereafter he or she is shocked that their wit, charm and command of their own story is not compelling when the other person does not get the chance to say. . . anything.
While we watch as Rafa chases Roger and history, bear in mind that he wins because he consistently gets it back.
He rallies.
As always, I would love to hear your thoughts.