I posted this reel on Instagram right after Rafa lost his match in the Davis Cup, which was essentially his last professional match and was also his moment of retirement.
I downloaded the reel, but the music wasn’t available to download so it’s silent. Sing along to whatever tune you choose.
Yes, I know a photo appears twice. I was editing quickly and missed it.
The on-court photos that appear to have been taken by amateurs have been taken by amateurs. Namely, me. The on-court photos with Rafa and Feli López wearing blue shirts and white baseball caps were not taken by me, but were taken by someone who was sitting to my left. That person also appears in this video posing with Rafa in a conference room I reserved. I snapped that photo during the second interview with Rafa which I have not mentioned until this day. You’ll see me kneeling down with my elbows on the table. No, I was not angry. I was very tired.
The closing goodbye you’ll see at the end of this video, as well as a similar variation in the previous video, is paraphrased from something Rafa signed for me all those years ago. I will never forget it.
¡Vamos, Rafa! Por siempre.
I have about a thousand photos, but obviously they wouldn’t fit here
It’s a top five moment. I’ve had a lot of favorite moments, but this one is top five, for sure. It was the first time in my life that I had a vision and a hope to accomplish something, and from start to finish, I did. The interview was my idea, and I brought it to the website team. Surprisingly, the stars lined up and everything from there went in my favor. I can’t adequately describe the feeling, other than to say that when whatever hopes and dreams you have/had for yourself seem insurmountable and then they happen, it’s euphoric. It’s the stunned disbelief, it’s the sitting back in your chair and laughing at what just happened. It’s the feeling that you get when you write a great poem – you’re in the zone. It’s an astonishment: did that just happen? It’s a gratefulness to the universe that is verbalized repeatedly. It’s a moment you don’t know if you can ever top, and you question why you would even try. It’s the culmination of hard work and determination and a heavy dose of stubbornness. It’s a thankfulness for loving words so much that you can use them to put together something other people will enjoy. It‘s Girl Power in practice.
“I will try to take another step forward in Madrid, then in Rome, and, if in a tournament it is worth going out there to give everything and die for it, then it is Paris.”
Rafael Nadal on preparing to play Roland Garros (“The French Open”) after his second round loss at Barcelona
When I read these words, I had that feeling you feel when you read someone who can write well. My head turned to the side, my left eye squinted, and I read it again. Shivers.
Even to someone who doesn’t know anything about tennis, or what this tournament means to this man, by reading these words, you can perhaps understand a little. Think of what you would give up for one last chance at something that has defined your life for many years, something that you have always been successful at and have been above and beyond the competition. You don’t have to be a professional sports player to get this analogy, you could apply any industry or undertaking. Anything in what you have invested your soul and your body which is now breaking down, counts.
I’ve never touched red clay. I’ve never felt it under my feet. I have seen green clay and tried to walk on it with regular sneakers. I almost fell. The surface is terribly slick. There’s a reason why they wear spiked sneakers. Playing tennis on the clay – it’s not simply tennis, it’s ballet and gymnastics, too. It’s a feat of elegant endurance. It’s magical.
Rafa is the King of Clay and will always be the King of Clay. Roland Garros will always be Rafa’s home.
My wish for Rafa is that he is able to walk out onto center court – Philippe Chatrier – to the sounds of cheers from tennis fans, and fight to the end, no matter the result. I can’t say it any better, any more eloquent, precise nor perfect than he.
Just kidding. Watching curling is like watching paint dry. I don’t watch the Olympics. But since they are being held in Paris this year, I just might start. I recall in years past I watched the Winter Olympics’ skiing and ice-skating competitions, but that was a long time ago, and I was a kid.
Anyone who’s been reading my blog since the beginning knows what I’m going to say I will most likely watch present day: tennis. The Summer Olympics are being held in Paris this year from July 27-August 4, Rafa Nadal is probably playing his last season of professional tennis, and Roland Garros (The French Open) is his jam (he’s not called the King of Clay for nothing), so I am deducing he’s going to aim for the double play: Roland Garros and the Olympics – which will be played on the red clay, the same courts as Roland Garros. There are current rules in place, however, that may be a bit of a hurdle for him to be able to do this. Without getting too complicated, he will have to appeal to the ITF (International Tennis Federation) to be able to be allowed to play in the Olympics. Fingers crossed.
Rafa Nadal hoists La Coupe des Mousquetaires, in his first of 14 French Open victories (to date), 2005Rafa Nadal won men’s singles gold at the Beijing Olympics, 2008
I suppose you know where I’ll be for Summer Olympics Paris 2024. I will not be in Paris. But I will be watching from my couch at home, wearing a beret, eating croissant and sipping un Café. 
US Open, 2005. I was on a mission to deliver a US Open Bear to Rafa Nadal. Just a small token of appreciation for hours of tennis entertainment. Though I had followed Rafa’s career up to this point, I had never met him. Read on for my observations and probably some hijinks, because…me.
Tuesday, August 29:
Hmm…today feels different. It’s a curly hair day. I’m gonna wear my pink cowgirl hat today with my multicolored belt, Hello Kitty hot pink flip flops and my new hot pink tank top. I load up my Hello Kitty tote bag: sunblock, water, food, bear.
We board the bus and head off. Feli* is first on Court 16 or something, and luckily traffic out of the city is better this morning. We arrive and the line to get on the grounds is short. The girl inspecting my bag is nice – “Oh, cute bear!” she coos, as if she hasn’t seen them all over the grounds before.
“Yeah,” I say, “I hope today is the day I send him on his way.” She laughs and I laugh. As soon as I say that, I know today is the day.
We check the practice courts: nobody good. Wait. That sounds really bad. What I mean is nobody that we are interested in watching. We wait for Feli outside of the side entrance. He will come through these doors with his opponent and a couple of security guards. My friend L. is chain-smoking. I’m lounging on a bench, relaxing. She is pacing. I am looking around at all the people who are here at 10:30. A little after 11, I announce I am going “over here” to another spot on the grounds, and I hear, “OhmyGodAmythereheis!” I turn, and yeah, it’s Feli. He’s cute, sure, but I’m still calm. L. is in a full run, following Feli to court. We get there and sit down in the first row, behind the player chairs. He glances at my fabulous hat a few times, and L. is smiling like a loon, clicking photo after photo, and the match hasn’t begun yet.
Did I mention she washed her shirt that reads, “Where’s Feli?” last night so today is also “Where’s Feli?” day? Yes. So the match has begun and she, L., is planted there like a tree. (Fyi, she eventually had that shirt signed by the man himself.)
At 12 o’clock, I feel the need to get up and check the practice courts again. I wander over through the maze of tall bushes and finally come out to the screened off practice courts by Ashe**. There are a lot of people there, so I take a peek all the way down. No, no, no…Wait. Who is that on the last court. Ah, ha.
It was Rafa, wearing tan shorts and a backwards white hat. I walk the blacktop sidewalk down to the very end. There are bushes and privacy screening up so the public can’t watch. At the end, though, there is a gate with some gaps, and that allows a view to where Rafa is practicing.
Rafa Nadal, US Open practice courts, 2005
There are ten people there, and nowhere for me to stand and watch. I see that there is a kid in the bushes, leaning against the fence. I don’t think twice. “Hi,” I say to the kid as I enter the bush space next to him and kneel in the very dry dirt, taking off my hat and putting it over my bag that now lies on the ground. I know the pink of the hat is very visible from court. Feña***is two feet from us at times, and so is Almagro****. Rafa is on the far side, but I can still see through the grommet holes, and Rafa is instantly recognizable.
“You like Nadal?” he asks me sincerely.
“Yeah,” I say pleasantly.
“See, I have this poster of him.”
“That’s a good poster,” I say. A few seconds pass and Feña is in front of us picking up balls. The kid speaks Spanish to him, but Feña ignores the talking bushes.
“You speak Spanish?” the kid asks me.
“A little,” I whisper.
“You know Nicolás Lapentti?” he asks me in his cute accent.
“Yes,” I reply, trying to watch Rafa and listen to this kid at the same time.
“I am the best friend of his brother,” he says proudly. I smile and nod. What can I say? I don’t really want to talk too much, especially with Feña and Almagro right there. And my knees are hurting from kneeling and my jeans are getting dirty and damn, it is hot. Toni*****is there, I see, but sitting in a chair. There is some guy patrolling the court perimeter, but he hasn’t spotted us yet, or maybe he doesn’t care that we are in the bushes. Suddenly, from nowhere, the kid whistles a catcall, making it seem as if I, the girl in the bushes, whistled at them!
“Hey! They think I did that!” I chide. He laughs, thinking that is pretty funny. Soon after, an errant ball directly off of Rafa’s racquet rolls and stops in front of me. I dangle my finger through the bottom of the fence and give it a little nudge so that it goes a foot or so. Kid next to me thinks that is worth a chuckle. I laugh too, wondering if anyone else caught it. Shortly after, kid leaves the bushes in a mad dash. I stay for a while until my knees hurt so badly I must get up. By now, Rafa is tidying up the court. Practice is over. I press the side of my face against the open portion and watch Rafa tidy. He is sweating profusely and he looks as he always does in photos.
Agassi******comes in and they shake hands. I don my sunglasses, my cowgirl hat, and calmly walk the tree-lined path to the front where I know he will soon sign autographs.
I check on the bear. He’s on top, easy access and today is the day – I just know it.
I reach the front and see swarms of kids with big tennis balls waiting for Rafa to sign. I’m calm, the swarms are not. “Back it up, people!” I hear a woman say as I continue to press forward to where he will come out. It’s not that I don’t hear her, it’s that I am ignoring her. There are a few kids in front of me, but no adults anywhere. I am the tallest one, and I’m wearing a pink cowgirl hat. He walks over to where I am and is maybe three feet from me — it would have been closer if not for the kids in between. I study his face, taking in as much detail as I can in such a short amount of time. It’s not every day that a person can get this close to a professional athlete, so taking mental notes is important for memory reflection later. He’s dripping wet with sweat (NYC in the summer – oof!), he is not as darkly tanned as he looks on TV or in photos, his nose is a bit wider than on TV and in photos, and his lips are large (not that there is anything wrong with that – I’m taking mental notes). His face is large, too, but he is not overly tall. He seems much taller on television. I would study his hands but I can’t see them. He looks down immediately and signs one, then two items, because he is, of course, well-rehearsed in the task of signing his name. It is when I say “Rafa” over the noise of the kids that he looks up and then at me, mildly surprised. I reach in to get the bear and I lift it above the kids’ heads. I hear a man’s voice behind me repeating, “I’ll take it. Give it to me. I’ll take it for him.” I ignore the man’s voice behind me because I want to. I will be delivering this bear. Rafa looks at me. “For you,” I say quietly as I hand the bear to him. And his eyes have already begun smiling. “Thank you,” he says sweetly and takes the bear from me gently. I nod and give him a small smile, but my attention is entirely on his eyes. His mouth is not smiling, his eyes are, and they are so kind. I hope my eyes smiled back, and didn’t do any weird twitching, blinking, winking thing.
And then the moment was over. Bear was delivered. He looked down to sign more and I turned, held my head high and walked back to Feli’s match where L. was still was seated. I had a content smile on my face the whole walk over. Mission: Accomplished.
I found out later, quite by accident, that only kids 12 and under are allowed to stand where I was standing. Sometimes lady luck is on your side, but it doesn’t hurt to be a bit of a rebel.
*Feliciano López, Spanish tennis player
**Arthur Ashe Stadium, USTA Billie Jean King National Tennis Center
***Fernando González, Chilean male tennis player
****Nicolás Almagro, Spanish male tennis player
*****Uncle Toni – Rafa’s uncle and coach (at the time – I mean, he is still his uncle, he’s just not his coach anymore)
******IF YOU DON’T KNOW WHO ANDRE AGASSI IS, I CAN’T HELP YOU
I got the sandals circa 2005. The featured image is a close representation of them but not exactly. I couldn’t find the exact model. I should have bought two pair, but I never do that. I never think of it until I no longer have the item.
Above is a photo of me opening birthday presents wearing The Sandals. Two months later I would be at the U.S. Open enjoying a night tennis match wearing these same shoes. If you’ve ever been to New York City in late August, you know it’s hot and it’s humid. And when you’re watching Rafa Nadal in a night match at the same time a baseball game and a concert are going on in the same complex, and there’s exactly one late bus to take you back to the hotel in Manhattan, you know what is about to happen.
We were watching the match in Arthur Ashe stadium. At the time, there was no roof. Arthur Ashe Stadium is the largest tennis stadium in the world. Just some random trivia for you there. I’m putting off telling you what happened to my shoes.
So, as I was saying, we were watching the match on a humid night in a stadium with no roof. We were staying in Manhattan, not Queens, where the stadium is, so I didn’t pay much attention to the weather forecast for Queens.
When it rained the first time, I wasn’t too nervous. It rained off and on throughout the match. My shoes were OK. Rafa won the match. We (herd of cattle) were all moving out of the stadium. At the same time, the baseball game and the concert were moving out of their respective building and stadium. Then it started to thunderstorm.
By the time my friend and I reached the parking lot, it was pouring. Remember I said there was one late bus to get us back to Manhattan? We couldn’t find it right away and it was about 2 AM. I believe the depart time for the bus was 2:15 AM, We were running toward the location where we thought it would be. Yes, I was running in my sandals. My beloved sandals.
We finally saw the bus. We reached it and we were drenched. I thought of my shoes, but I thought I could dry them out and everything would be fine.
And for the most part, they were. But over a few years, they started to dry rot. One summer day, I reached for them, took them out of their shiny box. It was white with black lettering. The sandal straps were stretched out. And rotted.
I said goodbye to my strappy sandals that day. I never tried to replace them, but there are a few out there that look similar. But they will never be my Nine West strappy wedge heeled sandals that sat through a night match at the U.S. Open and ran through a thunderstorm to a bus waiting to take me back to Manhattan.
“It's Amy,” I said. 