This afternoon in Indian Wells the world number one defeated Andy Murray in straight sets, first, by controlling the ball's movement through telekinesis, and second, by pointing at him:
Late in the second set, after breaking Murray for the fourth time, Nadal, in a state of supernatural wizardry, ventriloquized the wind, leaving the Scot's coup de grace for the hostile Southern California climate to administer.Now there is talk of Nadal winning the Grand Slam this year. And what if he does? What more can we ask of him? Tennis will end. Thy kingdom come, Rafa, on Earth as it is in Clay Heaven.
Ah, and speaking of clay, while we still must suffer through Miami, that final terrace of purgation, where the Williams sisters pretend to purify themselves of the fake racism they endured ("endured") back in 2001 at its sister tournament, where they will once again win for some reason and people will believe hardcourt in perpetuum, amen, remember: clay season starts in a month. So good luck, suckers, and with Federer out of Monte Carlo, where he wouldn't win anyway for a fifth straight year, no blisters to upset Rafa in Rome (please, Ferrero??), Hamburg dismantled and shipped to Madrid (ha!), and Roland Garros awaiting a new record (FIVE. CONSECUTIVE. WINS.), how can anything be but the apotheosis of Rafa, the Rafafication. Shall I compose a chorale? Oh, I am giddy.
So, please, inflamed knee tendons, visit not Rafa this year, be not the obstacle to his four-in-one. This achieved, I will celebrate your glory in true Hocclevean balderdash, wrenching all manner of rhyme and refusing even the most chaste of metrical modulations. But, oh, the sweetest thing? It doesn't really matter if he does; they believe that he can. How far we've come from our Swiss disbelief.
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