Echoes
About this time last year, as the cricket world was draped in the sorrow of Shane Warne’s death, someone on Twitter asked for videos which highlight his artistry. An elevator pitch for his genius, if you will. Naturally, many grasped at Gatting, Strauss, and Gibbs; some others went for Chanderpaul, Cullinan, and Basit Ali. Some even went for the entire playlist, sourced through different YouTube channels. All great choices.
There isn’t a tougher craft to master in cricket than leg spin, and Warne was its high priest. He painted in ways that would make an artist envious. It was symmetric perfection at times, cutting a parabola across a batter’s line of sight, using air to take him one way and land to turn him the other. At other times, he would send chaotic firecrackers, zipping in from odd angles and exploding too close for comfort. Many batted against him, a handful really knew what to do. Warne, with a cricket ball, tested the boundaries of your imagination.
As a completely normal and centred human being, I spent an entire evening thinking about how athletes are best distilled.
Sure, numbers can paint a picture of dominance, but they can also oversimplify a complex craft. If you want to describe Roger Federer to your primary school-going, easily-distracted nephew, are you really going to talk about his Grand Slam titles? You could, instead, make them sit on a park bench and wax lyrical about his backhand for fifteen minutes. There is a risk that your nephew labels you a nutcase in need of therapy and asylum, but they will probably know more about Federer from that conversation than the number 20 will ever tell them.
Entire books have been written on Warne’s craft alone. But if I were to pick a gateway drug, it would be Warne as a content creator. Mic-ed up in a cricket match, talking to the commentary panel and us, and writing on a postcard how he will dismiss peak Brendon McCullum. He was 42. If he could do this years after retiring from international cricket and breaking physical and technical rhythms that keep athletes ticking, can you fathom how good he was when all his limbs and joints were in pristine condition?
Just last weekend, as I watched Rafael Nadal play Carlos Alcaraz in a promotional match for Netflix, my mind went in the same direction. The television screen casted a familiar image: taped fingers, white bandana, the snug t-shirt marked with sweat patches, and wristbands speckled with dirt. It is how we know him best.
The fog, unfortunately, was fleeting. While the same silhouette remained, there was no doubt that this was not the Nadal who could breeze through gruelling 4-hour matches in sweltering heat, and come back for more in the next round.
This was a different Nadal. The one who candidly discusses the toll injuries have taken on his everyday life, who has been absent from the last four Grand Slams, the rusty 37-year-old who realistically couldn’t, and shouldn’t, be expected to last two hours against a 20-year-old world number one.
Over the past two years, Nadal, in contrast to his younger, fiery self, has been open to discussions about retirement. He’s confessed to contemplating it for some time. His knees have been groaning for more years than some of his current rivals have been alive, and his foot ailment may now be a permanent fixture. The grunts are starting to drown out the thwack of the ball against his racquet. Gradually, his appearances at events have also been dwindling. Every few months, he signs up for a Masters tournament, sparking a wave of excitement, only to withdraw later due to an injury sustained during practice. He’s a man of few words, but the disappointment has begun to seep through. His body, once the unyielding bedrock upon which he built a monument to the sport, has started to rebel.
I wonder if there’s a more disorienting sensation for an athlete. Their body is the central focus of their existence. They nurture and hone it throughout their lives, and transform it into a mechanical marvel whose movements they control as easily as their breath. To feel it falter, even as the mind is still firing off signals to execute the perfect shot, must be a crushing experience. It’s as if a part of you is surrendering, even if the word ‘quit’ isn’t in your vocabulary.
As much as I had missed watching Nadal, I almost wished for Alcaraz to show him some mercy and wrap up this event quickly. Might as well save whatever’s left of his foot for the Slams.
But what do we truly know about genius? Rafael Nadal played out the first set as if he’d never left the court. He executed shots that, if timestamped to 2014, wouldn’t raise an eyebrow.
Evidently, there is enough magic left in that battered assembly of flesh and bones to leave young tyros flailing at thin air. The acoustics have dampened a little, because Nadal is smarter than putting his entire soul into a shot like he once did, but the purity of technique is right there. For the first hour or so at Las Vegas, Rafael Nadal was, well, Rafael Nadal. He unleashed the entire playlist — passing shots, lobs, and stretched forehand winners. Alcaraz, a lifelong fan, didn’t look particularly thrilled to be at the receiving end.
A quick detour. About eight years back, I was lucky enough to watch him at another promotional event in good ol’ New Delhi. Nadal vs Federer was a dream come true. Sure, it wasn’t quite the grass of South London or the clay or Paris, but hey, if the concrete of Sarita Vihar is where the party’s at, I am not complaining. Even on that mad evening, I found myself wondering how much time we had left with these two celestials. One was already showing his age, and the other’s knees were displaying signs of significant wear and tear. To be honest, it wouldn’t have been surprising if there were folks fretting over Nadal’s lower body as far back as 2008. The sheer intensity of his game could be exhausting to watch, let alone endure.
For a moment, my thoughts drifted to April and France. Could there be one last French Open run before Nadal finally listens to the protests of his body?
As Alcaraz walked back into the game and started making Nadal look his age again, I thought about Nadal at his peak. How long would he have taken to open up gaps in Alcaraz’s technique? Would he have committed the volume of unforced errors as he did here in the second and third sets? This isn’t a slight on Alcaraz — I love him — but a reflection of the plane people like Nadal ascend to.
There’s a charm to watching genius athletes in the twilight of their careers. Nostalgia, of course, is a potent catalyst. We’re so easily transported to memories of the same strokes, but played by more robust bodies with youthful, unlined faces. But I don’t think it’s just that. It is also the sense of awe they rekindle, an awe that comes from seeing extraordinary things executed with languid ease. It takes a special kind, and I guess that’s why we hold on to that feeling long after they start their descent.
In the days since, Nadal has withdrawn from the Indian Wells Masters. Even the French Open appearance is in jeopardy. I don’t think there are too many Grand Slams left in him, but hopefully there is one small run that affords him the chance to retire on a court, in a bandana and tight tshirt and dirt-stained wristbands. Typing a social media post with bandaged feet will be sad, but, come to think of it, also unsurprising for someone who continues to push the boundaries of the word perseverance itself.
Genius can germinate from a gift, but what does it take to make it timeless? In November 2022, Nadal was asked about the 2023 season. Injuries and a new baby had complicated his plans. Seemingly. “I don’t know if I will ever reach that level again, but I don’t have any doubt that I will die for it.”
Very aggressive, but also quintessential Rafa Nadal. He would. At this point, every return to competitive tennis is another effort to see if he can trek up and down a mountain again. Maybe his kind live for the high of the trek, and not so much the selfie at the top.
These days, retired cricketers and footballers play a bunch of charity tournaments. Nostalgia has long been commodified into a product. As you read this, one such exhibition cricket tournament, played with tennis and tape balls, is in its inaugural week. The lineup includes former Indian cricketers, some Bollywood stars, and a handful of clout-chasing YouTubers and Instagram influencers. It’s best to stay away from the chatter, but should the opportunity arise, do tune into the highlights for Sachin Tendulkar alone. His elbows are perfectly aligned, his toes nimble as a ballet dancer’s, and the contact between bat and ball is as crisp as ever. The ball seems to travel an extra few meters when he strikes it, even as he edges the age of 51.
How good was Sachin Tendulkar, the 25-year-old? Let me show you Sachin at 51, and you can start guessing.
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