Chapter Text
LONDON, ENGLAND, 2oth of NOVEMBER, 2011
The first day of the ATP World Tour Finals is a sunny Sunday.
I purposefully arrive early at the O2 arena, while the first doubles match is still in progress.
I linger around the locker rooms, on the corridors, keep an eye on your door.
It’s closed, I stand by it when nobody is looking and I almost knock on it.
Almost, when I hear the doubles finish their match, so my arm sinks back at my side and I walk away. You are going to come out at any minute now.
People come to make the last calls. Like in a theatre – 5 minutes left, Mr. Federer.
I don’t see you walking out, it would be weird as Hell to, but I decide I’m gonna go sit in the players’ box and watch you play.
You arrive at the court, arrange your things, go to toss the coin at the net and warm up. I see all this on TV.
I read all the statistics they put on screen. Again. I know them by heart. Roger Federer. Switzerland. Age 30. Height: 185 cm. Weight: 85 kg. (just like me) Turned pro in 1998. Current ranking 4th. Highest ranking 1st. Titles 69. Career Prize Money $65,174,935.
I wonder what you did with that 5 dollars and I smile at the silly thought.
The match begins and I don’t go out to watch. I watch it on the locker room TV. I’m thinking I’m being a coward but I force myself to believe the reason of not sitting among the audience is that it might bother your game. I sigh.
You play beautifully and strong but Tsonga is the same and you struggle some, winning one set but losing the second and standing even in the final one.
We know Tsonga can beat you. He did it a few times. So I start to chew on my thumb and rip the skin open when you hit a ball in the net. We curse in synch, you only inside but I loud, and I can’t do this anymore, you are at 5-4 in the final set and Tsonga is serving next and I’m here, hiding in my locker room and not supporting you fully.
I rush out to the center court and slide into the players’ box. Kind of hoping the people are too occupied to see me, but no such luck, you are having your sit before the next game and fans are looking around and when some say, ’Rafa is here’, heads turn toward me and cameras also. I wave, then duck my head. Busted.
I see you glance at the giant screen, then look down immediately. Oh shit, do I really disturb you? I chase the unpleasant and stinging thought away.
You are standing up, walking to the baseline to receive.
Now I’m right at your left and you send a lopsided look in my direction, not really looking, only noting you know I’m there.
One minute later you are breaking Tsonga, having the match point, and you win. Like, out of nowhere. I wow silently and cast a last look at you walking to greet Tsonga at the net, then I leave the box. Or more like I dissapear unnoticed, as you say later, before you could have seen me once again while packing up your stuff. I smile at you shyly and you smile back and say, “You could have stayed, Rafa, you know. Or come out to see me earlier.”
And I know at that moment that I will never bother your game.
Unless you play me.
That will happen on the next matchday, as we are drawn into the same group, B.
I don’t think of that yet. I try hard not to.
You won your first match, that is all that matters now.
I text you a ’felicitació’ and get your ’merci’ during my preparation for my own match. I spend at least 5 minutes grinning and Uncle Toni thinks I went insane.
But I didn’t. Although even before the match begins, I need medical care because the skin I ripped from my thumb (being worried for you), opens again and starts to bleed.
It doesn’t bother me much from that moment on, but makes me think of you for a brief second and I smile inwardly. You mess up my pre-match rituals but it doesn’t do any bad to me. On the contrary.
I win the first set and lead the second 2:0 when I feel my stomach getting upset and I leave the court for a bathroom break at an unusual time. Just fantastic, I managed to drink too icy water while my body was overheated and it ruins everything.
I lose the second set, being in pain, but win the final one, tight though. Phew.
You scold me when I’m climbing in bed beside you. My defense is weak, I say, “You come watch me, too, then I win easy,” but you look at me strict and we both know that is not the dynamics we have. You never come, not at a tournament we both play. Because I certainly would be distracted.
We don’t mention the next match. Instead, you pull my head onto your chest and the last I hear before sleep claims me is the heartbeat of the greatest tennis player of all times.
The heartbeat of the man I love.
LONDON, ENGLAND, 21st of NOVEMBER, 2011
We both have a free day on Monday.
My day is so much off, I can’t even practise because of some pain in my shoulder that you want to massage out but I bat your hands and say, “That why I have a physio-therapist, no?” You give in and we don’t do much more.
Except of you leaving for training and later appear at the center court to receive two of the year-end ATP Awards, that either the audience or the players themselves decided about. I watch on TV how the crowd cheers for you. You look stunning and I love your checked shirt.
When you bring the huge crystal trophies back in our hotel room, I stand still beside them but don’t touch. You say, “You will have your own this year too, Raf, I voted for you,” and pull me to the bed. I watch the evening lights from the street play on the glassy surface while we are making out.
I voted for you, too, Roger.
Later we read a summary on our rivalry, your favourite topic, and we watch the oldest video in line, that match in Miami from 2004, when I first met you on the court.
You stare at it in awe and irritation. I look like a ripped kid from kindergarten, being only 17. You look like the World No. 1 you were, already at the age of 22. Número Uno, sí?
But you also look like you are stunned that the little guy from kindergarten beat you in two straight sets.
I spend the next quarter hour rolling on the bed, laughing, and you are annoyed first, a frown on your face tells me, but join me in a bit. “Already you were elegant,” I say. “You were already nerve-racking,” you retort. We giggle some more.
You sleep smiling that night and I think I have to go out there and beat you tomorrow, Round Robin be cursed.
LONDON, ENGLAND, 22nd of NOVEMBER, 2011
It’s still the weirdest feeling ever.
We awake together, have breakfast together, leave for some practice at the same time.
Because we play at the exact same time. We play the same match today.
Federer – Nadal.
I think I like the afternoon games more. Too much waiting before an evening match. Too much anticipation.
I’m extremely excited. Even nervous. Like always, playing you.
I’m staring at your back at the sliding doors, when we are about to walk on court. You go out first, there is smoke produced by machines and it engulfs your legs. I think you seem giant but before I could let my mind continue this thought, the speakers blast your name and you are going out, leaving me behind, alone.
The crowd is roaring inside when I take your former place and soon follow you.
It has begun.
I don’t feel the game, I’m thinking, that artificial smoke swallowed my brain and now I can’t function. I can’t, actually, but if I could, that still wouldn’t be enough against you today.
I can see it in your posture. In your every move.
I lose the first set 3-6.
The worst is just about to come now, you are breaking all my serve games, you are beating me, defeating me, destroying me. When I’m down to 0-4, I can feel you just want it to be over and you are not enjoying a tiny bit of it anymore.
I lose 0-6.
You are coming toward me, to the net, extend your arm to shake my hand, with all your heart wanting to hug me, how we always do, whoever wins. I feel so sorry for you but I’m not able to look you in the eye.
We stare at each other in bed that night and nobody says anything.
You won. I lost. It happens, I think, but I don’t like you couldn’t enjoy it.
Sensing my discomfort, you lean in and brush your lips to my forehead, combing your fingers through my hair. “I did have some fun, mostly in the first set,” you say, and I’m so grateful I smile.
I know you would never lie about this.
We kiss and fall asleep tangled up, the match erased from our minds.
LONDON, ENGLAND, 23rd of NOVEMBER, 2011
I indeed win the Arthur Ashe Humanitarian Award which comes with the same crystal vase, so now we have three of them proudly standing on the table. You state mine between yours, in the middle, and I feel like grinning wide.
You took me to the All-England Club today.
We were allowed to go in the centre court where we have the Wimbledon tournament, but is closed at this time of the year.
We hit some, just for fun, and you say I have to forget all the defeats of this year by Djokovic now, and win the match against Tsonga because you want me in the semi-finals with you.
You mean it, I know. I wonder if it’s all that it takes, you grasping my shoulder, looking deep in my eyes, and ordering me to win.
The athmosphere of the All-England perfectly matches our silent plea and promise.
The moment is precious. Solemn. And you say you are going to come sit out in the players’ box and see me, and we smile because we know that won’t happen.
I don’t mind.
We go to practice, separated of course.
In the evening you demand me to dress up warm because Thierry Henry is gonna be here to pick us up in an hour and take us to the Arsenal stadium to see the football Champions League match. I’m concerned. Who said I wanted to see random teams that would be the enemy of my team one day?
You only snicker at me, slap my thigh with your towel and say, “Not everything is about Real Madrid. Get dressed! NOW!”
I’m appalled but rethinking my options, who am I to refuse Roger Federer?
We go, pick up your Daddy, too, on the way, and I thoroughly enjoy the match in the end. We listen to Thierry’s professional comments on the game and in the break we eat disgusting hot dogs at the buffet and they are so tasty! After the match we visit the team, Arsenal that is, in their locker room and while I only smile silently, you get Robin van Persie’s jersey as a gift and you take pictures with practically everybody, coach Arsene Wenger included. We have a great relaxing night. You are always right. And you invited the whole team for the next day tennis matches.
Back in the hotel, we check how Nole was beaten also in two straight sets.
We stare at the TV screen and you say now it’s sure he can only be your opponent in the semis, if he reaches them, as you will finish top in our group, and he can be only second in his.
I can’t decide if this is supercool or terrible.
This final tournament doesn’t go how it was supposed to.
LONDON, ENGLAND, 24th of NOVEMBER, 2011
It’s becoming my routine to arrive early, while you are still having your afternoon match.
I wonder if you can feel my eyes intently on you, watching you from my dark corner of hiding. You are moving like a gazelle. I couldn’t tear my eyes away even if I wanted.
Whatever you feel all of my stare, you win rather fast and sort of easy, standing on top of the Group B with perfect record, 3 matches, 3 wins. It’s over for you, and the horrible thought that I might ruin your happiness again if I lose and don’t go through to the semi-finals creeps me out.
I want to be there with you. I want.
Don’t panic, Rafa! Don’t!
I try to clear my mind.
I run into three or four Arsenal players at the corridors. They (and not only their wives!) might even faint by how awesome you were and promise they stay for my evening match, too.
That eventually comes and I lose the battle but I don’t bow out without a fight.
I’m drained. Mentally, physically. But I’m not that shaken, I giggle at my press conference how bad I played. I think of you will like that I say if in the first two sets I played not bad but not good, then the last set was a disaster. You will laugh at that and at my English again. I never find it hurtful when you laugh at my English though.
After the press rounds I’m getting my post-match massage.
I don’t know you were there to see me until you appear in my locker room.
You hug me and zip my bags, take them on your shoulders and carry them to your rented car.
I follow and you drive me to the hotel.
I say I’m not hungry, I just wanna sleep, but you are making a light dinner for me in the kitchen corner.
When I have the first bite, I realize I’m starving and shove all the food in my face till the very last morsel is gone.
You are smiling gently and I feel seriously relieved.
“You saw me lose. Again,” I say.
“Stop scrunching your nose up!” you answer.
I stop.
“Let’s go to bed!” With that you lead me to the bedroom, undress me and lay me down. Kissing every inch of my skin until my cock laying hard and ready on my belly, leaking.
Then you take it in your mouth and suck me off. I moan as loud as on court when I come between your lips. You swallow it all.
We don’t talk; you are resting your head on my stomach and I’m petting your head rhytmically. You have the most gorgeous hair in the world.
It’s calming. Familiar.
Home.
“I will fight on, on your behalf, too,” you murmur.
“I know, Rog.”
I’m sure you got rock hard as well, and I want to return the favour but when I call your name, you are snoring softly, your head still on my body.
I lie awake for long, thinking, we didn’t brush our teeth and we are gonna hate the food and the junk’s taste in our mouth in the morning.
Yet, I don’t move anymore to let you sleep in peace.