Delaney Ricciardo is fierce and her determined to win at any cost has not made her well liked. But by the time she retires from tennis she is a twenty four grand slam winner and regarded as the greatest tennis player the world has ever seen.
But si...
The sun is barely in the sky yet here I was standing on the court in front of my uncle, already warmed up.
"It's the beginning of clay season" my uncle says "we put the past behind us and focus everything on Paris"
The loss in Melbourne still hurts. The only thing that will cure it is a win at Roland - Garros.
As the reporters love to remind me. I have only won the French open once. Twelve years ago. The other 25 of my slams have been on hard courts or grass. But Paris is red clay.
Clay surfaces are softer, they absorb more of the power of the ball. Which means everything about them is slower. Players run slower, the ball bounces slower and the ball bounces higher too, which gives my opponents more time to react to my shots. Clay cuts my advantage at almost every point. It slows my speed, dulls my accuracy and even my angles don't have the same effect.
It's also where players are most likely to get injured. I hate the French open. The clay is slippy and one wrong move and you could go sliding across the clay and injure yourself.
Clay is not for quick players, like me. It favours the heavy hitters, the strong players, like Nicki.
Clay is Nicki's surface. And I sincerely hope her ankle it too fucked to play.
"Are you ready to work?" My uncle asks
"Sí"
He throws the ball at me. I catch it and then he begins to walk towards the driveway.
"What are you doing?" I ask
He turns back to me, beckoning me over to him. "Today, Del, is an adventure"
I sigh as I begin to follow him down the driveway.
"You can leave your racket and the tennis balls" he says
"Do I need my running shoes?"
"No, I don't think so"
"Where are we going?" I ask as he opens the drivers door of the Rolls Royce I bought him two years ago.
"Three and a half months until the French Open"
I open the passengers door and climb in "yes, I'm aware"
"It's a clay surface" he says, turning on the ignition
Oh no.
"No Marco. Non c'è modo"
"Sí Delaney" he says
"non sognarlo nemmeno, zio"
"mi dispiace, ma devi farlo"
"What am I? Twelve again? I don't need to do this"
"Yes, you do" he says
I see a small smile erupting on his face as he turns left onto the beach.
****
I stand there, looking out onto the Ocean, the soft hot sand under my feet.
"You start here" Marco says "I'll drive up the coast five miles and meet you there"
I am once again about to run in the fucking sand
And not wet sand, dry, coarse sand that breaks apart under your weight and your feet sinking into it until you pull them out with your next step.
They make it look way too easy on Baywatch.
I look around me and sigh. Teenagers in crop tops and shorts are walking on the paved path that was to the left of me. A few women in sundresses were walking slowly across the wet part of the sand with their feet in parts of the water, holding their sandals in their hands.
I turn North, focused on the miles ahead of me
Muscle fatigue leads to a lack of agility. You can't hit your marks as accurately. Your shots don't have the same sharpness.
He's right, I need to do this.
I look down at the sand. I take a deep breath and start jogging
It is effortless at first. And then suddenly, my breath is thicker, my legs feel heavier
Forty minutes in and I am convinced I must have run the whole five miles. Marco is messing with me, he must have driven ten miles out.
My thighs are killing me, I'm panting . But I can't slow down, I have to keep the pace. I have to be able to do this.
I clear my mind. I listen to my breath. And for a moment I stop thinking about the misery of what I'm doing. I think only of Nicki Li.
She is the daughter of Chinese's parents, born in London. She picked up a racket at six years old. A left handed player, she had an advantage from the beginning. And she was good, maybe even great at points in her career. She turned pro and did, fine.
I remember playing her. I remember beating her. But then in 2007 she took half a year off from the tour and completely changed her game.
Nicki's groundstrokes became more brutal, her serve deadly. She started hitting wild, risky shots, her stamina unparalleled.
She's a player who dives for the ball, jumps high in the air. She goes into slips on the clay, slides like a baseball player into first base.
Her form isn't always perfect. Her shots are sometimes ugly. But she does one thing that we are all out here to do: win
Unfortunately for her. It's a bitch on her body. She injures herself more than most players. A twisted ankle, a sprained elbow, a weak knee. She's twenty nine now and it's hard to say how much longer she's got left.
But there is a certain kind of beauty to her game too, the wild desperation for it. She is not a dancer, she's a gladiator
I wonder what's she's doing at this exact moment. Will she be ready for Paris? Is she as anxious as I am for the upcoming year? Or is she thrilled by it?
"That was abysmal" my uncle says as I finally approach to where he is standing on the beach "it should have been at least ten minutes faster. We come back Tomorrow again Delaney"
I can barley breath "okay" I gasp "tomorrow"
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