And so it came to pass that I
boarded a flight to Montreal then transferred to Paris to intersect with my
friend Sue for the French Open. I was
hoping to witness the march of Rafa Nadal toward his ninth title at Roland
Garros, and he did not disappoint.
Sue and I treated ourselves to two
days of tennis – the ladies’ semis on Thursday, the men’s on Friday – preceded
by lovely three-course luncheons at the site.
The courts at Roland Garros are clay, and the lush grounds are festooned in
green, white, and orange to match. The
weather was perfect, and the international crowd we sat among in the second
tier was enthusiastic. At one point late in the second men's semi
(Nadal v. Murray), "the wave" made its way around the entire stadium
at least a half a dozen times, delaying Nadal's serve and causing consternation
to the umpire, but history was in the making – yet again – and there was no
taming this crowd.
I was not the only woman gaga over
Nadal, although Sue – a Brit – was compelled to shout out “go Andy” for his
Scottish opponent now and then. Murray
had no chance, as game after game the umpire decreed, “Jeu Nadal”. “Jeu Nadal!” we echoed. Just in front of me sat a petite and primly
dressed elderly woman who quietly kept some kind of score during the
match. At the end she turned around,
revealing herself to be Japanese, and indicated that she too was a Nadal
fan. She dipped into her handbag and
withdrew a small silk satchel into which she had embroidered a photo of Nadal
and gave it to me. Clearly, I am not the
only kook.
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