![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
louiseluxHere's the collated version of Rafa's diary, as promised.
Title: Rafa's Diary
Rating: worksafe, pg for m/mish type stuff
Warnings: none really that I can think of
Disclaimer: this is entirely fictional
Notes: this is the complete, all in one place version.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
niennah has written some corresponding sections of Roger's diary, which I recommend you read because she creates such a great Roger voice. It's not essential to read them both at the same time, but it would be fun! So I've put links to Roger's diary entries in the appropriate places throughout this fic. Thank you to emungere for looking parts of it over and to everyone for encouraging me with feedback - it's much appreciated.
Summary - Rafa's diary throughout the 2009 US Open
Day One - Monday
It's been a long day. The days seem to get longer and harder whenever Toni arrives back with me, but I don't mind it. It's normality. My glutes ache though, and at the restaurant tonight I could have eaten twice the amount of everything.
Benito says the theatre sent two more tickets for Mamma Mia, one for every day of the week. I'm going to have to get him to send money for them, it's too generous. But the really nice thing is that they sent me a CD of the soundtrack! I'm listening to it now, as I write. The singer's voice is good, although not as good as Abba themselves.
Miguel bought me the box set of Pedro Almodóvar's films for my birthday. I brought it with me to the US when we flew out. So far we've watched High Heels, Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown and Bad Education. I enjoyed them all, although there was a kind of embarrassing gay sex scene in the last one. Embarrassing for Toni at least. He crossed his legs. I could tell he didn't approve of me watching it, like he was willing me with his mind to turn the tv over to football.
"Why do you want to see this sort of thing?" he said, as Juan and Enrique were in the middle of fucking each other stupid.
"It's a good film."
"It's depressing and miserable," Toni told me. "You should be watching happy things."
"Like what? Disney?"
"I don't know! Just not this."
For someone who says he's a free thinker, sometimes he can be very old fashioned. But he was right. The film turned out to be pretty depressing.
I wasn't expecting to see him today, but Roger was in the corridor outside the locker rooms, talking really loudly with some person I did not know. He reached out for my hand as I passed by and I probably hung on to it too tightly, like I always do. His nails dug into my hand. He's got very long nails recently. They're curved and shaped prettily, so it must be on purpose.
"How are you?" he asked me, in a tone of voice that said he actually wanted to know, not just being polite.
I think he well knows how I am. I read his opinions on my health the other day, or rather Benito read them to me. Well, he still thinks I'm a threat. That's good. That's just how it needs to be. He's looking as good as ever. Still Roger, oh yeah. He always is the same. I was thinking kids might make him go slower, but that's not the case. He's more into tennis than ever, yesterday I heard he practised at 8am! For him that's unbelievable... unless Mirka has taken throwing him out the house at 7am every morning. She might.
"I'm good," I told him, still holding his hand. "I'm very good."
I feel like I've been saying that a lot today and yesterday. Every single person has wanted to know how my famous knees are. They're good, what else can I say? I just want to start playing; I want to play and I want to win everything. The feeling is fizzing in my gut like a glass of champagne. I don't dare think too much about anything beyond my first match. I let my thoughts skid off anything to do with the future, and instead I see pictures in my head of myself on the court, and I think about the things I need to improve. Either that or I listen to awesome music from Mamma Mia!
"Did you see the baby pictures yet?" Feli asked me after my encounter with Roger. He was alone in the locker room, wearing a t-shirt that said 'show me the twins'. "It means show me your tits," Feli said. That makes more sense, I suppose?
No one has seen them, apart from shadowy glimpses of shapes in blankets. Andy Roddick says the babies don't exist and that it's all a publicity stunt to get us off our guard so Roger can beat us all some more. Mirka just carried cushions for 9 months. As if Roger and Mirka would do that!
Anyway, no, I never did see the baby photos yet.
Day two - Tuesday
I hit with Marat today. Marat is one of the many things Toni doesn't approve of.
"Wasted talent is a terrible crime," he said in my ear, as we got to the court. "And don't think you can start swearing all over the place just because he does."
"You swear all the time!"
"But I'm not number three in the world, Rafael."
It was very nice to talk with Marat. We never say much about tennis though. It's a little bit awkward now that it's clear he doesn't want to be doing this, and it seems insensitive to talk about my own problems. Fortunately, Marat always has stories of the things—and people-- he's done in Russia and Monte Carlo.
"You see the baby pictures yet?" he said to me, as we took a break.
Why does everyone ask me? "No!" Then I changed the subject to Dinara, and settled back to listen to Marat's ranting.
Novak was in the locker rooms. He flexed his bicep at me and then came over to hug me. He's a strange guy.
Back at the hotel we had lunch and then Maymo took me off for a massage. Then Benito came to me afterwards with lists of questions he thought were suitable. So many questions, all the time, over and over, and I never have the answers. Isn’t that strange? I'm a tennis player, not a thinker. Toni would agree with that.
"Here's some reading material for you," Benito said, handing me some printouts. He knew I liked to read the pressers. One thing Toni has taught me; know your enemy. Okay, well, it's not as dramatic as Toni would like to paint it, but I do like to know my colleagues well. It helps me if I understand their motivations.
"This one should give you a smile," Carlos said.
Britton's interview was a little like glimpsing my own younger self, back when I was 17 and Roger Federer was the absolute outer limit of the known universe. I've hit to that forehand too, just to see it, to see how beautiful it is, how powerfully he drives it. Pretty. What a suitable word. I did smile, and chewed on my fingernail and remembered the times I'd dreamed about tennis. I looked up to see Carlos watching me.
Everyone thinks I'm different to normal people, but I'm not. I'm just a person; everything about me is normal. I kept on reading until I got to Roger's interview, then I felt a little less normal. He thinks I'm good for the game, he thinks we've helped each other's career. Maybe one day we'll be able to sit down and figure out exactly how.
It's late now, and we've eaten dinner. The hotel suite is calm and quiet. Toni has hidden my Almodóvar box set, I swear! I can't find it anywhere. Feli came over to the hotel with The Wire season one, so maybe we can watch that.
"Is it violent?" I said.
"It's really good. Look, it was either this or crap like High School Musical."
I still haven't seen High School Musical, but Maribel keeps telling me to watch it. I must put it on my list of things to buy. I won’t mention it to Feli though.
Day three – Wednesday
Toni complained this morning to one of the organisers about the fans stealing my towels from off the court. It was a little awkward, especially remembering the vast pile of tournament towels in mama's airing cupboard back home. She told me she gets the right one out for each tournament, as a little celebration and good luck wish for me. Now I think of it, she never got the Wimbledon and Roland Garros ones out this year when I was home.
She called me last night and told me to eat more food.
It was difficult to say much before the match, but afterwards in the locker rooms Richard wandered over to me. I was sending a few texts and stretching on the bench, just letting my body ease down from playing.
"You okay?" he said, staring at my legs.
"I'm good. Are you okay?"
He tapped me on the shoulder and smiled. "Yeah. Thank you."
I just nodded. That was it, then he turned away and began to change out of his things, and then Roger came in with his little entourage. Our eyes met and I straightened up. He came right over to me and we clasped hands. People milled about everywhere, talking and shouting and laughing, the usual low boil of sound, full of the half distracted conversations of people trying to do their jobs.
"Hi, Rafa."
"Hey, Roger."
Was this going to be the moment when I got slideshow on his new iPhone? He reached up and touched a curl of hair that was very near my ear. I felt a very light movement, like the wind had moved it. It was hard to breathe for a second.
"Nice cut," he said, and his eyes met mine. They were warm and friendly and amused. "It suits you shorter."
He's very flirtatious – it's hard not to notice when it's turned on you. When Xisca met him for the first time, which must be more than three years ago now, she couldn't stop talking about him for the whole day. It pissed me off a lot at the time. The same thing with my mother. And Maribel!
"I like it like this," I said. "It's not so hot."
"Uh huh. Looks hot to me." He smiled at me, catching my eye again while I struggled for something to say, then he went off. What do I even say to him?
I sometimes wonder if it's a tactic to set me on the back foot.
There's something I never told anyone, not Toni or Xisca, even. He apologised to me after Australia, about a month later. He called me and we talked for about ten minutes and only at the end did he tell me he wished he'd kept himself together that day. He could very easily not have bothered to call me. It was around the same time my parents had sat us down and told us they were splitting, so I hardly even thought about it until much later, until I watched the Wimbledon final. That was a pretty bad day for me. After the match I went into my room and locked my door, switched off my phone and drew the curtains and then I cried like a kid into my pillow.
One day it will be me and my boat and none of this. Until then, I want to win everything. I want to never lose.
Day four – Thursday
Novak chatted with me today while he warmed up for his session. His girlfriend wants them to buy a house together. Novak said okay, but only if he can have a karaoke bar and a basement nightclub, and then she said no, he had to live alone. I wasn't sure if he was joking or not.
Roger was at practise too.
"Look at him," Toni said, as we sat in the shade.
I didn't need telling. He's usually the most conspicuous thing on the courts. He was working hard over on court 4. "Yeah. What?" I said.
"Every time you show up, he begins whacking those balls till the yellow fuzz flies off."
"So… what's your point?" I said.
He crossed his legs and sighed, just like I'd disappointed him. It's an easy thing to do with Toni. I sighed and tipped my head back and listened to the Williams sisters yelling at each other across the net.
"I'm not making a point," Toni said. Then, "You need to get over to the stringers before you can have your afternoon off."
"What are you going to do this afternoon?" I asked.
"I'm going to a gardening museum," he said.
"Did you hide my boxset?"
"No, of course not."
In the afternoon I stayed on the sofa—I learned to love the sofa over the summer-- and read the Spanish newspapers that Benito had given me, and we ate and watched TV and played my soccer game. Carlos managed to score three own goals playing Torres. At one point I laughed so hard that I got scared I was going to pass out or pop a vessel in my brain.
In the evening we went out to Fifth Avenue, where I was able to look for more films that Toni will disapprove of.
Day five – Friday
Match day! Today is one of those days where it feels I spend my entire life in a locker room. After so many years they come to look-- and especially smell-- the same. Sweat, farts, soap, damp towels and feet. The ones here are quite nice though, with good air conditioning.
Albert is here in New York now. It's good to see him, even if he makes Carlos extra loud. He's bought me a small stuffed lion, I don't know why. It's quite cute though. I put it on the little table next to the bed.
I saw Mirka this morning. She was alone, texting, waiting in the little grassy area outside the locker rooms just as we were going in. She was sitting at a table in the sunshine waiting, probably for Roger. She smiled and waved at us, and so Toni nudged me over to say hello. It must be months since we last spoke.
"Congratulations," I said. "How are you?
"Great!" she said, almost glowing in the sunshine, despite the dark circles under her eyes.
"And how are they?"
"Probably they are being sick on the nanny," she said, and laughed. "For a change. Look, Rafa. I have to show you them." She dug in her bag for her phone.
They are cute pink blobs – pink cheeks, pink clothes, little dark eyes. Babies are like locker rooms in a way. They all look the same – and probably smell the same. It's a good thing my mother isn't here or she'd be over to the Carlyle to "visit". Already my grandmother is hounding Xisca about babies every chance she has. My grandmother has few boundaries, as Xisca likes to put it. We haven't talked about the baby thing ourselves.
We said goodbye after a little chat.
"Did they inherit the nose?" Toni asked me, as we made our way through the gates to the courts.
"That's not very nice," I said, but Toni was laughing. "Anyway, it's hard to tell."
He patted me on the back and began to tell me about the gardening museum.
***
It's later now, after 3am but honestly I can't sleep. There's so much going on in my mind, all thoughts jumbled up and going bad like they can do in the middle of the night. I won the match, and it was a harder match than it should've been. Sometimes even winning doesn't make you feel like a winner. I need to work hard tomorrow.
Hey, I just realised that the toy lion is actually a little purse. It has a zip in its stomach!
I'm going to put my headphones on and listen to some music. Maybe it will help. Julio has a very soft and relaxing voice.
Day six - Saturday
Toni woke me early today. His face looming over me was the absolute first thing I saw. It really looks like he's dyed his hair. I should ask him about that one time.
"Time to get up," he said. Then, "You slept in those?"
I still had my headphones on. Over his shoulder, through the open bedroom door, I saw Maymo and Carlos eating toast and drinking coffee. Maymo looked up at me, then he reached for his notebook and wrote something in it.
"It's early," I said.
"It's 10am."
"Exactly what I said – early."
"We need to work on all the thing you're doing badly."
All the things. My stomach was very sore, still. I rubbed it and stared up at the ceiling and thought that he was exactly right. He's always right.
We were out of the hotel by 10.45, heading over to the grounds in a tournament car. I put on my headphones and gazed out of the window at the city as it slipped by. How can people live in such a big confusing place?
Roger was already playing by the time we arrived, so there was the predictable total chaos everywhere, but at least the practise courts only had my fans, so the chaos was about 50% lessened there.
"I'm going to scout," Carlos said.
"Do you really need to?" Toni said. "At this stage?"
Meaning we didn’t even know if I'd make it to the final. Or if Roger would.
"Yeah." Carlos smiled. "I like to watch Roger's matches anyway."
"Tell me the score," I called. It's weird how playing tennis means I don't get to watch much of it.
"I'll text you."
Roger won even though the game was a bit of a mess, Carlos told me later. I doubt we'll meet in the final. Andy and Juan Martin are far bigger headaches for me. I chatted a little with Juan Martin today after practise. He said someone had stolen two of his commemorative towels but that no one would admit to it. He seemed pretty upset about it, too. I told him he could have one of mine and he cheered up a lot.
How's your body? someone asked me last night in the presser. I said it was fine. What else was I going to say? It does its job, mostly. Sometimes I talk with Uncle Miguel about what my injuries might mean for me in the future. He knows a lot of things, like how it feels to wake up at forty years old with knees aching from things he did to them in his twenties. But, well. My life is dream and it's important to be grateful.
Day seven – Sunday
I have all these messages on my phone but I decided at about 3pm that I wasn't going to answer any of them apart from Maribel and my mama. Maribel told me I shouldn't worry, and then asked when I was going to take her to see Mamma Mia. Mama talked a lot about her friend's little dog, which ate the neighbour's cat. Then I spent a lot of time with Maymo and the doctor here after the match.
I just want to forget about it now.
Emails are way easier. I spent most of the time until dinner on my bed, reading the internet and chatting with my very good friend Miguel on messenger. After dinner I came back here and began talking to Miguel some more. I'm feeling pretty tired. I gave him the keys to the seacat when I left and he tells me he's taking good care of it. With Miguel that means giving German tourist girls trips round the harbour. He showed me some photos from the weekend – it looked like a good party and the sight of everyone looking so happy—well, high and drunk—gave me a sigh inside, and a tight ache in the jaw like I was about to cry.
It's weird to miss everyone but to be glad also that I'm not there on the island—that I'm doing this incredible thing with my life. I can never work out what it is that makes me different from my friends. I could have worked for my father's window company and had a good life, got a bit fat from eating too many pizzas, done anything normal at all. It's hard to imagine what though, right now.
I suppose there is the rest of my life to be normal, if having so much money at the age of 23 can be called normal even slightly. I have my dream of the boat and the sea and living down at Porto Cristo all summer long with my friends. There's a little more to that though. When I think of staying on one place… Could I even do that any more?
Toni is calling me from the other room in a sing song voice. I can even hear it when I pull the pillow over my head.
"Rafa… Rafa… Rafaaaaa…"
He thinks he's funny. Well, he's making me smile I guess. He wants to talk to me about training tomorrow, and the match on Tuesday. But partly I know he doesn't want me to be alone in here, being 'moody', as he says.
He doesn't like that, even though I'm hardly ever moody at all.
Day eight – Monday
Roger was at practise today-- he came out almost the same time as me.
I try to put him out of my mind but it's hard when I know he's watching me, and he was watching me a lot today. It sounds stupid, but it makes me hit the ball harder because I want to show off. Ridiculous! Like I'm a junior again and all I want to do is impress older players. I was like that with Charlie back when I was 13. He was a tennis superstar, so amazing! I even picked my racquet because it was the one he played with. That's not to say I wanted to be like him. More than anything I want to be myself.
I watched Roger play his "pretty" game during my breaks. He is as amazing to watch as ever, with the dramatic movement and poise of an actor on a stage, even here in the mundane settings of the tennis centre practise courts with only an audience of die hard giggling fans, me and Caroline Wozniacki's coach. He looked over, of course, and saw me watching-- of course. He raised a hand to me and I waved back.
"Would you ask him for advice?" Toni asked me, as we watched him begin to practise his backhand. He pounded it over and over like a lethal weapon, harder and sharper than usual. That shot is not so very lethal though, once I have him doubting himself.
I think sometimes on court he has looked at me with hatred. Yes, I'm sure of it. It's a mystery how that fits with the other ways I know we look at each other. The way he smiles right into my eyes. My life is so much easier and simpler if I put it all to the back of my mind and leave it there.
"Advice about what?" I said.
"I don't know. Longevity?" Toni said.
"Huh. I don't think so? We're too different. What could he tell me that you can't tell me? Or Carlos can't tell me?"
"How to stay in the game. How to love it. How to care for your body and your mind?" Toni said.
Sometimes Toni is strange. "I don't need him for that!" I said it, and then I was sorry when Toni just sighed. Sometimes when I look at his profile he looks so like my dad, and I had a pang of missing home right at that moment. "I'm not having a problem with anything," I said. "I'm fine. Roger isn't my role model, after all. I don't think he'd want to be talk to me about that stuff," I added. "We're rivals."
"Yes, I'd noticed. Well—You're probably right," he said, in a tone of voice that I was very familiar with. It said that I was probably wrong.
I was freed from the rest of that conversation by Maymo and his iodine pot. I don't think the stains are ever going to come out of my fingers, to be honest.
Day nine - Tuesday
Match day. It's hard waking up this morning. My stomach aches, a sharp pain when I move. Dream images are jumbled in my head. I shuffled to the bathroom, then shuffled back and dressed, and now I'm on the sofa watching some American talk show with people who shout a lot. Why are they so stupid? They're making me angry! Football replays are more calming.
No one is around because we've arranged to set off late to the stadium, about four. Maymo has gone to do some shopping, Toni is having brunch with Fernando's dad. It's peaceful, which is unusual.
If my stomach wasn't wound up already in a knot of nerves about tonight, I would be enjoying the quiet.
Oh, Toni left muffins. Great!
***
It's much later. In fact, it's the next day, in the early morning! I am in bed writing this, feeling partly like a kid staying up too late and partly like I am this ancient wrinkled husk. So tired! It is nearly four am-- tour organisers can sometimes make one feel like a performing dog. But that doesn't matter! Winning tonight was like flying up to the moon. I didn't let myself think Gael was too strong and in the end he wasn't. If you think something you can make it true. I believe this. Toni would say: 'If you work hard enough, what you want is more likely to happen.' Then he would add: 'But no guarantees. And now work harder.'
Everyone saw the man who rushed out to grab me. The organisers were in knots asking if I was fine and not hurt. I don't know what they thought he'd do—bite me? I wanted to talk about the match with everyone but they only wanted to ask me about 'the hug monster' as Maymo kept calling him. He only did it through happiness for me, not for anything bad or weird. Carlos told me afterwards that I looked like I wanted more hugs.
Well, it was a funny moment.
The things Toni said to me keep rattling about my brain. He's good at doing that to me. It felt good to win tonight. It's easier to stay positive when you're winning. I don't know if I would deal so well if I had lost before now, or even in the early stages. I wonder what it was like for Roger last year when everyone jumped in to write him off? It's never the kind of thing I can ask him. We are far too close—odd to say, even though we barely see each other. Playing a person on such a high level is intimate in a way no one else can understand, not even Toni. I know his habits, personality, what those certain looks and movements mean – like he knows the same stuff about me.
I just wrote a bad poem. I should probably tear it up, but instead I put it in the lion. I tell myself it's for luck.
Day ten – Wednesday
Andy Murray had a slump to his shoulders this morning. We saw each other at the tennis centre café, where I've eaten far too often in the past couple of weeks. The murals in there make me feel sad for some reason. Maybe because there is no escape from tennis even during a meal!
Andy's team came in all together to sort out some things, I think with the organisers. Every one of them looked glum. Yes, we all know that feeling of having lost pointlessly.
"How are you?" he asked me.
I always have a bit of trouble with his accent, so he said it again. "Oh! Yeah, I can't complain," I said. "How are you?"
He shrugged and plopped down next to me at the table. Miles and Toni began to talk too. "All right," he said, and began to pick at the edge of the table where the veneer was chipped. "That was a bit embarrassing last night."
He gave me a wary look, and after a moment it struck me that maybe he wanted me to say something maybe reassuring or comforting. We're not that far away from being kids, are we?
"Don't feel bad," I said. "Yeah, I know it's embarrassing. Remember Paris?"
"Hehe," he said.
"So look at what else you have done this year. It's simple. Nothing is so bad after all."
He nodded and gave me a shy look. "Yeah, of course. You're right."
Miles put his hand on Andy's shoulder and Andy looked up and smiled at him. They seem good friends. That's a nice thing.
It's at this point in a slam that my mind sharpens and every minute can become filled with tension and excitement. Sometimes, my mind can do the opposite and get all thick and slow.
Back in the room that night I watched Roger play Robin Soderling, who of course I don't hate at all! Haha. Toni and Carlos watched with me, and Tuts from Nike watched with us too. He's a big Roger fan, and he has a Roger t-shirt, the one with the James Bond Roger on it. It's really cool.
"He's really back in form," Toni said, at set point, then laughed as the score ticked over to 6-0. "Amazing."
All right, so watching him play tennis is a good excuse to stare. Other times I get self-conscious about him being around, and I end up jerking my eyes around everywhere but him just so I don't stare. He's magnetic. He's good to look at. He makes me blush sometimes. It's crazy. I was more confident when I was 16, kissing girls in nightclubs. Nothing matters at that age though. I'm not 16 any longer.
I'm not stupid, I know myself well. I'm attracted to men. But so what? I have my professional life to think about, let me just keep it quiet, hope no one notices too much. Toni would call it lying by omission. . I don't want to lie. But I don't want everything to be complicated by it.
Looking at that written down… I should hide this diary better now.
Day eleven - Thursday
What a crappy day!!
I HATE THE RAIN.
Day twelve – Friday
I'm back at the hotel after basically a whole day of playing table football and getting physio. The whole thing reminded me of juniors – the never-ending hanging around waiting for stuff to happen. Outside the windows of the players lounge, the practise courts were wet and shiny, and we kept coming back to stare out at the rain like we could make it stop. The sky was dark grey and a white mist had eaten the city. What a washout. I was cold too. It's chilly here.
"It's better if it doesn't stop," Toni said to me, in the morning, as we watched the rain in a little group. Fernando and his coach stood a little way off, both looking glum. "Your stomach needs it to not stop."
"What I need is some luck," I said, and he glanced at me, then nodded. Toni doesn't believe in luck, not even slightly. He believes in planning, attentiveness and hard work. But maybe even he believes it this time. I wonder if he's worried about me.
"It would be nice if you didn't get the shitty end of the stick for the scheduling," Rafa Maymo muttered. The funny thing about Maymo is that he has lot of opinions about everything but it takes him a long time to trust someone enough to say them out loud. I sometimes think that he prefers writing things down than speaking. Just as I was thinking that, he looked at me strangely, and then wrote something in his little book!
Benito called and tried to make me do the blog but I told him no. My mood is confused and it's hard to think what to say about anything. There are a lot of things I don't want to say anything about. My family, my friends, what I honestly think about the stupid scheduling of this tournament-- all those vital things that fill up my head.
Roger came into the players lounge. It was a surprise! Maybe he is allergic to the attention in this place-- usually a lot of people flock up to him and want to talk. But this afternoon it was quiet and he sat alone with a cup of coffee, watching me beat—no, pulverise, even if I say so myself-- Maymo at the foozball table. It's hard to think of another time that I've seen Roger alone with no one wanting his attention. I was a little bit too aware of him watching but I tried hard not to look too much. I don't think it worked.
He laughed and gave me a chocolate croissant as a prize for winning, so I ate it right there while he watched me, and I did not miss how his gaze fell to my mouth. He smiled. He always smiles at me. Mirka came in at that moment. She gave Roger an odd look when she saw us together, and then he said goodbye and left. Toni and Maymo were watching us.
It's late now, past 1am and I should be sleeping. My stomach is sore, even with the anti-inflammatories. They are the strongest type Maymo has, and they make my guts ache.
Writing this stuff down about Roger is a mistake because it sharpens all my thoughts, and tonight, at this moment, all my thoughts are about sex—about the way he looked at my mouth—about how it would be to reach out and remove his shirt and caress his skin. I wonder what he would sound like if I did that? Is he a very sensual person? Would he moan?
God. My diary might become x-rated fast if I don't stop.
I'm so tired. I know the best way to make myself fall asleep.
Roger's day twelve
Day thirteen – Saturday
It took me about half an hour to win against Fernando. Amazing! I thought he would bring something more to the match. I didn't feel great serving. Everyone is asking about the stomach – I don't want to talk about it! But then when I sidestep and refuse, journalists simply make things up or speculate, and they're usually wrong. I talked to my dad on the phone this morning. He told me to stick with what I felt was the right thing to do.
I'm feeling bad about the DC tie. It's going to be tough on them without me or Fernando. Feli called me after dinner to ask me how I was. He sounded kind of depressed about it all, not very positive. I didn't like to hear it and told him so, straight out. But it's understandable. Like me, he's not having the best year. I watched him go out to Dent. There was no shame in that though – Dent was playing well. For Dent.
"You'd make a good coach," Feli said, sighing. "If you were less of a dick."
"I'd make a terrible coach," I said. "I'd yell too much."
"Nah, really—You'd be great," he said. "I mean it. You're a good motivator."
"So, what? Are you expecting me to retire soon?" I said, pretending to be angry, and that made him laugh. It was good to hear. We talked for about an hour, about nothing and everything. Friends, girls, football, other players.
"Are you seriously expecting to get to the final?" Feli asked, bluntly, like he does.
"No, of course not." But I want to be in it so much. So much. I couldn't say that part, not to anyone.
"Roger said somewhere he'd be waiting for you."
Feli likes it when Roger says things like this - I think he finds it funny. "I know. Yeah, well. He's always waiting for me these days," I said, and then Feli was quiet for a moment. "Anyway, he doesn't even know if he's gonna be in the final, so—whatever."
Everyone liked to play up the rivalry, even ourselves sometimes, making it into some cartoon event in bold colours. I feel it as something more fragile and personal – a link between our lives.
"It'll be okay," he said. "Soon. You just need a break."
I don't know what will happen tomorrow. It could be my last day here. The lion sits right next to me on its table, watching me with yellow plastic eyes. It's silly, but I turn it to look away before I can go to sleep.
Roger's day thirteen
Day fourteen – Sunday
I am on the plane home. In Mallorcan time it's the morning but my body is on New York time and it's just the normal time I sleep. I'm not tired yet. The cabin has slowly fallen into darkness and there are sounds of everyone's sleeping breaths around me, slow and gentle. Not very far away from me, Toni is a motionless lump under a blanket. These seats are very clever in how they turn into a bed. He's looked so tired for the past few days – I'm glad he's got something decent to sleep on.
Carlos managed to change the flights to Sunday. Somewhere along the way we got an upgrade to this nice business class section. We had flights for Monday originally... Yes, in case I won. To tell the truth, I never expected to win. It was just that the little bright star of hope was hanging over all our heads.
Tomorrow we are seeing my doctor. No one expects the news to be great, but at least it's not going to be something terrible. Toni is most worried that it's become a hernia, but we'll see. All I want at this moment is to not have pain. It puts me in a bad mood and I'm having to be careful not to snap at Toni and Carlos and Maymo.
The whole day has been an ordeal, from the preparation to the match to the press afterwards. There was one nice moment though: Roger came to find me after my match and before his own. I am thinking that Toni thought it was tasteless of him to come and say something to me—this guy who was likely to win the title-- but Roger and I grinned at each other under his disapproval like we were sharing a private joke. It was a funny moment.
He doesn't come and talk to me often. I wish we could talk more.
"How are you?" he said, waiting to ask once Toni had moved off.
"Not great. Not bad. It's a tear, so…"
"That's not great."
"Yeah, well. I still could have tried harder. I played badly."
"You can't blame yourself. Juan played great. You might've lost anyway, even fit."
Always so comforting! It made me laugh, which hurt my stomach muscles. "I know, he was good."
He brushed his hair back from his eyes, even though it wasn't even in them. He was so relaxed, not like he had a big match in a couple of hours. He was dressed in loose sweats and a t-shirt. I tried not to think about Saturday night and all the things I'd pictured. What is the point? Instead I remembered what Toni had said.
"What would you do?" I said. "If you were me?"
He blinked. "Now? In your position?" He looked very surprised I would ask such a thing—we pay big salaries to get this kind of advice from professionals, but he seemed to glow a little, like he was really pleased I'd asked. He looked thoughtful. "Well-- Of course, after the diagnosis, rest, treatment, rescheduling, all that, I would say the most important is to listen to your body. I don't know what else to say."
Was that it? I'm still turning those words over in my head now, as I listen to the rumble of the engines. Listen to your body. What does it mean? We talked for a little more. He wanted to know more about my itinerary for the rest of the year.
"Are you going to be ready for Shanghai?" he said.
"For sure. Well, I hope."
"Great." He touched my arm. I'm positive he noticed how I twitched at that light brush of his fingers. "I'm sorry you got the injury, okay?"
He meant: 'Sorry we can't play.' No one of us is going to say that out loud though.
"I know. There is next year here, no?"
"What? You don't expect get to final before then?"
"I never say that!"
Now we were smiling at each other. I became aware of how our gazes had fixed on each other, of how I'd forgotten about my surroundings. I felt suddenly completely exposed. Not an entirely pleasant feeling. What was going on in Roger's head? I have no idea - he's quite a mystery. With a little relief I saw that Toni was coming back. Roger's phone began to play a really bad tune.
He dug about in his pocket and frowned. "I have to be getting on."
"Yeah, okay" I said. "I'll-- See you soon."
"I hope so." Then he was gone, attention withdrawn, someone else demanding it. "Bye. See you, Toni."
The locker room settled back to normal. I did my many interviews, then went back to pack. It was total chaos, a pigsty in that room! I can't remember if I packed that damn lion.
It doesn't matter. We'll be landing soon, and I'll be home.
Roger's day fourteen
Title: Rafa's Diary
Rating: worksafe, pg for m/mish type stuff
Warnings: none really that I can think of
Disclaimer: this is entirely fictional
Notes: this is the complete, all in one place version.
niennah has written some corresponding sections of Roger's diary, which I recommend you read because she creates such a great Roger voice. It's not essential to read them both at the same time, but it would be fun! So I've put links to Roger's diary entries in the appropriate places throughout this fic. Thank you to emungere for looking parts of it over and to everyone for encouraging me with feedback - it's much appreciated. Summary - Rafa's diary throughout the 2009 US Open
Day One - Monday
It's been a long day. The days seem to get longer and harder whenever Toni arrives back with me, but I don't mind it. It's normality. My glutes ache though, and at the restaurant tonight I could have eaten twice the amount of everything.
Benito says the theatre sent two more tickets for Mamma Mia, one for every day of the week. I'm going to have to get him to send money for them, it's too generous. But the really nice thing is that they sent me a CD of the soundtrack! I'm listening to it now, as I write. The singer's voice is good, although not as good as Abba themselves.
Miguel bought me the box set of Pedro Almodóvar's films for my birthday. I brought it with me to the US when we flew out. So far we've watched High Heels, Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown and Bad Education. I enjoyed them all, although there was a kind of embarrassing gay sex scene in the last one. Embarrassing for Toni at least. He crossed his legs. I could tell he didn't approve of me watching it, like he was willing me with his mind to turn the tv over to football.
"Why do you want to see this sort of thing?" he said, as Juan and Enrique were in the middle of fucking each other stupid.
"It's a good film."
"It's depressing and miserable," Toni told me. "You should be watching happy things."
"Like what? Disney?"
"I don't know! Just not this."
For someone who says he's a free thinker, sometimes he can be very old fashioned. But he was right. The film turned out to be pretty depressing.
I wasn't expecting to see him today, but Roger was in the corridor outside the locker rooms, talking really loudly with some person I did not know. He reached out for my hand as I passed by and I probably hung on to it too tightly, like I always do. His nails dug into my hand. He's got very long nails recently. They're curved and shaped prettily, so it must be on purpose.
"How are you?" he asked me, in a tone of voice that said he actually wanted to know, not just being polite.
I think he well knows how I am. I read his opinions on my health the other day, or rather Benito read them to me. Well, he still thinks I'm a threat. That's good. That's just how it needs to be. He's looking as good as ever. Still Roger, oh yeah. He always is the same. I was thinking kids might make him go slower, but that's not the case. He's more into tennis than ever, yesterday I heard he practised at 8am! For him that's unbelievable... unless Mirka has taken throwing him out the house at 7am every morning. She might.
"I'm good," I told him, still holding his hand. "I'm very good."
I feel like I've been saying that a lot today and yesterday. Every single person has wanted to know how my famous knees are. They're good, what else can I say? I just want to start playing; I want to play and I want to win everything. The feeling is fizzing in my gut like a glass of champagne. I don't dare think too much about anything beyond my first match. I let my thoughts skid off anything to do with the future, and instead I see pictures in my head of myself on the court, and I think about the things I need to improve. Either that or I listen to awesome music from Mamma Mia!
"Did you see the baby pictures yet?" Feli asked me after my encounter with Roger. He was alone in the locker room, wearing a t-shirt that said 'show me the twins'. "It means show me your tits," Feli said. That makes more sense, I suppose?
No one has seen them, apart from shadowy glimpses of shapes in blankets. Andy Roddick says the babies don't exist and that it's all a publicity stunt to get us off our guard so Roger can beat us all some more. Mirka just carried cushions for 9 months. As if Roger and Mirka would do that!
Anyway, no, I never did see the baby photos yet.
Day two - Tuesday
I hit with Marat today. Marat is one of the many things Toni doesn't approve of.
"Wasted talent is a terrible crime," he said in my ear, as we got to the court. "And don't think you can start swearing all over the place just because he does."
"You swear all the time!"
"But I'm not number three in the world, Rafael."
It was very nice to talk with Marat. We never say much about tennis though. It's a little bit awkward now that it's clear he doesn't want to be doing this, and it seems insensitive to talk about my own problems. Fortunately, Marat always has stories of the things—and people-- he's done in Russia and Monte Carlo.
"You see the baby pictures yet?" he said to me, as we took a break.
Why does everyone ask me? "No!" Then I changed the subject to Dinara, and settled back to listen to Marat's ranting.
Novak was in the locker rooms. He flexed his bicep at me and then came over to hug me. He's a strange guy.
Back at the hotel we had lunch and then Maymo took me off for a massage. Then Benito came to me afterwards with lists of questions he thought were suitable. So many questions, all the time, over and over, and I never have the answers. Isn’t that strange? I'm a tennis player, not a thinker. Toni would agree with that.
"Here's some reading material for you," Benito said, handing me some printouts. He knew I liked to read the pressers. One thing Toni has taught me; know your enemy. Okay, well, it's not as dramatic as Toni would like to paint it, but I do like to know my colleagues well. It helps me if I understand their motivations.
"This one should give you a smile," Carlos said.
Britton's interview was a little like glimpsing my own younger self, back when I was 17 and Roger Federer was the absolute outer limit of the known universe. I've hit to that forehand too, just to see it, to see how beautiful it is, how powerfully he drives it. Pretty. What a suitable word. I did smile, and chewed on my fingernail and remembered the times I'd dreamed about tennis. I looked up to see Carlos watching me.
Everyone thinks I'm different to normal people, but I'm not. I'm just a person; everything about me is normal. I kept on reading until I got to Roger's interview, then I felt a little less normal. He thinks I'm good for the game, he thinks we've helped each other's career. Maybe one day we'll be able to sit down and figure out exactly how.
It's late now, and we've eaten dinner. The hotel suite is calm and quiet. Toni has hidden my Almodóvar box set, I swear! I can't find it anywhere. Feli came over to the hotel with The Wire season one, so maybe we can watch that.
"Is it violent?" I said.
"It's really good. Look, it was either this or crap like High School Musical."
I still haven't seen High School Musical, but Maribel keeps telling me to watch it. I must put it on my list of things to buy. I won’t mention it to Feli though.
Day three – Wednesday
Toni complained this morning to one of the organisers about the fans stealing my towels from off the court. It was a little awkward, especially remembering the vast pile of tournament towels in mama's airing cupboard back home. She told me she gets the right one out for each tournament, as a little celebration and good luck wish for me. Now I think of it, she never got the Wimbledon and Roland Garros ones out this year when I was home.
She called me last night and told me to eat more food.
It was difficult to say much before the match, but afterwards in the locker rooms Richard wandered over to me. I was sending a few texts and stretching on the bench, just letting my body ease down from playing.
"You okay?" he said, staring at my legs.
"I'm good. Are you okay?"
He tapped me on the shoulder and smiled. "Yeah. Thank you."
I just nodded. That was it, then he turned away and began to change out of his things, and then Roger came in with his little entourage. Our eyes met and I straightened up. He came right over to me and we clasped hands. People milled about everywhere, talking and shouting and laughing, the usual low boil of sound, full of the half distracted conversations of people trying to do their jobs.
"Hi, Rafa."
"Hey, Roger."
Was this going to be the moment when I got slideshow on his new iPhone? He reached up and touched a curl of hair that was very near my ear. I felt a very light movement, like the wind had moved it. It was hard to breathe for a second.
"Nice cut," he said, and his eyes met mine. They were warm and friendly and amused. "It suits you shorter."
He's very flirtatious – it's hard not to notice when it's turned on you. When Xisca met him for the first time, which must be more than three years ago now, she couldn't stop talking about him for the whole day. It pissed me off a lot at the time. The same thing with my mother. And Maribel!
"I like it like this," I said. "It's not so hot."
"Uh huh. Looks hot to me." He smiled at me, catching my eye again while I struggled for something to say, then he went off. What do I even say to him?
I sometimes wonder if it's a tactic to set me on the back foot.
There's something I never told anyone, not Toni or Xisca, even. He apologised to me after Australia, about a month later. He called me and we talked for about ten minutes and only at the end did he tell me he wished he'd kept himself together that day. He could very easily not have bothered to call me. It was around the same time my parents had sat us down and told us they were splitting, so I hardly even thought about it until much later, until I watched the Wimbledon final. That was a pretty bad day for me. After the match I went into my room and locked my door, switched off my phone and drew the curtains and then I cried like a kid into my pillow.
One day it will be me and my boat and none of this. Until then, I want to win everything. I want to never lose.
Day four – Thursday
Novak chatted with me today while he warmed up for his session. His girlfriend wants them to buy a house together. Novak said okay, but only if he can have a karaoke bar and a basement nightclub, and then she said no, he had to live alone. I wasn't sure if he was joking or not.
Roger was at practise too.
"Look at him," Toni said, as we sat in the shade.
I didn't need telling. He's usually the most conspicuous thing on the courts. He was working hard over on court 4. "Yeah. What?" I said.
"Every time you show up, he begins whacking those balls till the yellow fuzz flies off."
"So… what's your point?" I said.
He crossed his legs and sighed, just like I'd disappointed him. It's an easy thing to do with Toni. I sighed and tipped my head back and listened to the Williams sisters yelling at each other across the net.
"I'm not making a point," Toni said. Then, "You need to get over to the stringers before you can have your afternoon off."
"What are you going to do this afternoon?" I asked.
"I'm going to a gardening museum," he said.
"Did you hide my boxset?"
"No, of course not."
In the afternoon I stayed on the sofa—I learned to love the sofa over the summer-- and read the Spanish newspapers that Benito had given me, and we ate and watched TV and played my soccer game. Carlos managed to score three own goals playing Torres. At one point I laughed so hard that I got scared I was going to pass out or pop a vessel in my brain.
In the evening we went out to Fifth Avenue, where I was able to look for more films that Toni will disapprove of.
Day five – Friday
Match day! Today is one of those days where it feels I spend my entire life in a locker room. After so many years they come to look-- and especially smell-- the same. Sweat, farts, soap, damp towels and feet. The ones here are quite nice though, with good air conditioning.
Albert is here in New York now. It's good to see him, even if he makes Carlos extra loud. He's bought me a small stuffed lion, I don't know why. It's quite cute though. I put it on the little table next to the bed.
I saw Mirka this morning. She was alone, texting, waiting in the little grassy area outside the locker rooms just as we were going in. She was sitting at a table in the sunshine waiting, probably for Roger. She smiled and waved at us, and so Toni nudged me over to say hello. It must be months since we last spoke.
"Congratulations," I said. "How are you?
"Great!" she said, almost glowing in the sunshine, despite the dark circles under her eyes.
"And how are they?"
"Probably they are being sick on the nanny," she said, and laughed. "For a change. Look, Rafa. I have to show you them." She dug in her bag for her phone.
They are cute pink blobs – pink cheeks, pink clothes, little dark eyes. Babies are like locker rooms in a way. They all look the same – and probably smell the same. It's a good thing my mother isn't here or she'd be over to the Carlyle to "visit". Already my grandmother is hounding Xisca about babies every chance she has. My grandmother has few boundaries, as Xisca likes to put it. We haven't talked about the baby thing ourselves.
We said goodbye after a little chat.
"Did they inherit the nose?" Toni asked me, as we made our way through the gates to the courts.
"That's not very nice," I said, but Toni was laughing. "Anyway, it's hard to tell."
He patted me on the back and began to tell me about the gardening museum.
***
It's later now, after 3am but honestly I can't sleep. There's so much going on in my mind, all thoughts jumbled up and going bad like they can do in the middle of the night. I won the match, and it was a harder match than it should've been. Sometimes even winning doesn't make you feel like a winner. I need to work hard tomorrow.
Hey, I just realised that the toy lion is actually a little purse. It has a zip in its stomach!
I'm going to put my headphones on and listen to some music. Maybe it will help. Julio has a very soft and relaxing voice.
Day six - Saturday
Toni woke me early today. His face looming over me was the absolute first thing I saw. It really looks like he's dyed his hair. I should ask him about that one time.
"Time to get up," he said. Then, "You slept in those?"
I still had my headphones on. Over his shoulder, through the open bedroom door, I saw Maymo and Carlos eating toast and drinking coffee. Maymo looked up at me, then he reached for his notebook and wrote something in it.
"It's early," I said.
"It's 10am."
"Exactly what I said – early."
"We need to work on all the thing you're doing badly."
All the things. My stomach was very sore, still. I rubbed it and stared up at the ceiling and thought that he was exactly right. He's always right.
We were out of the hotel by 10.45, heading over to the grounds in a tournament car. I put on my headphones and gazed out of the window at the city as it slipped by. How can people live in such a big confusing place?
Roger was already playing by the time we arrived, so there was the predictable total chaos everywhere, but at least the practise courts only had my fans, so the chaos was about 50% lessened there.
"I'm going to scout," Carlos said.
"Do you really need to?" Toni said. "At this stage?"
Meaning we didn’t even know if I'd make it to the final. Or if Roger would.
"Yeah." Carlos smiled. "I like to watch Roger's matches anyway."
"Tell me the score," I called. It's weird how playing tennis means I don't get to watch much of it.
"I'll text you."
Roger won even though the game was a bit of a mess, Carlos told me later. I doubt we'll meet in the final. Andy and Juan Martin are far bigger headaches for me. I chatted a little with Juan Martin today after practise. He said someone had stolen two of his commemorative towels but that no one would admit to it. He seemed pretty upset about it, too. I told him he could have one of mine and he cheered up a lot.
How's your body? someone asked me last night in the presser. I said it was fine. What else was I going to say? It does its job, mostly. Sometimes I talk with Uncle Miguel about what my injuries might mean for me in the future. He knows a lot of things, like how it feels to wake up at forty years old with knees aching from things he did to them in his twenties. But, well. My life is dream and it's important to be grateful.
Day seven – Sunday
I have all these messages on my phone but I decided at about 3pm that I wasn't going to answer any of them apart from Maribel and my mama. Maribel told me I shouldn't worry, and then asked when I was going to take her to see Mamma Mia. Mama talked a lot about her friend's little dog, which ate the neighbour's cat. Then I spent a lot of time with Maymo and the doctor here after the match.
I just want to forget about it now.
Emails are way easier. I spent most of the time until dinner on my bed, reading the internet and chatting with my very good friend Miguel on messenger. After dinner I came back here and began talking to Miguel some more. I'm feeling pretty tired. I gave him the keys to the seacat when I left and he tells me he's taking good care of it. With Miguel that means giving German tourist girls trips round the harbour. He showed me some photos from the weekend – it looked like a good party and the sight of everyone looking so happy—well, high and drunk—gave me a sigh inside, and a tight ache in the jaw like I was about to cry.
It's weird to miss everyone but to be glad also that I'm not there on the island—that I'm doing this incredible thing with my life. I can never work out what it is that makes me different from my friends. I could have worked for my father's window company and had a good life, got a bit fat from eating too many pizzas, done anything normal at all. It's hard to imagine what though, right now.
I suppose there is the rest of my life to be normal, if having so much money at the age of 23 can be called normal even slightly. I have my dream of the boat and the sea and living down at Porto Cristo all summer long with my friends. There's a little more to that though. When I think of staying on one place… Could I even do that any more?
Toni is calling me from the other room in a sing song voice. I can even hear it when I pull the pillow over my head.
"Rafa… Rafa… Rafaaaaa…"
He thinks he's funny. Well, he's making me smile I guess. He wants to talk to me about training tomorrow, and the match on Tuesday. But partly I know he doesn't want me to be alone in here, being 'moody', as he says.
He doesn't like that, even though I'm hardly ever moody at all.
Day eight – Monday
Roger was at practise today-- he came out almost the same time as me.
I try to put him out of my mind but it's hard when I know he's watching me, and he was watching me a lot today. It sounds stupid, but it makes me hit the ball harder because I want to show off. Ridiculous! Like I'm a junior again and all I want to do is impress older players. I was like that with Charlie back when I was 13. He was a tennis superstar, so amazing! I even picked my racquet because it was the one he played with. That's not to say I wanted to be like him. More than anything I want to be myself.
I watched Roger play his "pretty" game during my breaks. He is as amazing to watch as ever, with the dramatic movement and poise of an actor on a stage, even here in the mundane settings of the tennis centre practise courts with only an audience of die hard giggling fans, me and Caroline Wozniacki's coach. He looked over, of course, and saw me watching-- of course. He raised a hand to me and I waved back.
"Would you ask him for advice?" Toni asked me, as we watched him begin to practise his backhand. He pounded it over and over like a lethal weapon, harder and sharper than usual. That shot is not so very lethal though, once I have him doubting himself.
I think sometimes on court he has looked at me with hatred. Yes, I'm sure of it. It's a mystery how that fits with the other ways I know we look at each other. The way he smiles right into my eyes. My life is so much easier and simpler if I put it all to the back of my mind and leave it there.
"Advice about what?" I said.
"I don't know. Longevity?" Toni said.
"Huh. I don't think so? We're too different. What could he tell me that you can't tell me? Or Carlos can't tell me?"
"How to stay in the game. How to love it. How to care for your body and your mind?" Toni said.
Sometimes Toni is strange. "I don't need him for that!" I said it, and then I was sorry when Toni just sighed. Sometimes when I look at his profile he looks so like my dad, and I had a pang of missing home right at that moment. "I'm not having a problem with anything," I said. "I'm fine. Roger isn't my role model, after all. I don't think he'd want to be talk to me about that stuff," I added. "We're rivals."
"Yes, I'd noticed. Well—You're probably right," he said, in a tone of voice that I was very familiar with. It said that I was probably wrong.
I was freed from the rest of that conversation by Maymo and his iodine pot. I don't think the stains are ever going to come out of my fingers, to be honest.
Day nine - Tuesday
Match day. It's hard waking up this morning. My stomach aches, a sharp pain when I move. Dream images are jumbled in my head. I shuffled to the bathroom, then shuffled back and dressed, and now I'm on the sofa watching some American talk show with people who shout a lot. Why are they so stupid? They're making me angry! Football replays are more calming.
No one is around because we've arranged to set off late to the stadium, about four. Maymo has gone to do some shopping, Toni is having brunch with Fernando's dad. It's peaceful, which is unusual.
If my stomach wasn't wound up already in a knot of nerves about tonight, I would be enjoying the quiet.
Oh, Toni left muffins. Great!
***
It's much later. In fact, it's the next day, in the early morning! I am in bed writing this, feeling partly like a kid staying up too late and partly like I am this ancient wrinkled husk. So tired! It is nearly four am-- tour organisers can sometimes make one feel like a performing dog. But that doesn't matter! Winning tonight was like flying up to the moon. I didn't let myself think Gael was too strong and in the end he wasn't. If you think something you can make it true. I believe this. Toni would say: 'If you work hard enough, what you want is more likely to happen.' Then he would add: 'But no guarantees. And now work harder.'
Everyone saw the man who rushed out to grab me. The organisers were in knots asking if I was fine and not hurt. I don't know what they thought he'd do—bite me? I wanted to talk about the match with everyone but they only wanted to ask me about 'the hug monster' as Maymo kept calling him. He only did it through happiness for me, not for anything bad or weird. Carlos told me afterwards that I looked like I wanted more hugs.
Well, it was a funny moment.
The things Toni said to me keep rattling about my brain. He's good at doing that to me. It felt good to win tonight. It's easier to stay positive when you're winning. I don't know if I would deal so well if I had lost before now, or even in the early stages. I wonder what it was like for Roger last year when everyone jumped in to write him off? It's never the kind of thing I can ask him. We are far too close—odd to say, even though we barely see each other. Playing a person on such a high level is intimate in a way no one else can understand, not even Toni. I know his habits, personality, what those certain looks and movements mean – like he knows the same stuff about me.
I just wrote a bad poem. I should probably tear it up, but instead I put it in the lion. I tell myself it's for luck.
Day ten – Wednesday
Andy Murray had a slump to his shoulders this morning. We saw each other at the tennis centre café, where I've eaten far too often in the past couple of weeks. The murals in there make me feel sad for some reason. Maybe because there is no escape from tennis even during a meal!
Andy's team came in all together to sort out some things, I think with the organisers. Every one of them looked glum. Yes, we all know that feeling of having lost pointlessly.
"How are you?" he asked me.
I always have a bit of trouble with his accent, so he said it again. "Oh! Yeah, I can't complain," I said. "How are you?"
He shrugged and plopped down next to me at the table. Miles and Toni began to talk too. "All right," he said, and began to pick at the edge of the table where the veneer was chipped. "That was a bit embarrassing last night."
He gave me a wary look, and after a moment it struck me that maybe he wanted me to say something maybe reassuring or comforting. We're not that far away from being kids, are we?
"Don't feel bad," I said. "Yeah, I know it's embarrassing. Remember Paris?"
"Hehe," he said.
"So look at what else you have done this year. It's simple. Nothing is so bad after all."
He nodded and gave me a shy look. "Yeah, of course. You're right."
Miles put his hand on Andy's shoulder and Andy looked up and smiled at him. They seem good friends. That's a nice thing.
It's at this point in a slam that my mind sharpens and every minute can become filled with tension and excitement. Sometimes, my mind can do the opposite and get all thick and slow.
Back in the room that night I watched Roger play Robin Soderling, who of course I don't hate at all! Haha. Toni and Carlos watched with me, and Tuts from Nike watched with us too. He's a big Roger fan, and he has a Roger t-shirt, the one with the James Bond Roger on it. It's really cool.
"He's really back in form," Toni said, at set point, then laughed as the score ticked over to 6-0. "Amazing."
All right, so watching him play tennis is a good excuse to stare. Other times I get self-conscious about him being around, and I end up jerking my eyes around everywhere but him just so I don't stare. He's magnetic. He's good to look at. He makes me blush sometimes. It's crazy. I was more confident when I was 16, kissing girls in nightclubs. Nothing matters at that age though. I'm not 16 any longer.
I'm not stupid, I know myself well. I'm attracted to men. But so what? I have my professional life to think about, let me just keep it quiet, hope no one notices too much. Toni would call it lying by omission. . I don't want to lie. But I don't want everything to be complicated by it.
Looking at that written down… I should hide this diary better now.
Day eleven - Thursday
What a crappy day!!
I HATE THE RAIN.
Day twelve – Friday
I'm back at the hotel after basically a whole day of playing table football and getting physio. The whole thing reminded me of juniors – the never-ending hanging around waiting for stuff to happen. Outside the windows of the players lounge, the practise courts were wet and shiny, and we kept coming back to stare out at the rain like we could make it stop. The sky was dark grey and a white mist had eaten the city. What a washout. I was cold too. It's chilly here.
"It's better if it doesn't stop," Toni said to me, in the morning, as we watched the rain in a little group. Fernando and his coach stood a little way off, both looking glum. "Your stomach needs it to not stop."
"What I need is some luck," I said, and he glanced at me, then nodded. Toni doesn't believe in luck, not even slightly. He believes in planning, attentiveness and hard work. But maybe even he believes it this time. I wonder if he's worried about me.
"It would be nice if you didn't get the shitty end of the stick for the scheduling," Rafa Maymo muttered. The funny thing about Maymo is that he has lot of opinions about everything but it takes him a long time to trust someone enough to say them out loud. I sometimes think that he prefers writing things down than speaking. Just as I was thinking that, he looked at me strangely, and then wrote something in his little book!
Benito called and tried to make me do the blog but I told him no. My mood is confused and it's hard to think what to say about anything. There are a lot of things I don't want to say anything about. My family, my friends, what I honestly think about the stupid scheduling of this tournament-- all those vital things that fill up my head.
Roger came into the players lounge. It was a surprise! Maybe he is allergic to the attention in this place-- usually a lot of people flock up to him and want to talk. But this afternoon it was quiet and he sat alone with a cup of coffee, watching me beat—no, pulverise, even if I say so myself-- Maymo at the foozball table. It's hard to think of another time that I've seen Roger alone with no one wanting his attention. I was a little bit too aware of him watching but I tried hard not to look too much. I don't think it worked.
He laughed and gave me a chocolate croissant as a prize for winning, so I ate it right there while he watched me, and I did not miss how his gaze fell to my mouth. He smiled. He always smiles at me. Mirka came in at that moment. She gave Roger an odd look when she saw us together, and then he said goodbye and left. Toni and Maymo were watching us.
It's late now, past 1am and I should be sleeping. My stomach is sore, even with the anti-inflammatories. They are the strongest type Maymo has, and they make my guts ache.
Writing this stuff down about Roger is a mistake because it sharpens all my thoughts, and tonight, at this moment, all my thoughts are about sex—about the way he looked at my mouth—about how it would be to reach out and remove his shirt and caress his skin. I wonder what he would sound like if I did that? Is he a very sensual person? Would he moan?
God. My diary might become x-rated fast if I don't stop.
I'm so tired. I know the best way to make myself fall asleep.
Roger's day twelve
Day thirteen – Saturday
It took me about half an hour to win against Fernando. Amazing! I thought he would bring something more to the match. I didn't feel great serving. Everyone is asking about the stomach – I don't want to talk about it! But then when I sidestep and refuse, journalists simply make things up or speculate, and they're usually wrong. I talked to my dad on the phone this morning. He told me to stick with what I felt was the right thing to do.
I'm feeling bad about the DC tie. It's going to be tough on them without me or Fernando. Feli called me after dinner to ask me how I was. He sounded kind of depressed about it all, not very positive. I didn't like to hear it and told him so, straight out. But it's understandable. Like me, he's not having the best year. I watched him go out to Dent. There was no shame in that though – Dent was playing well. For Dent.
"You'd make a good coach," Feli said, sighing. "If you were less of a dick."
"I'd make a terrible coach," I said. "I'd yell too much."
"Nah, really—You'd be great," he said. "I mean it. You're a good motivator."
"So, what? Are you expecting me to retire soon?" I said, pretending to be angry, and that made him laugh. It was good to hear. We talked for about an hour, about nothing and everything. Friends, girls, football, other players.
"Are you seriously expecting to get to the final?" Feli asked, bluntly, like he does.
"No, of course not." But I want to be in it so much. So much. I couldn't say that part, not to anyone.
"Roger said somewhere he'd be waiting for you."
Feli likes it when Roger says things like this - I think he finds it funny. "I know. Yeah, well. He's always waiting for me these days," I said, and then Feli was quiet for a moment. "Anyway, he doesn't even know if he's gonna be in the final, so—whatever."
Everyone liked to play up the rivalry, even ourselves sometimes, making it into some cartoon event in bold colours. I feel it as something more fragile and personal – a link between our lives.
"It'll be okay," he said. "Soon. You just need a break."
I don't know what will happen tomorrow. It could be my last day here. The lion sits right next to me on its table, watching me with yellow plastic eyes. It's silly, but I turn it to look away before I can go to sleep.
Roger's day thirteen
Day fourteen – Sunday
I am on the plane home. In Mallorcan time it's the morning but my body is on New York time and it's just the normal time I sleep. I'm not tired yet. The cabin has slowly fallen into darkness and there are sounds of everyone's sleeping breaths around me, slow and gentle. Not very far away from me, Toni is a motionless lump under a blanket. These seats are very clever in how they turn into a bed. He's looked so tired for the past few days – I'm glad he's got something decent to sleep on.
Carlos managed to change the flights to Sunday. Somewhere along the way we got an upgrade to this nice business class section. We had flights for Monday originally... Yes, in case I won. To tell the truth, I never expected to win. It was just that the little bright star of hope was hanging over all our heads.
Tomorrow we are seeing my doctor. No one expects the news to be great, but at least it's not going to be something terrible. Toni is most worried that it's become a hernia, but we'll see. All I want at this moment is to not have pain. It puts me in a bad mood and I'm having to be careful not to snap at Toni and Carlos and Maymo.
The whole day has been an ordeal, from the preparation to the match to the press afterwards. There was one nice moment though: Roger came to find me after my match and before his own. I am thinking that Toni thought it was tasteless of him to come and say something to me—this guy who was likely to win the title-- but Roger and I grinned at each other under his disapproval like we were sharing a private joke. It was a funny moment.
He doesn't come and talk to me often. I wish we could talk more.
"How are you?" he said, waiting to ask once Toni had moved off.
"Not great. Not bad. It's a tear, so…"
"That's not great."
"Yeah, well. I still could have tried harder. I played badly."
"You can't blame yourself. Juan played great. You might've lost anyway, even fit."
Always so comforting! It made me laugh, which hurt my stomach muscles. "I know, he was good."
He brushed his hair back from his eyes, even though it wasn't even in them. He was so relaxed, not like he had a big match in a couple of hours. He was dressed in loose sweats and a t-shirt. I tried not to think about Saturday night and all the things I'd pictured. What is the point? Instead I remembered what Toni had said.
"What would you do?" I said. "If you were me?"
He blinked. "Now? In your position?" He looked very surprised I would ask such a thing—we pay big salaries to get this kind of advice from professionals, but he seemed to glow a little, like he was really pleased I'd asked. He looked thoughtful. "Well-- Of course, after the diagnosis, rest, treatment, rescheduling, all that, I would say the most important is to listen to your body. I don't know what else to say."
Was that it? I'm still turning those words over in my head now, as I listen to the rumble of the engines. Listen to your body. What does it mean? We talked for a little more. He wanted to know more about my itinerary for the rest of the year.
"Are you going to be ready for Shanghai?" he said.
"For sure. Well, I hope."
"Great." He touched my arm. I'm positive he noticed how I twitched at that light brush of his fingers. "I'm sorry you got the injury, okay?"
He meant: 'Sorry we can't play.' No one of us is going to say that out loud though.
"I know. There is next year here, no?"
"What? You don't expect get to final before then?"
"I never say that!"
Now we were smiling at each other. I became aware of how our gazes had fixed on each other, of how I'd forgotten about my surroundings. I felt suddenly completely exposed. Not an entirely pleasant feeling. What was going on in Roger's head? I have no idea - he's quite a mystery. With a little relief I saw that Toni was coming back. Roger's phone began to play a really bad tune.
He dug about in his pocket and frowned. "I have to be getting on."
"Yeah, okay" I said. "I'll-- See you soon."
"I hope so." Then he was gone, attention withdrawn, someone else demanding it. "Bye. See you, Toni."
The locker room settled back to normal. I did my many interviews, then went back to pack. It was total chaos, a pigsty in that room! I can't remember if I packed that damn lion.
It doesn't matter. We'll be landing soon, and I'll be home.
Roger's day fourteen
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-10-02 09:28 am (UTC)I very much like the introspection you put into these entries, and while they're mostly on the sad or longing side, it's nice that now and then Rafa has a boost of self-confidence.
I do also like the way you always make us wonder about the things not actually written in the diary - and the fact that he never gives up hope.