If you’re looking for the defining image of Rafael Nadal’s career, you could do worse than his reaction to winning the third set of the 2013 U.S. Open final. Nadal was facing Novak Djokovic, his almost career-long rival, for the 37th time out of a total 60 meetings (final head to head: Djokovic 31, Nadal 29). The players split the first two sets before battling back and forth in the third, testing each other’s stamina with one taxing baseline rally after another. With Djokovic serving at 4-5, Nadal overcame a 30-love deficit to earn a set point, and the Serb pushed a forehand several feet beyond the baseline during the ensuing rally. Before the ball even hit the ground, Nadal doubled over.
It briefly looked like Nadal had pulled a muscle or twisted an ankle. It wasn’t until he began pumping his left fist with abandon — his signature celebratory tic — that it became evident he was simply lost in the moment, enveloped in the rampaging youth-sport energy that animated his persona. He would go on to win the match in four sets to capture the second of his four U.S. Open titles.
Nadal, who has announced that he will retire from professional tennis next month, was tennis’s most exuberant competitor. Throughout his career, pundits marveled at his willingness to scrap for every point as if it were his last. In truth, no one could say for certain whether Nadal actually played harder than every one of his peers. Level of effort is not a quantifiable metric, and his career coincided with those of Djokovic and Andy Murray, both of whom shared his proclivity to grind opponents into submission through superior hustle. What distinguished Nadal as the personification of tenacity were the ways he showed his work. He grunted loudly and unself-consciously with nearly every swing of his racket. He buried his head in his hands after committing errors and cried out “vamos!” with abandon after winning key points. These mannerisms gave the impression not of a professional athlete vying for money and prestige but a giddy adolescent beating an older sibling at a game of ping-pong.
It wasn’t just that Nadal showed emotion on court; it was that he did so in ways that felt pure rather than performative. Most professional athletes’ on-court celebrations carry a whiff of calculation. Roger Federer and Djokovic, Nadal’s two greatest rivals, always appeared acutely attuned to their surrounding environments and the ways the gathered crowd perceived them. Their gestures, from Djokovic’s primal screams to Federer’s finger wags, seemed less like organic expressions of joy than subtle provocations, pointed reminders to those watching that they were, in fact, privileged to be witnesses to athletic greatness.
Nadal, on the other hand, came across as oblivious to everything other than himself, his opponent, and the tennis ball. He had a habit of picking at the back of his shorts as though he was trying to relieve himself of a particularly stubborn wedgie. He adhered to a series of compulsive rituals, which included placing his water bottles in highly specific spots. And his celebrations, his leaps into the air and fist pumps, rippled with spontaneity. Watching Nadal, you got the sense that nothing about his demeanor would change whether he was playing a packed night session at the U.S. Open or a pickup match at a public court. No one was more enamored of the thrill of competition regardless of circumstance.
The paradox of Nadal’s career was that the gusto he brought to the court belied the sophisticated nature of his game. He was too easily stereotyped as nothing more than a tennis backboard affixed to the Energizer Bunny. As Ashley Fetters once pointed out, Nadal drew comparisons to “pirates, cavemen, bulldogs, bulls, bulls, more bulls, bulls in china shops, bulls in Federer’s china shop, and, um, ‘Apaches.’” In his book Federer and Me, the journalist William Skidelsky gave a particularly ungenerous appraisal of Nadal’s talents when he wrote, “His game is founded not on surprise or variation but on the principle of eternal repetition … to find what works and then keep doing it over and over.”
These characterizations overlooked that Nadal was one of the great on-court problem solvers. He had an uncanny knack for understanding how to use his strengths — his giant forehand, his speed — to exploit his opponents’ weaknesses. His game was also more varied than it often received credit for. He had one of the game’s most underrated backhand slices and fantastic hands at net, and he knew when to use this versatility to flummox competitors. John McEnroe was so taken by Nadal’s tennis brain that he once compared him to both Leonardo da Vinci and Albert Einstein.
Nadal was intent on reimagining the geometry of tennis in real time. Most great defensive tennis players make it appear as if the court has shrunk; they move so quickly from corner to corner that the distances separating the lines start to feel lesser than they are. From the outset of his career, it was clear that Nadal was an exceptional defensive player, but he achieved this distinction by expanding the boundaries of play. He returned serve from several meters beyond the baseline, which often placed him closer to the stands than the lines on the court. He appeared to relish playing outside the double alleys. He had the speed to retrieve shots that bounced well outside the lines and the strength to hit winners from those distances. Wherever an opponent placed a ball, there was a good chance Nadal could chase it down and send it back with interest. The margins that confined previous generations did not apply to him.
And the men’s game today bears the imprint of the tactical innovations Nadal introduced. Daniel Medvedev has adopted his deep return position; Carlos Alcaraz and Casper Ruud hit their forehands with Nadal-like levels of topspin. In contrast, the one-handed backhand favored by Federer is slowly disappearing from the sport’s upper echelons. Nadal hasn’t always received credit for the influence he’s had on the men’s game, but many of his tactics have been adopted by other players.
Nadal’s accomplishments speak volumes. He won 22 Grand Slam singles titles. Fourteen of those victories came at the French Open, where he posted an unfathomable 112-4 record. He formed two of the most remarkable rivalries in the history of tennis with Federer and Djokovic, rivalries that were punctuated by some of the most memorable matches the sport has ever seen. He also represented his country with aplomb, winning a gold medal in singles at the 2008 Olympic Games and a gold medal in doubles at the 216 Olympics, and was a member of four Davis Cup–winning Spanish teams. He achieved all these accolades despite routinely missing time due to a litany of injuries that plagued him throughout his career.
But this season showed that Nadal didn’t need to be one of the best players in the world to remain compelling. In 2024, he failed to win a single tournament. He was crushed at the French Open by Alexander Zverev and lost the only final he contested to Nuno Borges. In spite of his diminished results, he still competed with the zeal and passion that are the hallmarks of his game. His final match at the Mutua Madrid Open, which he lost in straight sets, was one of the most satisfying of the tennis season because it featured so many of the tics — big forehands, fist pumps, unself-conscious self-exhortations — that have endeared Nadal to fans since he burst onto the scene as a baby-faced teenager with a fondness for clam diggers.
Nadal once said, “The adrenaline that sport gives you is very difficult to find in other things.” That quote provides the proper context to appreciate his career. He hustled relentlessly and pushed his body to extremes to chase that rush of adrenaline. And his effusive celebrations were the mark of someone who took joy in the heat of competition and couldn’t help but luxuriate in it.
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