The Spanish inquisition is back on. For Rafael Nadal has delved into his kitbag and discovered the ravages of his lost youth. Watch the French Open if you want proof. Such does his Tennis hand land multiple blows to bloodied opponents that he is now cemented in the psyche of World Tennis as the greatest clay courter of all time. Yes, even better than Bjorn Borg.

Strike a blow, beat them down, knock them out - Lo. Relentless in his crusade, genius flows through his arteries. Those arterial routes are showing themselves at Roland Garros - Lo. For, come Sunday, two semi-finals down and fate has greeted the Spaniard with a potentially epic clash against World number two, Novak Djockovic, in a Final showdown.

Three setters are his favoured delicacy. Not for him to waste time on five sets -such inadequacy. Well, not usually, anyway. Occasionally he will relent and allow an underling one set. It's not that it overly pleases him, but that's what you get when presiding over a hard earned kingdom; The rats of servitude getting notions above their station in life.

Of course struggles reside.

Every so often it isn't just a set they sneak. No, they launch a full scale invasion. There are many battles in what is at times a long and arduous war. Only this last few months those incursions have become numerous as the pests of wannabe stardom seek out their own niche in the world. First, Djockovic attacked. Two times he has downed Nadal and one of those was on enemy territory - Clay. To make matters worse, David Ferrer fired shots at Nadal in the Quarterfinal of the Monte Carlo Masters and won. It was one thing the talented Djockovic making inroads, but the journeyman Ferrer; That must have hurt.

But they never win the war.

He might have taken a pounding and his body often resembles an injury wreaked cavity of twenty-eight year old bones rattling around aimlessly while wondering where his next stride will miraculously appear from. That body, those muscles, twisted and rotated and saturated with the contortion of an unnaturally violent style of action packed ferocity. Heavily top spun forehands, heavily top spun backhands, just heavily top spun. All of which takes its toll on the body of this thirteen year veteran of the circuit.

Those old bones though are made to look youthful through the iron-willed desire presiding within. Initially a one trick wonder who could do no wrong on clay but could play little else, wanted it all. He practiced and he played and he strayed onto grass and hard courts and strived and finally arrived into the realms of all round success. Four years of gruelling graft and finally he broke Roger Federer's veneer of invincibility with a win in what was one of Wimbledon's greatest ever finals. And that's on grass. No not that kind, the real thing, he's legit. Never one to take short cuts, hard work and dedication were and are his drug of choice.

Everyone starts somewhere. Everyone at one stage or another are just a mere upstart. You see, what is now Nadal's wasn't always. Federer used to dominate all before him. Then when Federer was at his peak, someone better came along; Nadal. What used to belong to a Swiss now belongs to a Spaniard.

As you can see, this dynasty was not procured overnight. It was solidified over many a year. Initially the cost of this tournament was dirt cheap, but it soon became a valuable commodity. Now it has become so prosperous that his dominion over this empire has spread to the sum of eight titles. Sure, it has a leasehold to be paid in the form of beating seven foe each year. So much blood, sweat and tears and that is mainly his opposition, such is his dominance.

In a particularly ruthless mood this last fortnight, it has seen him garner six victories at the piffling cost of just one set lost. Such imperious form, even Andy Murray, in the semi-final, could only conjure up a measly six games.

Now it is the big one, up against Djockovic. He can smell the rich aromas of Grand Slam title number fourteen wafting his way in 2014. The topspin heavy ground-strokes of Nadal up against the flattened out shots of Djockovic. Two relentless retrievers defending and attacking and counter-attacking, such a heavenly encounter with two of the brightest stars battling it out for a spot in the sun.

In the end, on clay, it is always Nadal's way or the highway. Don't want to live under his rule, he will banish you from his long held territory - Lo.

The World is a different place today. Fads come and fads go, as is their wont. Values change. Well, duh, you say. Still, back in the day they would chop a tree down(get over it Greenies)with an axe, now it's a chainsaw. Nothing wrong with that of course, progress and all, except that these days it seems like there is forever someone looking for a short cut to success, like getting someone else to do the job for them. Or, in this day and age of instant gratification, if success doesn't occur, move on. They often do. Or maybe, in the case of Tennis, if a set appears a lost cause, hold back on the effort and wait until the second set.

It wouldn't have happened fifty years ago, but then values have changed. And the mighty dollar has taken over. Those values again. Or lack thereof.

Fortunately though, there is still hope for some of the young folk out there.

Like Eugenie Bouchard. Here is a young lady that doesn't go in for all the modern claptrap that is often spouted. Here's a lady that finds herself down 5-2 in the first set. So what does she do? One, sing the theme song to the Monkeys' and do what some others would do and throw the set and start afresh in set two, albeit one set down? Two, fight back with all her might and take said first set 7-6 in the tiebreaker?

You betcha the Canadian would find the maturity to select option two. She didn't even have to send out a search party. Such an easy decision. After all, let a foe win one set and gather momentum and you may not be able to put a halt to the tidal wave of effervescent confidence of a frontrunner. So, toughen up and search for the hurt, alert for a way back, don't slack.

Gain the respect of your peers for a never say die attitude, or at the very least, show the blighters what is coming their way when they next attempt to tangle with you.

But this isn't just about the winning of an encounter in the present. No, it runs deeper than the cosmetic sheen of a slithering mind falsely enlightened by the shallow beat of the laziest of souls. It's about respecting oneself. No lazy deed is rewarded by long term success. Instead, taking pride in a performance, developing habits to the good for a lifetime and an attitude where one never backs down, no matter what.

Sure, there is always an easy way out. Give away that set you thought was gone, give away a chance to progress to the next round. For there was fear, but to care and dare would dare the jeers of doubt to wear the flare of rare and near flawless fare veering beyond the tears of all peer. Give away a potential semi-final spot. Go on, do it, take that risk. If that's for you, fine.

Centre court of Roland Garros, the loveliest of all things Paris. Eugenie Bouchard wants that experience. Already a Semi-Finalist in Australia last January, why not aspire to consistency as well as being a Princess of brilliance.

Fight, fight back from 2-5 down and show the Tennis world what a decade there is to come.

And that fight back paid off for the twenty year old as her opponent, Carla Suarez-Navarro, fought her way back to take the second set. Just think what might not have been if Bouchard had passed on that first set. Possibly not a 7-5 win in the third.

But it was only that fight back that would enable this potential Grand Slam winner with the mass of talent to land herself a berth in the final four.

Often in life there are opportunities available for the taking. In sport they come and, then, they dissipate just as quickly. One lost one day, another here tomorrow. Some take them, some don't. There are sights we all want to spy such as the towering twosome of the Williams sisters opposing each other in round three in Paris. But that was one opportunity they could not bring to fruition.

Whether, deep down, they would want to face each other is another matter. It is well known that neither enjoy playing the other. Never have, never will, for the two have always been close. They have gone through a lot together, their careers virtually joined at the hip. One year apart in age, and despite Venus having a wee head start on that count, Serena was the first to garner a grand slam title, in 1999 at Flushing Meadows. Only a year later Venus joined in what was to become a rampage of glutinous domination over the next four and a half years as they won twelve between them and have since gone on to win twenty-six singles slam titles during their illustrious careers.

This is before even considering the narrative of two black girls brought up the on wrong side of the tracks, not to mention encountering the well to do tennis environment of the conservative white middle class. Yeah, they've gone through some. They had a father to push them along. They more than likely have Richard Williams to thank for the position they now find themselves in life. Two of the greats of the game, more money than they know what to do with and plush homes to reside in. He protected them, as much as is possible. He pushed them, they became great.

It can't have been easy though. Dealing with the racial overtones and negative comments with which white parents of their peers often made. To feel the pain of discrimination - Nobody deserves such. And then there was their older half-sister who was brutally murdered in 2003. Shot. Coldly. Now that is life. One life cruelly disposed of and at least two others affected for life. Neither sister won a Slam title for another two years and we haven't even got to Indian Wells yet.

Indian Wells, was it racism or Venus pulling out of her match against Serena four minutes before the game was due to begin to avoid the sisters playing each other, both of or none of the above? To that, none of us will ever know. The only way to know if racism was rearing its ugly head in the form of a torrent of booing is for the same to have occurred with two white sisters. Maybe there was racism, maybe there wasn't. It could have been a simple case of a crowd upset at being denied the chance to get their money's worth. That said, both Venus and Serena have refused to play the event since. That's thirteen years and counting. They stand on principle. And the Sisters have played each other since.

Did it happen in Paris? Two sisters losing deliberately to avoid a confrontation? Well, NO. Down conspiracy theorists. Didn't happen. Quite simply, on one side we have Venus, a Woman who is a mere shadow of her former self and suffers from sjogren's syndrome. She gets tired easily. Simple as that. She will never be the same player again. And then there was Serena who competed an hour later and would have known her Sister had already lost. Go home conspiracy theorists.

We all get Venus, but what of Serena? Where to now for the Woman that many regard as the greatest female player of all time. There are five ahead of her on the all time list of Singles winners. Chris Evert, Martina Navratilova, Helen Wills-Moody, Steffi Graf and Margaret Court. Of those five, with the exception of Graf, she would have been too strong for the rest and she has had to compete in an era where the depth is significantly stauncher.

There will be those that say the others would adjusted to the modern game. Maybe, maybe not. Let it be said though that within a year of Graf appearing on the scene, her power quickly overwhelmed Navratilova, until then regarded as the greatest. The thing with Graf was not just her power but her mental faculties were second to none. Very rarely did she lose early in a tournament, certainly not to the extent of Williams. Very rarely did she misfire in the heat of a Final. Though she may not have won every time, she sure didn't go down without a fight.

That is not to say Williams does not fight, but inconsistencies persist. To lose 6-2,6-2 in the second round of the French Open, or any Slam event, is verging on unbecoming. What did Oscar Wilde say? Something about losing early once may be regarded as a misfortune, to lose twice looks like carelessness. Or words to that affect. The mind boggles on what it may be to lose early many more times than twice, and, for Williams, it has become a regular occurrence.

This performance was an errant vista of error strewn shot-making seeping treacherously from an over-indulgent mind. A mind clearly not on the job, there is only one person who knows where to locate the consistency of mental toughness required to bring about a legacy for the ages.

Five slams behind Graf, to be revered as the greatest, she is going to have to overtake the German wonder by some considerable margin to go down as the greatest.

There are many attributes required to succeed at the loftiest heights of sporting endeavour.

They all contribute to an all-round performance.

Courage and mental toughness, that which brings out the ability to play through pain, being amongst them. All prerequisite's to make success concur with one's wishes.

The courage to push through the pain barrier and go the extra one percent for the benefit of the team. When oxygen depleted cells are screaming for relief, mental toughness enters to give courage a gentle nudge in the right direction.

All so valuable, but one trait to bait the coming out of a dream is speed.

Speed.

The agility of speeds ability to commandeer many a soul to demean. With that, the speed to take another's paradise and turn it into a searing gate of hell.

Speed, plenty of speed, fleet of foot and acute of mind, speed in all facets. Where the mind goes, speed soon follows. When speed fades, talent bids farewell. Speed, not many possess and not many does a champion make.

With such velocity goes yet another dream towards the upper echelons of the night sky. Year upon year, one success after another and finding flight from within, the wins become him. Speed, such speed, the speed to thrill and the speed to kill a contender's hope. The speed to elevate to the loftiest of heights and the speed to engrave a reputation for life and beyond. That thrill, the thrill of a goal achieved, the thrill of adoration that comes with being number one, the thrill, the thrill.

Gareth Bale has that speed. And man can he thrill.

For he had a dream. A dream to play for Real Madrid. That dream became a reality and his reality became his dream. It took something special to bring about that success though.

He was mocked for being an overpaid show pony who would offer nothing to this team. And that was before he had kicked a ball in anger, but he persevered despite the perceptions.

And what changed those perceptions? One run. One scintillating run down one narrow corridor on his side's left edge. Just one run. One run. With that one run, the world became his oyster. No longer was he open to ridicule as he scorched his way down field, kicked ahead, sprinted around a foe and outside of the left touchline, back in, cut a swath across field and scored. Speed.

To any other, not possible. To Gareth Bale, all in a day's work. For that is the intangible of speed. Have it and you will make the otherworldly appear increasingly like the normal. It constantly stuns one with the brightest of vistas.

He had taken awhile to regain his fitness after injuries and the perceptions of him as a player lingered, yet once he applied the salve of speed, all was right in his world.

As he sped his way down that left edge that defining day, there were dreams of greatness. There were dreams of becoming a hero for the club he had idolised since he was a young boy. And, of course, there were dreams of becoming not just the World's highest paid player, but one of the World's elite in every sense of the word.

To this he achieved, and why? One word, speed. The speed to speed to the speediest of speedy climax's.

Say it again; Speed. One word yet worth so much. In Gareth Bales case, eighty-five million pounds.

Again, speed: A winner's salvation and a loser's condemnation at the mercy of the ultimate power.

Speed.

That is what makes one Gareth Bale and another soon forgotten.

Lydia Ko is changing coaches.

Why?

As silence spreads itself around the lush green green's of a stunned golfing world, many ponder the fickle winds of professional sport's razor edge. One minute so serene . . . The next, so mean.

Such a successful pairing with Guy Wilson, her coach: together for so long. A bond so entwined within the psyche of a kindred. A Coach, a mentor and a protector all in one.

Yet after a decade of moulding the delightful Ko into a smiling assassin, that assassin turned on him. Such cruelty. A decade of dedicated service savagely blindsided in one stroke by this seriously stubborn young lady. What an ace.

She's no diva, though. What is best and what is next to be the best. It is a hard grind out there, and like all the greats she is constantly searching for ways to improve.

Friendships fray at the seams, the innocence of amateur sport is lost within the depths of a tangled forest, with those mere mortals of the Woman's tour struggling to see the wood from the trees, let alone set the World alight. They fight and they fight, but a one-off talent radiates such fright.

There was criticism, it came thick and fast. The media, golf followers and the public alike . . . they all knew best.

That is what sets our Lydia apart, the relentless pursuit of all things great. The ability to take no notice of the masses and forge ahead all-knowing in what it is she wishes to achieve. And which is the best way to accomplish this is.

It didn't end there, though. Just recently, this wonder kid was slaughtered for receiving hand-outs from Sport New Zealand. Or, at least, supposedly so. Did she really go on the hunt for more dough? Strange, when one considers the multimillion dollar sponsorships she receives. Perhaps it could be Sport New Zealand announcing a grant without Ko's knowledge. After all, why would she require such funds?

Sure enough, the barbs began before breakfast's beginning. Or a practice shot had been fired that day. But that is life in the all seeing eye of the public sphere when one is so richly endowed with talent. And money.

Destiny, it is her destiny. This is the lass that practiced day and night from the age of five. Dedicated - She knew what she wanted out of life - full of energy, a work ethic to shame second best, this lass never ran out of gas. Such sass. It is her destiny to fight with might and strike the height of night's leading light. O what a sight, and such bite to her game. To clamp the claws of petty spite and ring the rounds of change as change did charge amongst the hovering tides of titles waiting to be claimed.

She's sixteen, sweet sixteen, oh heavenly sixteen, she was a girl, just a girl, though a girl with the game of the mightiest of women. From the time of turning pro to now and all the way back into her amateur endeavours, her talent sure did glow.

Already a name and surging toward worldwide fame, now seventeen and on her game.

Number two and already a slew of opposition down to a few. Such is her dominance, and only pro for six months with a mind that is far from slow. Such is the way with the very best, a cerebral mind leads to an even sharper game. This is the girl, that as an amateur - And studying part time - scored ninety-seven percent in her math exam. Most of us would be happy to score this over eighteen holes, let alone in Math.

As an amateur, amazing feats flowed freely from her heightened talent.

Advice would come from every direction. Most knew best. Turn pro, they would say. Stay an amateur, others would bray. There is money to be made, rotate your bent into a fortune and turn pro. Fifteen is too young, live life some. You'll burn out.

Lydia Ko is turning pro.

But not all knew best.

Michelle Wie, a head so young and a head beyond her years. Such a pity she and Ko are destined to be long-term foes, for Wie is exactly the level headed type the youngster would do well to befriend.

While others thought not to mind their own business, Wie produced the most level headed response of all as to whether Ko should go pro.

*** “I have no advice for her,” Wie said. “Turning pro or not turning pro, going to college, not going to college, it’s a very personal decision. It’s not something someone can say: `I think you should turn pro. I think you should stay an amateur. I think you should do this or that.’
“It’s her life; it’s her career. When I turned pro, I really wanted to turn pro. That was a very personal decision for me. I really wanted to do that, and I have no regrets. I hope she makes the right decision for her. Whatever decision she makes, it has to really just be on her and what she wants to do.” ***

Unlike the more flatulent of egos with which the foul stench of pomposity reeks ever-more with each morally high-handed pronouncement on how others should live, here was a woman that had experienced the highs and, of course, the lows who chose to take the entirely reasonable approach of declining to tender advice that had not been requested.

This, of course, is what Ko and her hardened mind did; think for herself. Perhaps this will aid her as she goes forth into an even harder world.

Because gone is sweet sixteen, seventeen - sure to be a passing faze into the killer instinct of a ferocious will forcing itself upon the golfing world. The mind of an adult in the body of a teenager supplemented with the game of the otherworldly. With the hardened steel, rigid in its application, she is ready.

Ready to climb.

For one so slight - such might, she must take flight to her heavenly height. To make light of opposing foes through the day and celebrate long into the night.

Except that is not her way. Celebrations being the cold front of success, randomly wrecking havoc upon any future opportunity to soar to the hoary capped heights of the highest of mountains.

Hard work, hard work, this is all there is, for those mountains are sheer, no matter the bent.

February 27, 2014. A momentous day. A day the seventeen year old made us all forget the number seventeen. A day when Lydia the person blended into adulthood, but Lydia the talent left many an adult behind. A day, this day, when she won her first LPGA Tour event, in California.

You see, Lydia Ko is changing Women's golf.

Why?

Because this is what one does when one can.



***
This quote came from an article by Randall Mell of Golf Channel.com on February 13, 2013

Professional sport is often referred to as a young man's game.

It is no place for the oldies, only the younguns. What with the plethora of bumps and bruises only the unwise see this as a place to cruise. For youth abound. If one falls by the wayside another will pop up with all the hurried indiscretion befitting a clan of piranhas.

These youthful Adonis's adorning the arenas of the NBA, sprouting the tentacles of the ambitious, never spy the pitfalls. There is no glass ceiling for this famished armada of glory seekers. Not for them to consider that the sky may fall.

Over thirty - You need not apply, they can do without you. Time for those haggard old bodies to partake in the delights of Satan's retirement village. It's a young man's game where speed mocks, strength imposes and experience is held up to an abundance of escalating derision.

Such is the exuberance of today's youth.

They do not have respect for old fogeys like Tim Duncan. He is thirty-seven. He's old. Somebody forgot to tell the big man that he doesn't belong. To be so bold as to contemplate the possibility of extended success with such old bones; what was he thinking.

No one is sold. Sure he is the proud owner of four championship rings. But he's thirty-seven - He's old. The last of those came his way in 2007. The time has come for this 211cm behemoth to ride off into the sunset. The power forward can no longer dominate the paint. He's thirty-seven. He's running on cold.

Problem is, those insolent youngsters didn't get the message through to Duncan. It seems he really does believe he is still good enough to teach the upstarts a thing or two.

Thing is, he is. And he knows it, too.

Too old - Ha.

Here we have the ultimate professional, the calmest of the calm with a demeanour that inhabits the realms of the serene. By no means can he be baited, for it is his fate to sate the weight of patience, handing many a naive foe a loser's lesson on a plate.

The big man has been at this for many a year, now. 1997, rookie of the year - A meteoric rise soaring to join awaiting siblings, a throng of stars among their intake. Some shone brighter, never a dull moment, a sheen to see afar. Perched aloft the melting pot of the heavens this is one of the grandest of stars.

A young buck back then. Take a look at the stats, close on forty minutes per game. For so long, the mightiest of standards. Eighteen years of sterling service to the San Antonio Spurs. A one team man, such loyalty. The likes of which is not seen in the modern day where money is the almighty.

Those forty minutes, though, have dwindled as the years weighed down upon him. Down to thirty now, he is still a starter, such is his importance.

The rebounds, the assists, the steals, the blocks per game, they may have tapered off as the years passed. Such is life. But that experience comes to bear come time for the playoffs.

That is the time there is more to winning than just stats. Sure, rebounds and assists and steals and blocks, they're all important. But this is Finals, where the all important mind matters. Where learning to control one's nerves is paramount. Where self-belief is vital: Knowing one can compete at a heightened level, having done so for eighteen years.

And that is where Duncan has it over all those supposed young guns. All those years honing his craft, he knows what the young will one day hopefully garner. The nuances of the game, his is the flame that rises to the heights that put the young to shame.

Those heights, that experience, the worldliness, call it what you will, it is him against the youth of today.

For this is one clan of piranhas that have remained stripped of sustenance.

If Switzerland is neutral, then best declare Stan Wawrinka a foreign object.

A world away from the grassy expanses of the Swiss hills, a human destruction unit in the form of the twenty-eight year old is alive and kicking, unexpectedly painting the town red.

Not one would have thought a top ten journeyman never seen within the confines of the big four a title prospect. A quarter-final here, a semi-final there, maybe. A final - possibly, at a very long stretch, that is. But to win . . . well, nooooo.

Not last year, not this year nor any year for all eternity. But then what does he go and do? Yep, you guessed it, win a grand slam title in Melbourne. And against none other than the incomparable Rafael Nadal, too.

There is nothing neutral, nothing demure about this guy. Armed with the full range of weapons he can go ballistic at any given moment. It could be a heat seeking forehand; Though, at present, there may be no target hot enough. Or maybe a backhand stinger. Then add in a few thunderous serves and a willingness to come to the net; such an all-rounder. Whichever it is, the bigger the target the more explosive the situation. And there is no bigger target than Rafael Nadal. The biggest of the big.

First, though, there were a couple of pesky problems to negotiate.

Like getting past Novak Djockovic in the quarter's. Not the Serbian of old, one may say. But, then, not a mug either. And you can only beat who and what is put in front of you. Which he does with ease where ease confirms the heights with which such talent rises into the night . Over their shoulders, abroad the stars peering down upon such acclaim.

All the same, unfinished work arrived before the time to tick his call to fame.

By name, Thomas Berdych. Just one of many a star summoning the nerve to break a sweat in search of much the same. Wawrinka, always unlimited by talent aplenty, was here to stay. Never had consistency struck him at such a high level. Ten years upon a tour of gut wrenching hard work, staking out territories where one's mind knows deep down whether it belongs. Or whether it is all just a mirage.

Regardless, the dream never faded.

One image longed for and one image longing to escape the grasp of a dreams reality. That dream elongated for such an age, to shut away the lonely hope amid a career meandering to such a lowly stage for one so talented.

Twenty-eight, no spring chicken but success still in its infancy. To cap the bolt and lock the vault and catapult the bent within a colt.

A long time coming and over the hump. The belief of a champion in waiting surging through the arteries of desire.

Oh how much he wanted success. Perseverance became him.

Thomas Berdych, one more set than the least and tamed. A finalist named. Yet another Swiss fighting the good fight for the might of a grand slam title - And nothing express in sight. Against none other than the greatest of all time; Rafael Nadal.

The ultimate invite awaited him. To which that was gleefully accepted. Up amongst the titans of the sport, in a titanic battle with the peer of all peers. To fear and care and with the unfettered wings of a soulful goal so near, the tether of the nearly man was cast aside.

That, he did. The freedom to express his bent upon a world and introduce the dent of success within his own mind.

That was January, in the Australian Open. So long ago, yet success was sated and clung to him for all its worth.

Fast forward to April, and number three on the planet, for now, and a win on clay in last week's Monaco Masters. The best of the best were there. Nadal, Federer, Djockovic and Ferrer, yet Wawrinka was beyond compare. Sure, Nadal was out of soughts, losing to Ferrer and easing the path to glory.

But who is who and who would do all that is new amid the very few. Stan Wawrinka, that's who. A Final win over Federer in three sets, but not the last, one would suspect.

And for sure, Nadal will be back and stronger when the red clay of Paris doth appear. An open title, many of which have already crossed his sphere, he does not easily share. Eight already and nine to one nine is one he would like to snare.

Yet, here is the opportunity for Wawrinka to grasp a spot in the big four. To prove his bent is more than a one off.

To go to Paris and blast away the legendary. And to begin a legend anew.