Mailbag: Beyond Nadal, Who Are the Top Contenders at the 2021 French Open?

Rafael Nadal is the overwhelming favorite at the 2021 French Open, but who are the other top contenders in the men's and women's draws?

Hey everyone, come for the chatter, stay for the guest essay about tennis in Cuba.

Mailbag

Have a question or comment for Jon? Email him at jon_wertheim@yahoo.com or tweet him @jon_wertheim.

While sending good vibes to Brad Gilbert:

I hope you are well. I loved Djokovic’s answer to a recent question about the NextGen. “Of course. the NextGen is there, is coming, whatever. But here we are still winning the biggest tournaments and Slams.” Translation to the younger players: “We aren’t going anywhere. You want it? Come and take it...IF you can.” Do you feel the Big Three are starting to get tired of the media/fan push for a changing of the guard? Maybe a sense of pride in their own Gen and how they can still beat all challengers?
—Anthony, Montclair, N.J.

• Athletes are great at creating their own stories and drawing their sources of motivation. “No one respects us.” “We need to prove the doubt/critics/haters wrong.” Michael Jordan was, of course, the king of this. If the guy guarding him capitalized his name or was born on a day of the week ending in a “Y,” Jordan took it as a personal affront.

The Big Three derive a lot of motivation from the GOAT rodeo. And now there’s an additional source: keeping the kids at bay. You get the feeling that the Big Three—and Murray too for that matter; e.g. his defeat of Zverev in 2020—derive extra satisfaction from prolonging their reign at the expense of the ambitious insurrectionists. No question there is, as Anthony puts it, “a sense of pride in their own Gen and how they can still beat all challengers.”

This has the effect of putting Federer, Nadal, and Djokovic in an allegiance. (Nothing unites like a common enemy.) It also is healthy. Good for Tsitsipas/Rublev/Medvedev/Zverev/Thiem for knocking. Good for Federer/Nadal/Djokovic for declining to let them in.

I have noticed that there is a worrying range of ill-informed perspectives circulating among a good number of tennis pros and coaches regarding COVID-19. One of the more self-centered arguments I have seen is the idea that tennis players are young and healthy and recover quickly if they get the virus and that, therefore, they shouldn't be vaccinated. I am not sure if this is already being done, but perhaps the ATP and WTA tours could invite a top epidemiologist to talk to the players and their teams and provide corrective information.

Professional players and their coaches travel all over the world. As such, not only are they especially vulnerable, but they can also carry and transmit the disease to people who are older and who have life-threatening medical conditions. Vaccination in the cases of people who travel so much shouldn't even be a subject of debate. It has to be either mandatory or, at the very least, strongly encouraged. As much as we admire them, tennis pros and coaches are not experts on communicable disease, and that area should be left to the healthcare professionals and scientists.
—With best wishes, Marwan

• We talk a lot about the virtues of tennis and the skills that translate so well to life. Problem solving and self-reliance and time management. Here’s one trait that is problematic: self-centeredness. In an individual sport, the focus is, necessarily, inward. But that doesn’t always travel well. You are skeptical about your peers because you have grown up thinking your peers are your future opponents. You advocate for yourself, often at the expense of the group. Your time matters more than anyone else’s; your opinions carry more weight.

For all the former players (Lindsay, Roddick, Courier, Martina, Chrissie, etc.) who are self-effacing, transition to career 2.0, and have a diversity of interests, there are other former players who cannot overcome tennis narcissism. Everything exists in the prism of their career. (“Great match, Serena. When I was playing I would have choked.”) Nothing matters unless it happened to them or impacts them in some way. They are the smartest people in every room they enter. There is no room for other perspectives. I wonder if this isn’t a symptom. Vaccine skepticism doesn’t just fly in the face of science. It flies in the face of empathy. You—as an otherwise healthy elite athlete—might not be at risk for becoming a dire COVID case, but you can still transmit the virus to someone less robust. The stain that is the Adria Tour is coming up on its one-year anniversary, such as it is. But you still wonder: did it not occur to anyone that ballkids have grandparents? That the tournament officials might be immuno-compromised? That the mere optics posed a health risk, maskless hordes in the middle of a global pandemic?

Who knew they had bagels in Rome? Karolina Pliskova's double bagel downing at the hands of Iga Swiatek—who played great all week—was just another chapter in the twin's failure to seize big moments. And like the late, unlamented Andy Murray, even when she's winning Pliskova looks like she'd rather be anywhere else. Sell.
—Muhammad Cohen of Hong Kong

• One of you posed an interesting question: would you rather lose, say, 6-3, 6-4 in a semifinal? Or reach the final, but then lose 6-0, 6-0? Obviously, there are variables. What’s the difference in prize money? Could you attribute the double-bagel to an injury? But the answers varied, even among former pros. One school of thought: more money, more points. You always want to win as many matches as possible. The other: the fissured confidence—the scar tissue—left by a double-bagel (especially as a former No. 1 player) does not heal easily.

I wouldn’t read too much into body language. Murray has a hip that triggers airport metal detectors. And he still wants to play tennis tournaments. Clearly there’s NOWHERE else he’d rather be. Likewise, Pliskova might wear a dour look to work. But that’s no indication of her engagement or enjoyment level. That said, I would not buy her stock.

Susan Mullane/USA TODAY Sports

We all know Rafa is the overwhelming favorite for his 14th title at Roland Garros but who are the next four and what is the order? Djokovic, Tsitsipas, Thiem, Rublev? Or would you put Thiem at No. 2, then Djokovic, Tsitsipas and Rublev? Would you slot in Aslan at No. 6? And on Roger Federer—what is the over/under on him making the QF? Thank you!
—VK

• Interesting question. After Nadal, I still put Djokovic ahead of the field. I trust him most, best-of-five, against anyone not named Rafa.

2. Djokovic

3. Thiem…I guess. He has retreated since winning the 2020 U.S. Open. But he is a two-time finalist in Paris.

4. Tsitsipas

5. Zverev

Next? Rublev, though we need best-of-five results from him. After he made his displeasure with clay so clear—and backed it up accordingly with results—Medvedev will be lucky to survive week one. Schwartzman was a semifinalist in 2020, but is a bit beaten up. Karatsev is a top 10 candidate. Shapovalov took a brutal loss to Nadal, but did have him reeling.

What might be more interesting: the women. The winner of the previous two majors she entered, Osaka still doesn’t have the clay dance moves. Barty and Swiatek are the co-defending champs and both are in form. Halep may not play, given her injury. Kenin, the finalist in October, is reeling. Muguruza, former champ, is dinged up. I wouldn’t be surprised if we have something we almost never have in women’s tennis these days: a defending champ defending.

How Will the French seed Rafa? I don’t recall them deviating from rankings but they should in this case, no?
—@wpalmercurl

• They should and they won’t. The French play it straight. So the 13-time champ—and guy who didn’t lose a set in 2020—will not be the top seed and may end up in Djokovic’s half of the draw.

Appreciate the Mailbags. Are there any updates on when rankings are going back to something close to normal? It's becoming ludicrous that Aslan Karatsev, with wins over Djoker and Med, along with a Dubai title and a Grand Slam semi, is still outside of the top 25. If it weren't for the temporary rankings changes, he'd already be in the top 10! It's unfair when, for instance, Karatsev and Sinner are thrown against each other in the first round of a 250.
—Thomas

• Karatsev will be seeded in the mid-20s. It’s not commensurate with his place in the ATP Race. But it’s not markedly different from what it would be in a normal year when the rolling 12-month ranking would be the basis.

Hi. I know it is permitted for players when serving to rough up the balls (much like a baseball pitcher does) to remove fluff but I noticed in Madrid every time Sascha Zverev was serving he was putting the ball he was to serve under his sweaty shirt, presumably adding more moisture to the ball as well as “roughing it up.” Is that OK according to tennis rules? (I find it unethical even if legal.)
—Warren of Montreal

• Someone else noted this as well. A player in the ’90s—I’m drawing a blank; otherwise, I’d happily try to find the forensic evidence and name him—was notorious for wiping his brow with the ball, presumably for the same reason. Ah, the moral gray area, the Medvedev-thin line between gamesmanship and outright cheating. If nothing else, we shall be on the lookout for this Gaylord Perry-ing.

Ben Wallace to the Hall of Fame is questionable at best.
—JB, Portland

• He won only one major.

Take us out, Sarah Greer:

I was born Sarah Ana Greer, yes the name trips off your tongue like any other Cuban name; Garcia, Martinez, Gonzalez… To top it off my nickname is Sally. Born in Havana, Cuba, in 1955, I am the oldest of three children. My other two siblings were born in the U.S. Spanish, of course, was my first language. My father, Pedro Jose Greer, was from Pinal del Rio and married my mother, Maria Teresa Medina, who came from the Oriente Province, opposite regions of the island. However, they actually met and married in Miami where they were living as teenagers with their families. There was much traveling back and forth to Cuba at the time. When I was born and throughout the time before our final exit from Cuba, my father was studying to become a physician. As the revolution was heating up and Castro was getting closer to coming over the mountains, things became more erratic and unpredictable, including my father’s classes staying open. The writing was on the wall, Fidel Castro and Communism was on its way. So we left in 1958, before the political gates closed. My mother, brother and I left for Miami and moved into my maternal grandmother and grandfather’s house. It was a three-bedroom house and there were 10 family members who had come from Cuba squeezed in it—I loved it! My father left for Madrid to finish medical school.

My athleticism stemmed from my maternal side of the family. My grandmother, Sarah du Pont Medina, swam across the Bay of Pigs one night on a dare. She had to bring a pebble back from the other side to prove it. I asked her if she was scared of the sharks, she replied, “I just floated on my back quietly and felt them bump into me.” She was also a trick pony rider and the oldest of nine children. My mother was a track and field star. She was invited to try out for the Olympics in the javelin throw, but her mother did not allow it. I believe my mother happily encouraged me in my athletic endeavors because she was denied the chance.

From the time I was three and a half until I was seven, we lived with my grandmother and grandfather—this was also the time during the Cuban missile crisis in October of 1962. My father had returned from Madrid and had started practicing medicine. We had drills we had to practice when the sirens went on in case of a nuclear attack. If we were in school, we slid under our desk; if we were at home, we crowded under the dinner table. For a child, like myself, it felt like fun. My mother kept it light, but it wasn’t until later, after I read the book One Minute to Midnight, that I found out the seriousness of it and how close we were to having it alter all our lives for the worst.

In December of 1962 we moved to the west side of Miami, to an area called Westchester. I loved playing all sports, my favorite being football. My brother was 15 months younger than I and my sister six and a half years younger. I always had to watch my brother play from the sidelines. I hated it, so I would find a sandlot tackle football game and get involved. My mother never had any trouble with it—in fact she loved it. My father would just go along with whatever my mother wanted. Keep in mind this was way before flag football leagues, WNFC or even Title IX. For a Cuban mother to not want her daughter in makeup and cheerleading instead is an anomaly, especially in that era.

At the age of 11 my mother broke the bad news: “Sally, you’re going to have to pick a different sport, the Dolphins aren’t going to draft you.” I tried swimming, but didn’t enjoy the early morning hours of practice. I always found golf boring, so that was out. Then she told me about my two cousins Rey and Orlando Garrido and what they had accomplished in Cuba. Rey was in Miami and was the head pro at the Jockey Club. I got to meet him and talk to him about his tennis life. I decided to try out for the junior high school tennis team. I became number one immediately and won the first tournament I played in which was the county championships. I was hooked, but it was a while before I fully grieved the loss of playing football. I started taking lessons from a pro named Bob Sassano in Hollywood, Fla. My mother would drive one hour up and one hour back twice a week for lessons. It sometimes took longer because of the traffic. Bob would also put on tournaments that I got to ball girl in. They were amazing tournaments, the attendees included Rod Laver, Roy Emerson, Ken Rosewall, Tony Roche, Pancho Gonzalez, Butch Bucholz and so many more. I also was a ball girl for Virginia Slims tournaments where Billie Jean King, Rosie Casals, Judy Tegart, Kristy Pigeon, Julie Heldman and many more came to play. It was a great time and being in their presence was the determining factor in my decision to become a professional tennis player. I wanted to play like them, I wanted to be them.

I was 12 when I had all these dreams of becoming a professional. I started to play junior tournaments at that time. My first was the Orange Bowl. I won my first round, but was quickly ousted by someone half my size named Carrie Fleming, Laurie Fleming’s younger sister, 6-0, 6-0. I kept my nose to the grindstone and got better and better. To improve even more, you had to travel, and I was being invited to national championships. I suppose there is a point in every athlete’s life where politics come into play. I had not thought at all about my being Cuban and it’s relation to tennis, but my mother had. It was not the tennis that concerned my mother; it was the flying. Between May 1, 1961, and the end of 1972 there had been 159 planes hijacked many of the hijackers demanding to go back to Cuba. My mother would drive me to the airport herself with tears and dread in her eyes. She would grab me firmly by the shoulders and stare into my eyes and say, “If you get hijacked DO NOT SPEAK SPANISH, do you understand me? Pretend like you don’t understand it, do not respond to it and don’t speak it!” I assured her, I understood. Thankfully nothing ever happened.

Although my cousins played Davis Cup for Cuba I never had the opportunity to play Fed Cup for the U.S. I did, however, get the chance to play on the Junior Wightman Cup team with Janice Metcalf and Jane Stratton after playing for the University of Miami for one year. The Jr. Wightman Cup team traveled the country and played tournaments in different cities ending with the U.S. Open at Forest Hills. I played the qualifying and beat Betsy Nagelsen in the third round to get into the tournament then beat Francoise Durr in the first round and lost to Olga Morozova in the second. It was there, at the U.S. Open, in 1973, that I turned pro.

In the summer of 1974, I went to Los Angeles, Calif., and rented an apartment with Barbara Downs, a tour player. Bob Sassano knew Pancho Segura so he arranged for me to take lessons with him once a week. At that time, like now, there was a plethora of great female players who lived there. We knew each other from the tour and juniors. We would all get together once a week at Kathy May’s house and have a phenomenal workout on the court. The leader—and we were blessed to have her—was Billie Jen King. She taught me so much, not just about technique, but how to practice and how to think. Billie was great to me. I still remember the drill where we had to hit all the overheads in the air and the lines didn’t count. Even if the ball was coming down from the sky and you were nearing the fence you had to hit it on the fly. Of course, the next lob would be up near the net. Exhaustion and ecstasy.

After that I was off and running flying all over the world. I played the Australian circuit and the Open in Kooyong in 1974 and reached the round of 16. I got into Wimbledon a couple of times, once losing to Margaret Court in the second round. I got into the French Open and lost in the first round to Eva Szabo from Hungary. I played the U.S. Open twice—once I’ve already mentioned and I can’t recall who I lost to in the other one. I won a few satellite tournaments. I have wins over Donna Ganz, Isabel Fernandez, Betsy Nagelsen, Diane Desfor, Paula Smith, Mary Carillo, Stephanie Tolleson, Ceci Martinez and more. The highest I can remember being ranked was No. 62 and that was the printed rankings, before computerized rankings. I actually still have the copy of the print-out.

I cannot recall the exact year, but I was playing a satellite tournament in San Antonio, Texas, and got in touch with family who lived in Corpus Christi to see if they would be interested in coming to see me play. This particular part of the family had a very interesting story to tell from which I wanted to hear from their own mouth’s. They were my great aunt, her daughter (she was also my godmother), her husband, and they’re young son. When the exodus began in Cuba they decided to stay because they were Castro sympathizers. My godmother’s husband worked for the government and there is even a black and white picture with Castro’s arm around my great aunt, but Fidel had many people snowed. The whole family came to watch me play then we drove down just past the border of Mexico for a very late lunch which we ate as we shared memories and they told me the story of their harrowing escape.

My great aunt stated that after a few years they realized how wrong they had been about their decision to stay in Cuba. Things there were not getting better they were getting worse, much worse. Because my godmother’s husband worked for the government, they were given certain privileges. For example, he was given a boat which they would use on weekends to go fishing, skiing, or just boating. One evening they had a family meeting and made the decision to make preparations to escape the island, but how? They came up with an intriguing plan. They had a boat, an open fisherman, but there was not enough gas in one tank to get them to Miami. So what my godmother’s husband did with the help of a friend is cut out the floor in the boat so that they could make a cubby hole and then cover it up again so that it could not be noticed. They would get the gas to go weekend boating, but instead of putting all of it in the tank they would put half in the tank and half in the hole. After that was done the entire family and the friend would go boating. As they ran out of gas while they were boating the Cuban coast guard would have to tow them in. It became a joke between the coast guard and them about what a lemon of a boat they had because it would happen so many times. Once they had collected all the gas the boat could hold they made the decision that was the day.

Dressed in only their bathing suits they took off from the Havana harbor, my great aunt Selma, my cousin and godmother Selmita, her husband Fred and their three-year old son, Freddy. Fred’s friend came along, as well, toting a gun. It was a bright sunny day. They were nervous as they passed by the coast guard boat that had gotten to know them, they waved to them and they waved back. As they were heading into the Straits of Florida, the engine broke down and it started to float with the current. They could not get the engine working again. They were not sure where they were. They were just drifting, the day turned into night. Suddenly in the late afternoon of the second day they realized the boat was taking on water. Their skins burned and blistered they tried bailing the water, but it was sinking fast. As dusk came they were frantic, sharks started to circle the boat. They started to shoot at the sharks. Fred’s friend said I want one bullet saved for me, I don’t want to die by the sharks. As they were going through this Selma and Selmita noticed a liner not too far in the distance. They started to wave and yell. It was a Scandinavian liner. By the grace of God, the liner noticed them and saved them just as the boat sank. They were in the Gulf of Mexico and the liner was headed to Corpus Christi. After they landed, they made Corpus Christi their forever home, never to return to Cuba.

The only problem I ever had with anyone who played or worked on the tour about being Cuban came from a lineswoman who happened to make Miami Beach her home. We were sharing a table in the dining room at the French Open and in conversation we realized we lived in adjoining cities. Now, even though Spanish was my first language, I don’t look Cuban nor do I have a Spanish accent. She started ranting about how the Cubans just keep coming and taking over jobs, neighborhoods, the language and Miami in general. I just sat and patiently listened nodding my head as she spoke. When she finished I said, “You know, I’m Cuban.” It was like the air had been sucked out of this gigantic room, talk about a pregnant pause…a pregnant elephant. She responded with, “You know, my best friend is Cuban.” Saved by a cliché? Nope, I shook my head and left.

In 1976, I flew to South Africa to play the circuit during the African summer. I had a sense that as a professional athlete, I was living in a safe bubble, that things happen to other people, not to me. I understand now that was immaturity and naïveté. Here is what happened…I had read about the civil war in Angola, which had been going on and getting more tense. Then I found out that Fidel Castro got involved and I know that’s never a good thing, that was in November of 1975. The South African Defense Forces were fighting against the Cubans. With my mindset I thought, “That’s Angola, it’s situated on the Western coast of South Africa, I’m heading to the Southern coast nothing will happen.” One of my stops was a tournament in Zimbabwe which at the time was Rhodesia. The only country standing between Angola and Rhodesia is Zambia.

When the plane landed there was a group of us from the previous tournament who deplaned and went through customs. The other players were going right through. When I handed my passport to the official, I got a very bad feeling because of the way he looked at me. He told me to step aside. Before I knew it, I was whisked away by to African men in guerrilla wear and very long automatic guns. They took me to a back room where there was one chair, the walls were bare and a dirty white color. They told me to sit down. They were holding my passport and pointing at it, the part where it says birthplace. They began grilling me, they wanted to know why I was there, what my intentions were, where I was staying, if I was in the Cuban military, was I a spy?! I showed them my rackets and said that I’m just a tennis player and I’m here to play a tournament. This went on non-stop for two hours. It dawned on me that here I am alone with these two men who were clearly agitated and that they could do anything they wanted to me and no one would ever know. I WAS SCARED! Tears came to my eyes out of relief when they finally let me go.

I played on the tour for two more years playing between 38 and 46 weeks a year, like I had throughout my career. One of the things that happens as a tour player is that you don’t get to develop a relationship with your siblings. They were not tennis players; I was the only one in the entire family who was. I was burned out after five years on the tour and retired at 23 years of age. My brother was living in the Dominican Republic studying medicine. He would eventually go into business with my father. My sister was still at home for a few months before heading off to college. She was the only one that mailed me letters while I was on tour. She was loving, thoughtful, compassionate, funny, and had a singing voice like an angel. Our rooms were next to each other, we got to know each other a little bit. What a gift that was. She left over the summer for the University of Florida. That was the last time I ever saw her alive. She was on her way home for Thanksgiving when she was killed in a car accident. She was 17 years old. I don’t believe I fully grieved her loss for decades.

I went on to complete my education at the University of Miami. I received a BFA in communications. I got jobs in the Miami television market as a public affairs talk show host and producer that aired on Sundays at the CBS affiliate. The show was called Tiempos (Times) and dealt with Latin issues in the community. I was also a sports anchor and reporter at the ABC affiliate and finally I was public affairs director and public service director at an independent station where I had a daily public affairs talk show that I hosted and produced. I was married and had two children—a boy and a girl. I’m divorced now. I’ve had several jobs and three careers. My latest is I am a certified addiction counselor and certified mental health counselor. I love giving back because I’ve been given so much, so much more than my sister will ever see or do.

To round things up, six degrees of separation comes into play. In 2009, as you know, Billie Jean King was awarded the Medal of Freedom by President Obama, but what you don’t know is that so did my brother. He was in that very same group and they met each other. His name is Dr. Pedro Jose Greer, Jr. He was awarded the medal for the work he has done for the homeless and the changes he has made in how medicine is taught in medical schools. He is presently the Dean of Medicine at Roseman University of Health Sciences in Henderson, Nevada.

I have often thought how different my life would have been if my parents had not seen the writing on the wall or had chosen to stay. I am blessed beyond belief because I am aware of what could have been and even though there have been hardships along the way they could not compare to the hardships people face in Cuba. I am grateful.