Everyone knows who owns the clay.
Nadal even looks red.
His dark Spanish skin wrapping his used and busting muscles, which connect to his sturdy bones, all controlled by a white hot nuclear reactor flame of want to, need to, have to, and will.
His 11th Barcelona title, coming after his dominance in Monte Carlo, gives a good indication of who will win the French Open.
The ball whizzes off his strings, it loops high, and falls quick and sharp.
Nicking lines, biting down, going deep, severe angles.
Every point is fought for desperately, no mistake is tolerated without disgust.
The routines, the tics, the picking.
Scrowling around, rarely smiling during play, saving the beaming flash of complete joy for hoisting big silver trophies.
Ten at Roland Garros, eleven is likely.
The grass transition is the question for Rafa, will he win again in his whites.
He plays like he thinks he is the best tennis player ever, and knows he is the best tennis player now.
He is ranked #1.
Perhaps he will play Federer after Paris.
Perhaps he will win.