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Rafael Nadal is a telenovela. From the second he appears on court he radiates intensity—and all he’s doing is walking to his chair. I’d call him a bad actor except that he isn’t acting. TV audiences are familiar with his obsessive-compulsive rituals: he spreads out his towel, lines up his beverages on the floor and adjusts them so all the labels are facing the same way, then opens a foil pack with his teeth. (Why doesn’t he just apply his enormous arms to the task? Will their power cause the stuff in the foil to shoot out like ninja shuriken and kill random audience members?)

By the time Nadal finishes arranging his temporary nest to his satisfaction his opponent is warming up. Suddenly Rafa leaps from his seat and starts jogging in place, his ginormous thighs pumping in long white drawers. Gone are the Capri pants he sported early in his career. His Day-Glo green shirt has sleeves now, concealing his massive biceps lest his opponent expire from fear. Upon his face is a look of determination so grim his facial muscles seem determined to batter the other guy into submission. Then wielding his racquet like a bludgeon he takes his spot on the court. If the opponent knows what’s good for him he would surrender now.

Tennis parents, self-doubt and invisible wedgies in our column Emotional Weather Report, today in the Philippine Star.