ARTICLE A slightly old but nice article about JC, his beginnings and his fight for #1 in 2003.
The buzz on star known as the 'Mosquito'
By Simon Kuper
Published: October 31 2003 19:43
You wonder how many of the tennis fans queueing for ice cream at a Miami tournament in March recognised the thin blond with wispy facial hair behind the counter. He was Juan Carlos Ferrero, a young man dreaming of becoming the world's number one, manning the tubs as a publicity stunt.
Much has changed since. In June the 23-year-old Spaniard won the French Open, his first Grand Slam, on the way to reaching number one. He was knocked off this perch on Thursday when Andy Roddick won a match against Tommy Robredo, another Spaniard. But at November's Masters Cup in Houston, he will again be vying with Roddick and Wimbledon champion Roger Federer to finish the season in first place. "I'm going to fight with all my power to get it," he says. Even if Ferrero wins the crown back, his reign could again be brief. Tennis has a habit of eating its stars.
First things first: what is he like? This is what most people want to know about tennis players. To quote a British journalist in New York in August, after another routine Ferrero victory: "I don't care about the match. What about him?" Unfortunately for journalists, Ferrero has none of the obvious eccentricities that supposedly make an athlete "interesting". He grew up in a village in south-eastern Spain. He hit his first balls against the wall of his family's textile factory, and, legend has it, in the house, enraging his mother by breaking plugs at will with pinpoint shots.
When Ferrero was 17, she died of breast cancer. The family had hidden the seriousness of her condition from him, allowing him to concentrate on tennis, and when he found out he felt that the sport had separated him from his mother. He took her death "very badly", he says. "I was on the verge of giving up tennis. But then I thought of carrying on for her because she liked me to play so much." After winning the French Open, he cried on his knees on court and dedicated victory to her.
Ferrero turned pro at 18. Soon he acquired the nickname "Mosquito". In part, this describes his build - there is not a surplus ounce on him - but also his habit of buzzing around and refusing to go away. Ferrero's court is the baseline. He seldom leaves it for the net, instead hustling to and fro on the thinnest legs in tennis, returning everything. He rarely hits winners or beautiful shots. Often he serves at less than 100 miles an hour. He just keeps hitting until his opponent misses. "The constancy of Ferrero's strokes exhaust you," says his fellow Spaniard Felix Mantilla. It works best on clay, but he has begun winning on faster surfaces.
His metronomic quality recalls the previous men's number one, the Australian Lleyton Hewitt, also a stringbean. It is a myth that the men's game has been taken over by brutes with rocket serves. But to become number one without possessing a single great shot, you need great endurance. "This game is 50 percent mental, 45 percent physical and 5 percent tennis," says Ferrero. He plays in a miserable trance: ignoring his surroundings as if there were no crowd, no umpire, not even an opponent, just one man who (in his own mind) usually plays badly. Ferrero grimaces his way even through victory.
It is not a style that wins you many fans. Roddick is this generation's popstar, and Federer its aesthete. Even now, few of those Miami fans would recognise Ferrero. He draws his support from teenage girls and Spaniards. The nation has responded with stunned gratitude to the discovery that it is good at tennis. As Russia has found, success in the sport comes with the rise of a middle class. Spain now has six men in the world's top 30, and Ferrero is its best player ever.
He may win his country a second Davis Cup, against Australia in Melbourne at the end of this month. The final starts 12 days after the Houston Masters Cup finishes. Only this Thursday, Ferrero was knocked out of a tournament in Paris - a defeat that allowed Roddick to usurp him as number one. It is a schedule reminiscent of Ranulph Fiennes's attempt to run seven marathons on seven continents in seven days.
Just after losing in Paris, as he dashed to the airport, Ferrero sighed: "I'm tired, and having to travel a lot before I finish the year." He is used to playing hurt, once taking 45 ankle injections in a fortnight en route to the French Open final. But he can't play like that for long. The 22-year-old Hewitt, whom he meets in Melbourne, has faded from the top, standing 15th for this year. Marat Safin, a 23-year-old former number one, risks fading from tennis entirely. Never again may someone stay number one for six years, as Pete Sampras did.
This could yet be the Mosquito's year. But soon a number one's life span will barely be longer than the insect's.
The buzz on star known as the 'Mosquito'
By Simon Kuper
Published: October 31 2003 19:43
You wonder how many of the tennis fans queueing for ice cream at a Miami tournament in March recognised the thin blond with wispy facial hair behind the counter. He was Juan Carlos Ferrero, a young man dreaming of becoming the world's number one, manning the tubs as a publicity stunt.
Much has changed since. In June the 23-year-old Spaniard won the French Open, his first Grand Slam, on the way to reaching number one. He was knocked off this perch on Thursday when Andy Roddick won a match against Tommy Robredo, another Spaniard. But at November's Masters Cup in Houston, he will again be vying with Roddick and Wimbledon champion Roger Federer to finish the season in first place. "I'm going to fight with all my power to get it," he says. Even if Ferrero wins the crown back, his reign could again be brief. Tennis has a habit of eating its stars.
First things first: what is he like? This is what most people want to know about tennis players. To quote a British journalist in New York in August, after another routine Ferrero victory: "I don't care about the match. What about him?" Unfortunately for journalists, Ferrero has none of the obvious eccentricities that supposedly make an athlete "interesting". He grew up in a village in south-eastern Spain. He hit his first balls against the wall of his family's textile factory, and, legend has it, in the house, enraging his mother by breaking plugs at will with pinpoint shots.
When Ferrero was 17, she died of breast cancer. The family had hidden the seriousness of her condition from him, allowing him to concentrate on tennis, and when he found out he felt that the sport had separated him from his mother. He took her death "very badly", he says. "I was on the verge of giving up tennis. But then I thought of carrying on for her because she liked me to play so much." After winning the French Open, he cried on his knees on court and dedicated victory to her.
Ferrero turned pro at 18. Soon he acquired the nickname "Mosquito". In part, this describes his build - there is not a surplus ounce on him - but also his habit of buzzing around and refusing to go away. Ferrero's court is the baseline. He seldom leaves it for the net, instead hustling to and fro on the thinnest legs in tennis, returning everything. He rarely hits winners or beautiful shots. Often he serves at less than 100 miles an hour. He just keeps hitting until his opponent misses. "The constancy of Ferrero's strokes exhaust you," says his fellow Spaniard Felix Mantilla. It works best on clay, but he has begun winning on faster surfaces.
His metronomic quality recalls the previous men's number one, the Australian Lleyton Hewitt, also a stringbean. It is a myth that the men's game has been taken over by brutes with rocket serves. But to become number one without possessing a single great shot, you need great endurance. "This game is 50 percent mental, 45 percent physical and 5 percent tennis," says Ferrero. He plays in a miserable trance: ignoring his surroundings as if there were no crowd, no umpire, not even an opponent, just one man who (in his own mind) usually plays badly. Ferrero grimaces his way even through victory.
It is not a style that wins you many fans. Roddick is this generation's popstar, and Federer its aesthete. Even now, few of those Miami fans would recognise Ferrero. He draws his support from teenage girls and Spaniards. The nation has responded with stunned gratitude to the discovery that it is good at tennis. As Russia has found, success in the sport comes with the rise of a middle class. Spain now has six men in the world's top 30, and Ferrero is its best player ever.
He may win his country a second Davis Cup, against Australia in Melbourne at the end of this month. The final starts 12 days after the Houston Masters Cup finishes. Only this Thursday, Ferrero was knocked out of a tournament in Paris - a defeat that allowed Roddick to usurp him as number one. It is a schedule reminiscent of Ranulph Fiennes's attempt to run seven marathons on seven continents in seven days.
Just after losing in Paris, as he dashed to the airport, Ferrero sighed: "I'm tired, and having to travel a lot before I finish the year." He is used to playing hurt, once taking 45 ankle injections in a fortnight en route to the French Open final. But he can't play like that for long. The 22-year-old Hewitt, whom he meets in Melbourne, has faded from the top, standing 15th for this year. Marat Safin, a 23-year-old former number one, risks fading from tennis entirely. Never again may someone stay number one for six years, as Pete Sampras did.
This could yet be the Mosquito's year. But soon a number one's life span will barely be longer than the insect's.
