Roger Federer and Us: A Conditonal Love Story

A sports fan's love for a favourite player is often conditional upon that player's success, a reality that can wreak havoc on athletes' psyches in good times and bad.

As Roger Federer finally lifted the French Open trophy over his head this weekend, Rafael Nadal was at home in Majorca, nursing a bad knee (among other wounds). Sensitive tennis fans were secretly relieved that this year's French did not conclude with another Paxil-worthy Federer-Nadal final. The recurring spectacle of their rivalry was pleasurable at first but, like lots of things that are pleasurable at first, it has become painfully complicated.

Take Nadal's win over Federer at this year’s Australian Open. Having clawed through a patchy five-set match to win his first hardcourt major and cement his number-one ranking, Nadal began his victory speech thus: "Hello. Good evening, everybody. First of all, sorry for today." Federer was sobbing in the background and Nadal seemed to feel the same way everyone else did: a little sick. Roger – cool, beautiful Roger – was losing it. It was unfair that Nadal should feel sheepish about winning: he deserved to be celebrating. But fair or no, his reaction was appropriate. Federer's suffering seemed somehow spiritual (or deeply psychic at least) and Nadal's response conveyed a tenderness that went beyond sportsmanship. The crowd roared for them both, acknowledging not only their excellence but the dignity of their rivalry. Good guys.

Five months later, James Harrison of the Pittsburgh Steelers declined to join his team on a visit to the Obama White House. The president had invited the Steelers for a ceremony to celebrate their Super Bowl win, but Harrison was unmoved. He observed that Obama would have invited Arizona had the game gone the other way. The president was not a real Pittsburgh fan, Harrison figured, and this was one linebacker who wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. "If you want to see the Pittsburgh Steelers," Harrison advised, "invite us when we don't win the Super Bowl." The general response to Harrison's logic was bafflement and ridicule. You go to the White House when you win, not when you lose; that's the way it works.

Derision from sports commentators notwithstanding, Harrison's wariness about the celebration of his achievements is part of a phenomenon social psychologists have been studying for years. And his standoffishness may be more closely connected to Nadal's graciousness than it first appears.

In 2001, the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology published a study entitled, "Being Accepted For Who We Are: Evidence That Social Validation of the Intrinsic Self Reduces General Defensiveness." In the paper, four psychologists report on three studies they conducted with groups of undergraduates. The researchers invented scenarios that caused the students to feel judged in various ways, and then tested the students' reactions. The psychologists concluded that when people feel appreciated for their inherent personal qualities, they feel more secure than when they are only appreciated for their accomplishments. The safety of feeling loved for "who they are" makes people less likely to put others down, and more likely to take certain productive emotional risks. In short, it makes us less defensive.

Being loved for our accomplishments is nice, but it also makes us uneasy. We know it can all fall apart if we screw up. As Bessie Smith sang, nobody knows you when you're down and out. True, it is often personal characteristics like discipline and intelligence that enable us to achieve success. But as the study authors note, when you're being celebrated it's hard to know whether others are seeing the roots of your success or just the flashy results.

James Harrison was signed to the Steelers as an undrafted rookie in 2002 and was then let go. The team took him back, only to cut him twice in 2003. He bounced to NFL Europe, and ended up back with the Steelers only to fill an injured player's spot. His record-setting touchdown in the Super Bowl was, in one way, the result of years of perseverance in a system that was indifferent to him. It was also, like any great sporting moment, partly just a freak thing, impossible to repeat. Were post-Super Bowl celebrations acknowledging the ingredients of Harrison's success, or cheering a semi-random flourish? ESPN reports that Harrison (one of fourteen children) sometimes asks autograph seekers as he signs their Steelers gear, "Do you know who I am?”

Harrison's remarks on the White House visit sounded strange, even arrogant (defensiveness can be like that). But his refusal to raise a glass in the Rose Garden was not rational. Of course winners are celebrated in a way that losers are not, and Harrison probably knows this better than most. Harrison's decision was an emotional one. It was a refusal to taste the fruit of a fickle tree. If you don't want me when I lose, then I don't want you at all.

Like James Harrison, Rafael Nadal is subject to the harsh calculus of zero-sum competition. Like Harrison, he is loved mainly for his ability to perform an arbitrary physical task in a rectangular space. But there are some crucial differences between the two athletes. First, whatever people feel about Nadal, they feel it about him personally. Nobody asks for his autograph or invites him to a party because he wears a uniform: they invite him because he's Rafa.

Second, until recently, Nadal was more famous for losing than for winning. Getting to the finals of a grand slam tournament is an off-the-charts accomplishment – but until last year's Wimbledon, the story of Nadal was the story of perpetual disappointment in the final hour. Nadal was a beautiful loser: he was pure desire, pure effort, pure hope. We didn't love him because he won, we loved him because we could see how much he longed to win. In this sense, Nadal has been celebrated for himself – striving and unfulfilled – in a way James Harrison has not, and might never be.

It's been nice to see Rafa win, but his ascension is also tinged with sadness – and not just because it makes Federer cry. There was a certain sweetness in the public's embrace of Nadal during his years of being second best. Before Nadal became number one, maybe it was easier for him – and for us – to feel that we loved him for the best of reasons.