Since I got involved in the sport of tennis, about a year now, our tennis players have been very successful. You can compare it with the effect of Louis van Gaal on Orange. We’re in again!
Our toppers are called strange. I call a Botic van de Zandschulp, I call a Tallon Greek track. Among the ladies I call an Arantxa Russian.
For someone like Rafael Nadal, who even after say 14, write fourteen victories at Roland Garros speaks French as if he were Christopher Columbus who, after sailing around on his boat for 17 years, suddenly has to address a full stadium in French, ‘Zjeee… swiezzz… treeezzz… eppie… à… Parriezzz… parseekeh…,’ etc, etc. – to Rafa these fantasy names may seem very Dutch, but we, the Dutch, frown at them. Who’s called like that? Sounds generated by a laptop belonging to the Homeland Security Agency. Are they renamed Ukrainians?
‘Well’, says Jet, ‘you now also have Tim van Rijthoven. There’s nothing strange about that.’
‘What would you rather be called’, I reply, ‘Tim van Schijthoven or Tim van Reethoven?’
Silence. Anyway, after five minutes: ‘Yeah. Perhaps Van Reethoven would rather be.’
“And then call your child Ludwig?”
Jet, tasting: ‘Ludwig. From. Reethoven.’ She nods. Beautiful.
We are watching Wimbledon, Nadal against Botic van de Zandschulp, thanks to the AIVD, you will receive it, your new name in invisible ink, divided over four anonymous envelopes. Despite Van de Zandschulp’s outrageous name – in fact originating from Bint van F. Bordewijk, famous for his nonsense names, just study this list: Taas Daamde, Van der Karbargenbok, Tallon groenpoor, Schattenkeinder, Surdie Finnis, De Moraatz, Van de Zandschulp – does he look discouragingly Dutch, more Dutch can hardly be, think to Hielke and Sietse van de Kameleon, to white asparagus, which also applies to Van Reethoven and groenpoor. Three Joris Driepinters, the advertising character who only drinks milk. If Nadal had only drunk milk for the past twenty years, he would be dead by now. (“Rafael, would you like a pint of milk?” “Me sangria!”)
Fortunately tennis players never think, neither do I, when I play tennis. For hours I am not visited by a single thought, zero, really nothing, except the ball that is already flying towards it, and I also give that stallion thoughtlessly. If you look at delays, at Wimbledon, from beautiful points, and you see Nadal or Botic staring intently at a tennis ball spinning slowly, you might mistake him for Galileo Galilei peering at a planet, contemplating the universe.
Do not.
Nothing really matters in a tennis player. They are inverted philosophers. Van de Zandschulp therefore has no advantage at all from its strange name, Nadal will not wonder for a second what a sand scallop actually is. An animal? Or: can you botik robes? Dresses?
No, Nadal never thinks. Or just really hard, in the evening after dinner. That could be. Maybe he’s been working on Voskuils for twenty years, after the matches, after training The deskbut then about tennis, The jobseven parts, in which types walk around that are called even crazier than Botic van de Zandschulp, Navoc Neukomotz for example, and Rotak van de Schelpgrain.