This is my first and probably last article on tennis, but I felt compelled to write about Rafael Nadal.

I live in Australia, which means unless I like footy, rugby, or cricket, I’m forced to choose from a plethora of sports that would be considered at best third-tier in the States. These include cycling, darts, swimming, and tennis.

I’m a sports junky, its in the blood and unavoidable, even in the absence of the American staples. So over the last three years, I found myself watching more tennis than I have throughout the whole of my life. I’ve never played more than a few sets and even then under serious protest. The biggest positive I will say about tennis is that unlike any other sport, the women players are watchable, unlike the WNBA. Watching that is akin to watching the Hills Have Eyes in slow motion.

Rafael Nadal is a top-tier player, European sex symbol, and clay court master.

What I’m going to write has nothing to do with any of that. “Rafa” has a distinct inclination to dig in his butt between every serve without remorse.

Every. Single. Serve.

I challenge you to watch just one of his sets. Once I noticed him doing it, I was just overwhelmed with the reliability of his rectal reach on every stoppage of play and sometimes even multiple times. I’ve watched probably five or six of his matches – most against Roger Federererer. Unlike any other player, Nadal wears these kind of sportish, low knee, capri pants. I’m sure they are just the rage in Spain, but to me they look decidedly stupid – like they belong to an eight year old girl. Perhaps its the tightness of his unique outfit that causes so many wedgies. If this is the case, then I blame his sponsors and handlers. For Christ sake, get this man some Umbros.

Another thought was that the primary strength of his game was the cause of this. He’s a clay court specialist. Now mind you I don’t know anything about tennis, except what the analysts, like Pat McEnroe or Jim Courier, say during match commentary. Apparently, the clay surface reduces the effectiveness of power shots and big serves. This means the rallies are longer and there is more running, primarily side to side. Rafael has what I would call a bubble butt, one that I’m sure is lovingly framed on the walls of fourteen year old girls throughout Europe. But to me, he’s just got a big ass. My guess is that his superior athleticism and baseline running is part of what … hmm, I want to make sure I choose the right word here … formed(?) it. These over-sized gluts could be the cause of his constant rummaging.

Or maybe its cultural. I don’t want to be closed mind to other places or people. Maybe in Spain cleaning your crack on international TV is just as natural as tying your shoes. But to my best recollection, I don’t ever remember Sergio Garcia, a fellow Spaniard, digging around in his sand trap while Tiger tees off. So I’m going to rule that one out for now.

Whatever the reason, Nadal is quickly becoming a brown clay specialist and, quite frankly, it is disquieting to watch his matches. It makes me wonder why none of the commentators mention it. I assure you that the cameraman makes sure we see every poke and prod in his posterior. In fact, there are plenty of times when you’ll see coaches or players of any sport picking their nose on camera. It’s as if the announcers are forced by some some sort of agreement not to comment on these types of things.

For instance, I’m waiting for Jim Courier say something like this:

“Nadal has really struggled with his first serve in this match, but he’s a warrior. He doesn’t mind using the second serve to get into extended rallies and … Oh there he goes! Its the second dig of this point. Very few players are able to lasso their underwear lining with such dexterity and panache.”

I’ve even coined a new nickname for him – “Watcha After, Rafa?”