Spanish Fly
With huge strokes and a big-match mentality, Carlos Moya has soared to the top of men's tennis. Can the French Open champ - and Spain's newest sex symbol - climb all the way to No. 1?

NOVEMBER 1998

It is a sultry August evening deep in the American heartland, and Carlos Moya is far-removed from the pressures of professional tennis. At the moment, he is dangling from a harness attached to a steel cable, 172 feet above the sprawling grounds of Paramount's Kings Island amusement park in Mason, Ohio. He is about to embark on the most terrifying ride in the park, the Xtreme Sky Flyer.

Moya clutches the fluorescent orange rip cord attached to his harness. When the attendant concludes the countdown, Moya will pull the rip cord. Then he and his two companions - fellow player Felix Mantilla and Moya's trainer, Jose Miguel Morales - arms linked, will free-fall from the structure, then swing through the air like a giant pendulum.

As he hangs and waits, Moya feels a bubble the size of a basketball in his stomach, and he keeps hearing the word "ridiculo" over and over in his head. Roughly translated, "ridiculo" means "totally insane."

The voice of the ride attendant completing the countdown blares over the tinny loudspeaker: "Three... two... one..."

Moya yanks the rip cord. They drop. As the three Spaniards hurtle toward the ground, their exaggerated facial expressions are visible to those watching on the ground. Mantilla, mouth agape and eyes bulging, looks paralyzed. Morales's face is contorted in an Xtreme grimace. But Moya's is different. He is grinning from ear to ear, his eyes mere slits as the rushing wind blows his long, chestnut locks back, exposing his widow's peak. He is drunk on this harrowing moment, intoxicated by flight.

"If I were an animal, I would like to be either a dolphin or an eagle," he says afterward. "I would be either swimming free in the sea or in the sky, flying. Either one, but definitely not walking on the earth."

Those urges go a long way toward explaining why Moya appears so unflappable under the mental stress of competition. He loves "ridiculo." His coach, Jose Perlas, recalls the first time he set eyes on a 14-year-old Moya in 1990. "His game, it was very rigid," Perlas says. "I was not sure at all that he would make it as a tennis player. But then as I watched him play I saw that he was an 'ice' player - very cool, with a serenity that was impressive and unusual. That was what made Carlos different. Even in the most difficult moments, he was completely cool and in control."

Over the past two years, Moya's composure and well-rounded game have carried him to dizzying heights in tennis. In January 1997, as a virtual unknown who had not advanced past the second round in four previous Grand Slam events, he beat Boris Becker and Michael Chang en route to the Australian Open final before falling to Pete Sampras. By year's end, he had reached five more finals and risen to No. 7. And his ascension has continued in 1998. This past spring he soared to No. 4 by defeating countryman Alex Corretja to win the French Open. Then, after a disappointing summer, he became the first Spanish man to reach the semifinals at Flushing Meadows, a feat highlighted by his consecutive five-set comeback victories over Michael Chang and Jan-Michael Gambill.

In the process, Moya, now 22, proved himself to be a bona fide Grand Slam threat on hard courts and displayed tools and a presence that have more in common with Pete Sampras than with Moya's Spanish compatriots. Whereas Mantilla, Corretja, Albert Costa, and Alberto Berasategui are all less than 6 feet tall, Moya is a strapping 6-foot-3. And while they use heavy topspin and play the repetitive, laborious baseline tennis best suited to clay (notwithstanding Corretja's two 1998 hard-court titles through August), Moya possesses two powerful weapons - a heavy serve and a pile-driver forehand - along with extraordinary quickness for a big man.

As Paul Annacone, Sampras's coach, says, "There's a real similarity there. [Sampras and Moya] are both big, very athletic, and armed with serious weapons. The only limitations for a guy like Carlos are potentially those of motivation or competitive character."

Despite Moya's conspicuous talents, his rise in the game was anything but preordained. A native of Mallorca, one of the five Balearic islands situated off the eastern coast of Spain, he has always had a relaxed, uncomplicated attitude toward life - one you might expect from a guy who lived within 50 yards of the beach. Moya was neither the most successful nor the most driven of juniors, and he might easily have wound up a recreational player like his older siblings Andres, 30, and Begona, 31. Ultimately, he became a champion not because of his background and nature, but in spite of them.

"When I started to play, I didn't expect to be such a good player," he says. "I just did it because I liked it. I didn't care about the money or being popular or famous. Of course, the money is important. But it is more important for me to be well with myself, to be happy.

"I've been very lucky, I see that, too. I come from a wonderful, calm place. Nobody from my family had problems. I know I am a very lucky man and I am grateful. Everything is like a fairy tale for me."

Moya's father, Andres, owns a small construction firm. His mother, Pilar, keeps house. On weekends, they used to play tennis at the modest Gran Playa Tennis Club just down the street from their large appartment in the seaside town of Palma de Mallorca.

Carlos began to tag along with his parents to the club when he was 3, or as he says, "when the racquet was still bigger than me." By age 5, he was hitting against the club backboard regularly. "I really loved to play against the wall. I could play for so long, five or six hours a day sometimes. Then I played with whoever came to the club - big, small, young, old, man, woman, anybody."

Three of the Gran Playa Tennis Club's eight courts are hard (a rarity in Spain), another explanation for why Moya's success hasn't been limited to clay. Like any budding tennis nut, he had aspirations. "I was a kid," he says. "Of course I dreamed about being a top player and winning Grand Slam tournaments. But really I was just building myself, always looking my own way, not bothering people and not seeing what they are doing. I never wanted to prove anything, like, 'I am better than you.' I just loved to play and now I am here. So it was a child's dream... but it came true, you know? And even now I am the first one surprised by that."

Moya's parents supported their son's interest in tennis without interfering with it. Incrementally, he became the best player in his town, and, by age 15, the best in his region, winning the inter-island competition called the Balearic Championships. Although he played national level junior tournaments, he was never a big factor in them.

By the time Moya was finally invited by the Real Federacion Espanola de Tenis (Spain's national tennis federation) to train in Barcelona at age 17, most of his promising peers had already been there for two years. Even then, he almost turned down the opportunity.

"I talked for a long time with my parents, because I didn't really want to leave Mallorca, but I knew it was a good opportunity," he says. "My parents supported me, and they convinced me it was OK to try, to do something different, even if it didn't work out."

So Moya left home for the Centro de Alto Rendimiento, a "residence for sportsmen" originally built to serve as athlete housing for the 1992 Olympics and located about 12 miles from the city's center. There he began working with Perlas and befriended future pros Galo Blanco, Jacobo Diaz, and Fernando Vicente. "They are special friends for me," Moya says. "We all started with zero points, and we've all made the world Top 100. We grew up together, so now when we see each other we are very happy to meet, especially when one of us is winning. We all remember when we were nobodies."

For the first few months of his stay, Moya was terribly homesick. He missed his parents and his siblings, and he eagerly awaited care packages of his favourite Mallorcan delicacies, including the spicy sobrasada sausages that he eventually took on the road to share with fellow Spaniards at events.

He was also intimidated by other juniors, many of whom were better - and younger - than he was. "At home, I was used to feeling special because I was the best," he says. "But then I was not special in Barcelona. I was like the rest, maybe a little worse. That was good for my motivation. It made me a better player."

Over time, Moya met the big guns of Spanish tennis - Sergi Bruguera, Mantilla, Corretja, and Costa. They remember him as unassuming and introverted.

Costa was good friends with Blanco at the time. When they met at a tapas restaurant one day, Blanco had Moya in tow. Costa recalls that Moya spoke barely a word that day: "Carlos said hello, but then no more talking. He was just eating, and he was a very good eater. First, he had a sandwich. Still no talking. Then he had a croissant. Still quiet. Then he had some cheese - still quiet. When a guy starts out so timid, he must be a very, very good player to move up so fast in the rankings."

Corretja, who met Moya after asking the Federacion to provide him with a young sparring partner, had an even more amusing first encounter with Moya. "After we hit balls for some time, I say to Carlos, 'OK, come to net'," Corretja says. "And he says, 'No, thank you, no.' I am surprised. What is this? After a few more rallies, I say, 'Come to the net, why not?' And he looks very embarrassed and he says, 'No, because I am afraid.' Finally, his coach [Perlas] also talks with him and he persuade Carlos to come to the net. And you know, he was not so bad once he was there."

When Moya blossomed over the next two years, the catalyst was neither maturity nor his conquest of homesickness and timidity. Rather, it was his penchant for the stress - and joy - of competition. And it wasy, like his early development, incremental. After earning 87 ATP computer points in four Spanish satellite events, he won the Budapest Challenger in Hungary in September 1995. Two months later, he crushed Mantilla 6-0, 6-3 to win his first tour title at Buenos Aires. He jumped from a year-end ranking of No. 63 in 1995 to No. 28 in 1996, then hurdled past the rest of the top Spaniards last year.

"Off the court, Carlos is still shy," says Corretja. "But on the court he is different. He is not afraid of anybody or anything. He just lets his game go, sees where it takes him, without worrying at all. Maybe that explains why his game improved so fast."

On the practice courts at the ATP Tennis Center in Cincinnati, two players are doggedly hitting the heat. On one side of the net stands Berasategui, a 5-foot-8, sinewy fellow with a budding pompadour. His collarless shirt is dishwater gray with black and blue trim. His white socks are drab, and his tennis shoes are predominantly black.

On the other side stands Moya. An immaculate white T-shirt and roomy white shorts - discreetly trimmed in navy - cover his long, lanky frame. His chest is broad, but gaze at him from the side and he's as thin as a credit card. He has chiseled, fox-like features, clear, pale skin, and rawny stubble on his cheeks. The gap between his front teeth is a fetching imperfection.

This formidable dose of sex appeal has hardly gone unnoticed by women. Kelsey, an attractive twenty-something tennis fan from West Virginia, is watching Moya work out. She has a serious crush. "I just want one snapshot," she says, sounding desperate as she fishes a disposable camera out of her knapsack. "I feel like I'm crossing over into stalker territory."

Though still far from a matinee idol star in the US, Moya gained considerable Q-rating points from two off-court exposures in 1997. First, he appeared as a guest on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno after reaching the Australian Open final. To the surprise of his more ardent followers, he showed up with his normally long hair shorn. It wasn't a fashion statement - he had just completed a stint in Spain's military reserves.

"For me, the army was not so bad because I was only there one week," he says, "The other guys, they had to stay nine months. Some of them were jealous, but most understood my situation. They treated me well. I did exercises and learned how to march. I wasn't there long enough to do anything else."

Then late last year, Moya was photographed in the nude by fashion photographer Herb Ritts for a Tag Heuer watch advertisement. He is quick to point out, however, that the concept was artistic and "they didn't show anything anyway." Still, he found the shoot unnerving because a female production assistant was present the entire time.

In everyday situations, though, Moya is a natural around the opposite sex. He met his girlfriend, Romanian tennis player Raluca Sandu, in 1996 at a tournament in Germany. Sandu travelled with him briefly in the fall of 1997, but theirs has been primarily a long-distance relationship.

Hence, on Moya's summer hard-court swing in the US, his travelling companion was not Sandu, but childhood friend Joan (pronounced Juwan) Bosch. During the tournament in Cincinatti, th etwo spent most of Moya's down time holed up in the Marriott hotel, hunched over a laptop computer, playing video games. Moya's favourite is a soccer game in which each participant is charged with every aspect of running a team, from building a stadium to choosing starting lineups to making trades.

"We are fighting the whole day over this game," Moya says, grinning. "It is very fun."

Moya's fascination with video games is legendary. As Corretja says, "He is mentally sick for videos."

This fascination points toward a lingering boyishness in Moya, a quality that is heightened at his work-out with Berasategui. The cumulative effect created by his brilliant white, size 13 Nike gunboats, his baggy clothes, a backwards baseball cap, and his curious manner of loping around the court between points - shoulders slumped back, chest and stomach forward is one of goofiness.

But that impression is shattered the moment he resumes playing his very adult, stylized game. Moya has an artistic tennis sensibility that is expressed most clearly by his free left hand as he strikes a forehand or a slice backhand: His fingers are splayed in a slightly different fashion on every ball, as if attempting to apply just the right amount of body English to the shot.

Then there is his spin serve. Moya explodes upward and virtually engulfs the ball, which snaps off his racquet with an audible "click." It is the stroke that best illustrates the differences between Moya and the other Spaniards: Whereas their conservative deliveries are strategic weapons, Moya's is preemptive.

As Perlas, who began working exclusively with Moya last year, says, "Carlos is the first Spanish player from this generation who opened his mind to all the possibilities - playing on other surfaces, travelling to a lot of different places, not just entering European clay-court tournaments. In 1996, I proposed to him that we play on the indoor circuit instead of staying in Barcelona (where Moya still lives) for a month and practicing with the rest of the Spanish team. He looked at me and said, 'You are crazy.' Then, after some time, he said, 'OK, we go.'"

On that trip, Moya recorded the first of three victories that stand out most in his mind. At the Paris Indoors, he defeated Becker, then among the game's premier fast-court players. The upset foreshadowed Moya's run at the Australian Open two months later, where he recorded the second of his three watershed victories, overpowering then-No. 2 Chang 7-5, 6-2, 6-4 in the semifinals.

Moya's third and most exalted milestone occured in the quarterfinals of this year's French Open when he upended heavily favoured Marcelo Rios 6-1, 2-6, 6-2, 6-4.

"Nobody was paying attention to me," Moya says. "They were all saying that I didn't beat such good players to arrive there. Actually, I agreed with that. But after Marcelo beat Albert Costa one round before, everybody named him the winner of the tournament. And that wasn't right."

After beating Rios, Moya felt that the French Open title belonged to him. To take ownership, though, he had to survive challenges from two of the best clay-courters in the world, Mantilla and Corretja. There Moya proved his mettle as a competitor, mercilessly dispatching his amigos to win the title.

Moya's ascendancy was most visible in his 6-3, 7-5, 6-3 domination of Corretja in the final. Although the match evoked warm, fuzzy feelings for everyone who witnessed the friendly gestures - each player overturned line calls in the other's favour, and Corretja hugged Moya warmly as the match's conclusion - there was more than camaraderie on display. Corretja admitted afterward that he was content merely to reach the final. Moya wasn't. He had learned from painful experience that being a champion means that simply getting there isn't enough.

"Everybody talks about winning the French Open as my biggest moment," he says. "But maybe my big moment was the final in Australia in 1997. I was very happy to be in the final. But after I lost that match I realised that it was just a very sad day for me. The most important thing I learned is that losing is just losing."

And in the process, he learned to embrace the giddy sensation of flight.