I've been in Madrid for most of this week, indulging in a cholesterol-laden diet of chorizo, jamon and rioja, and catching up with Pablo Solsona, who you may recall was one half of my lunatic duo of skiing instructors on my maiden trip to the slopes in France earlier this year. It's been a great week, and Madrid is a fabulous city; and in keeping with the wishes of my dear mother, I included a dose of culture, visiting the Prado to see the Rembrandt exhibition, as well as the gallery's extensive collection of Velazquez, Goya and El Greco.

But the true acts of pilgrimage came yesterday, with two strong contenders for my top-ten sporting experiences list (and a definite winner in the all-time sporting day out category). Pablo is one of Madrid's best-connected taxi drivers, and managed to secure a guided tour of the Santiago Bernabeu yesterday morning. Real Madrid's home is one of football's great theatres, a vast 80 000-seater that takes the breath away when you first enter, and look down over the vast terraces.

Strolling through the museum, poring over the mammoth collection of trophies, sitting in the dugout, running out of the tunnel pretending to be a Galactico (‘El Dan' has a certain ring to it), reduces you to the carefree fan at the simplest level, and that in itself would have been enough for a momentous visit. But Pablo's connections got us into the home changing rooms, and the player lockers, complete with photo, shirt and number of each player, and spare shoes. (I surreptitiously tried on Ruud van Nistelrooy's adidas slops. Because, well, I could.)

And sealing the visit, confirmation that the guys at Madrid had me down for someone extremely important: I was solemnly presented with a soccer ball personally signed by this season's squad, to thank me for visiting. Cassilas, Raul, Van der Vaart, Cannavaro... I'm not huge on sporting merchandise, but this is something rather special. And I'll be sending a signed Mighty Dodos shirt back to Madrid as a token of my appreciation.

That would have been enough to define the trip, let alone the day; after a diversion north for 18 holes at Race, however, we headed back to Madrid for the Masters Series, and my first genuine taste of professional tennis. I'd watched South Africa play Belarus, led by a bare-chested Max Mirnyi, in the Davis Cup in Cape Town years back, and once played Cara Black in a junior school match (she murdered me), but Masters Series? No; and certainly not Roger Federer or Novak Djokovic...

We just missed Rafael Nadal's destruction of Richard Gasquet, but were settled for Federer's warm-up against another doomed Frenchman, Jo-Wilfried Tsonga. Tsonga looks like he could do a hell of a job breaking off the back of a scrum; breaking Federer was considerably more of a challenge. There's an elegant brutality to the Swiss, and a lethal precision to his groundstrokes — Nadal may have the power game, and a relentless pursuit of everything hit back to him, but Federer simply looks better on court. The backhand is majestic, certainly, and all the more so when seen firsthand; it's Federer's devastating forehand that television simply doesn't do justice to, however, and last night's spectators — of whom Tsonga was one by the end of the match — received a strong reminder that Nadal will have a fight on his hands to keep tennis's top ranking.

Federer swept off the court with the regal cool he wears as default setting; more animated was Djokovic, who faced a fearsome assault from Ivo Karlovic, the huge Croatian with a violent serve. Touching 230 kilometres an hour at times, Karlovic is unplayable when his serve is firing; largely disinterested in rallies, he plays to the tiebreak, and then bombs his opponent out of the set. Two tiebreaks, two wins, and Karlovic is through. It wasn't pretty, nor overly entertaining, but it was hugely effective — and when four consecutive aces win a game at over 220 kilometres an hour apiece, there's a thrill similar to seeing a genuine fast bowler working over an under-fire batsman.

By the time we wandered home at three this morning (the streets of Madrid still awash with people, cheerfully enjoying the early hours of a Friday morning), the buzz hadn't worn off: walking a ground that's been home to everyone from Di Stefano to Zidane, playing golf on a sunny Spanish afternoon, and then watching one of the modern greats of the game of tennis justify his status with devastating authority… Quite surreal, looking back; and certainly the best day out I've spent with an Argentinean taxi driver.

  • Pablo, if you recall my skiing misadventures, has been charged with coaching me to the 2010 Winter Olympics, where I'm planning to lead Zimbabwe to a maiden medal in the winter games in the grand slalom. No time for training on this visit, though, despite the presence of Europe's largest artificial ski slope in Madrid; by the time you read this, I'll be in the Canary Islands as part of Team South Africa at the Audi Quattro Cup World Final. Golf, beer, more golf, and more beer: you have to feel this is an event we're primed to do well in. Bring on the competition.

  • Contact Dan at dan@metropolis.co.za
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