(Speaking of dry Martinis, how do get one in this town? I keep ordering it and receiving a syrupy red concoction akin to a Cosmo.)

*****

Rafael Nadal, who turns 26 today, was informed after his third-round victory that he had won his 250th career match on clay. He had the same reaction that I did when he heard the number: That’s it?

“250 matches?” Nadal asked in response, sounding slightly underwhelmed. “Well, that’s a figure. I don’t have the impression it’s a huge number.”

Nadal, with a typical great athlete’s memory for everything he ever did, went on to list all of the clay events he played in 2005:

“There was Buenos Aires, Acapulco, another one [OK, his memory failed him there], then Valencia, Monte Carlo, Barcelona, Rome, Roland Garros, Stuttgart . . . and then four or five more.”

I'm not sure where or when those "four or five more" happened, but Nadal's point was that he doesn’t play, relatively speaking, all that many tournaments on clay these days. His ranking and his desire to win on other surfaces have taken him away from his specialty, though he still hopes that “the timetable will be more favorable in the future.”

How will Rafa spend his birthday? “I’ll practice, as usual . . . and get treatment, as usual.”

I guess, for him, it beats the alternative. Not having to practice or get treatment would mean he had already lost.

“I think I like to mix it up, like hit—mix up the height of the ball and use my forehand. I think all parts of my game could improve still, get stronger. Yeah.”

But McHale’s story is also the story of American tennis at the moment. You take one round, and one ranking spot, at a time. You beat one French champ, you lose to another. You know nothing will be easy. You fight, because that's all you can do.

Here are yesterday’s odds and ends, with a few peeks ahead. One thing is for sure thus far: The sun and the heat are back.

*****

The big off-court news from Friday, at least in the pressroom, was that Roger Federer had split with IMG and may have split from his personal agent at the firm, Tony Godsick, whose contract has also run out. Federer was caught off guard by the announcement in the middle of a Grand Slam, and wasn’t even sure how much he could talk about it. He finished his press conference by saying that, essentially, he didn't know what was going to happen with his representation going forward. There was speculation that Godsick may start his own agency with Federer, the way former IMG agent Jeff Schwartz did when he left the company and tried to take his star client Pete Sampras with him in 1999. But Godsick merely said that it was time for a change for him, and that he hoped to work with Roger in the future.

As I said, this news sent minor shock waves through the pressroom, but when a few of us Tweeted about it, the response from fans was mostly . . . crickets. Stories about agents will always be a bigger deal to reporters, for the simple reason that we’ve met and worked with them.

*****

Speaking of Rog, and his upcoming match with qualifier David Goffin, the pre-match jockeying has already begun.

This was the crafty Goffin, playing his usual head games in his presser:

Q: “What do you know about [Federer]? Do you know what to expect on Sunday?”

David Goffin: “I’ve been watching Roger play on telly for so many years. Roger has always been my favorite. He has perfect tennis, perfect technique, and I like the man. From a human standpoint, he is a great person. So I expect a very difficult match.”

This was Federer, in his presser:

Q: “If I tell you you are his idol, what does it inspire in you?”

Roger Federer: “Not the first time it happens.”

Somebody seems to be a little more confident than somebody else.

*****

In a more-relatable newsy story, Doug Robson of USA Today reports that tennis players are becoming acquainted with the dark side of Twitter. Ivan Ljubicic closed his account after he angered U.S. players by criticizing them for not playing more in Europe this spring. Bob Bryan talks about the “hurtful” comments he’s received, and says it was more fun when he had fewer followers. Serena Williams admits to receiving “mean” messages, while Ryan Harrison says that “people just want to get a rise out of you.” The top players who seem least bothered by it, Novak Djokovic and Rafael Nadal, keep their distance and post only generic pictures and messages.

You do wonder what a player has to gain from Twitter, a form of communication that, more than any other I’ve participated in, leads inevitably to misinterpretation. Then again, there’s the case of 19-year-old Sloane Stephens, who, after winning her match yesterday to reach the fourth round of the French Open and put herself a step closer to the U.S. Olympic team, said that she was most excited because the victory would “get me more Twitter followers.”

Maybe the tours should make a rule: Twitter accounts for teenage players only. They seem to be the only ones who can handle it.

*****

Is there a “Big 4” in men’s tennis, or is it merely a “Big 3”? The most obvious and logical response to this question is that it doesn’t matter, that whether you apply the word “Big” to a certain player in print isn’t going to change the way he plays when he’s on the court. But, if we go by press questions in Paris, it does seem that Andy Murray has been tacitly dropped from the grouping. One Spanish reporter has been asking the players who they think has the best return—"of the Top 3." Murray’s own excellent return doesn’t figure in at the moment.

Unfortunately for him, the man hasn’t also been forgotten by his own people. The big Murray story so far in Paris involves the phrase that Virginia Wade, commentating on British TV, used to describe him when he pulled up in pain with a back injury before going on to win his last match easily. The Ginny told Muzz to stop being a “drama queen.” Murray, naturally, took issue with the description: “She has no idea how I feel out there,” he said, dramatically.

Wade’s words may be turning into a media theme—or meme, as we say these days. Here’s the Mail this morning:

MOANING MURRAY MUST COPY NOVAK’S EXAMPLE AND STOP SHOWING HIS PAIN IN PARIS

Or, as the Sun put it:

DON’T CALL ME A DRAMA QUEEN!!!
Andy Murray defiantly stuck two fingers up at his critics and snapped, ‘You have no idea how I feel.’

After much discussion and observation and speculation at Roland Garros yesterday, it has been determined that Moaning Murray is ready to face Colombia’s Santiago Giraldo today.

*****

Play is underway, Petra Kvitova has survived a walkabout second set, and David Ferrer has already driven Mikhail Youzhny around the bend—Youzhny was so frustrated that he handed his racquet to a fan and carved the word “Sorri” into the clay.

But there are still matches worth looking out for:

As mentioned, there's the Raonic/Monaco third-rounder, a mix of bomb serves and scrappy baseline play, that's tailor-made for little Court 2

One of the last Americans standing, Christina McHale, takes a crack at an in-form Li Na.

The One-Hander Bowl II goes off on Lenglen, this time between Richard Gasquet and Tommy Haas.

Maria Sharapova comes back a day later to face Shuai Peng. Peng has one win in four previous matches with Maria.

Finally, in the last match on Chatrier, Rafael Nadal joins his fellow members of the Big 3 in his presumably unimpeded roll through the first week. Yesterday Djokovic beat a qualifier, Devilder; in the fourth round, Federer will get another qualifier, Goffin; today Nadal plays Eduardo Schwank, currently ranked No. 192.

As Roland Garros reaches its halfway point, it’s good to be one of the kings.

Here's a look at what may be my new favorite place in the world to watch tennis.

*****

Alex Ovechkin is fidgety. He crosses his arms over his black T-shirt and bounces his flip-flopped feet on the bench in front of him. He pulls his muscle-bound legs up anxiously, and moves his baseball cap from front to back and back to front every three points or so. When he claps, he bashes his hands together as hard as he can.

Ovechkin’s girlfriend, Maria Kirilenko, is playing a few feet away from him on Court 2, and she’s lost the first set. In the past, on small courts like this, the blonde Kirilenko has been the object of close attention from French teenagers, the way Ana Ivanovic was in this same spot one day ago—“Look at me, Ana, look here,” the kids called to Ivanovic on Tuesday, “I love you.” A similar pack of snickering boys has gathered in the rows just behind the player’s box. On another day, they might start calling to Kirilenko, but not with Ovie sitting a few feet away. When Ovechkin walks out for a second, a man comes in and tries to sit in his seat. A friend of Ovechkin tells him its taken. The man moves down and tries to take the spot where Ovechkin has been putting his feet. His friend again says that spot is taken as well. This might seem like a bit much, except that, as my colleague Tom Tebbutt reminds me, those feet happen to have a contract worth many, many millions with the Washington Capitals.

Court 1, the Bullring, has been described many times as one of the best places anywhere to watch a tennis match, but Court 2, its unsung—and un-nicknamed—little brother around the corner may be even better. The seats are set low and close to the court, and there are stands only at one end; the other is open and tree-lined. This is part of what is called “the country” at Roland Garros: the side courts where fans can get in for the price of a grounds pass. Or at least they can try. Once they’re there, people tend to hang out in these choice seats for a while. By noon the lines at the entrances have built to epic lengths. You could spend the better part of a day waiting in one.

It’s less corporate in the country than it is in the metropolitan areas like Chatrier and Lenglen, where fans pay for a ticket for that stadium alone—or, just as likely, get them through friends with connections. There aren’t many blazers or skinny shoes or eye-catching hats out on Court 2. Ovechkin, in his backyard BBQ wear, may have erred a little on the casual side—this may be the country, but it’s still Paris—but he’s not completely out of place. As always, there’s an overflow crowd here. Fans are allowed to stand along the top of the compact concrete stadium and sit in the aisles. You feel like you’re at a spontaneous gathering here.

As in the Bullring, the first thing you notice when you sit down in a seat near the front is how visceral tennis suddenly becomes at this range. Watching the sport on TV means following the flight of the ball from one side to the other. Watching from along one baseline, from a few feet away, means hearing and feeling each swing and, on clay, each tiny scrape of the sneaker. You’re inside the match.

Here you see the effort that the sinewy, 5-foot-9, 132-pound Kirilenko must make to stay in rallies with her more muscular opponent, Klara Zakopalova. Not only aren’t her legs as strong as Zakopalova’s, she doesn’t have the same timing on her ground strokes. Kirilenko winds up on her backhand, lets out a shriek at contact, and . . . lofts a soft topspin moonball that lands at the service line.

Still, she runs and fights and grunts fiercely enough to even things at a set all. After many winning shots, she twirls to see Ovechkin clapping his loud clap. There’s a scrapping, no-holds-barred quality to the match in general. On one long point, Kirilenko’s shrieks escalate in volume and pitch with each shot, until the final one, let out as she hits a winning overhead, reaches the bloodcurdling level. Afterward, Zakopalova looks across the court, shakes her head, and curls her upper lip. Later, Zakopalova nearly takes Kirilenko’s head off with a passing shot. She apologizes, but I briefly foresee a hockey-like scene where the two women throw down their racquets and put up their dukes from across the net. They compete without apology on the women’s side.

Zakopalova has the lower ranking—44 to Kirilenko’s 16—but today she has too much firepower. Seeing her turn on a forehand and leap backward for a tomahawk backhand from this distance is impressive. The last game feels like a death throe for Kirilenko. Her shrieks, as she scrambles and slips trying to keep the ball alive, take on a desperate quality. After one lost point, she bangs her racquet on the clay five times. At match point, she looks over at her box with a blank face—there's no fire left. Her last bashed backhand lands in the middle of the net. Ovechkin, head down, walks out; he was right to be nervous after all. As he’s leaving, one of the teenagers nearby shoves a camera toward him and asks, “Alex, will you take a picture with me?” Ovechkin keeps walking.

*****

The two women shake the umpire’s hand and begin packing their racquet bags. Fans stands and stretch, but most don’t get up to leave. The grounds crew, dressed in black tracksuits, walk out a little sleepily and sweep the clay and dust the lines with brooms. The slides and bumps and divots that Kirilenko and Zakopalova made for the last hour are wiped away. At the same time, the ball kids line up in formation near the net and circle the court before running off. They high-five their replacements and join a few of their friends in a bullpen at the side of the court. The next two players, Marcos Baghdatis and Nicolas Almagro, begin to warm up.

These men are both flawed talents, and their match delivers on its promise of baseline fireworks. The fact that Baghdatis has a two-handed backhand and Almagro a one-hander is enough to offer a stylistic contrast. The Spaniard and the Cypriot drive each other from corner to corner with their backhands. Baghdatis leans forward and hits flat, while Almagro comes over his circular one-hander with wicked, knuckling topspin. His shot makes a distinctive popping sound; contact is an explosion. After many of their better rallies, fans in the front rows shake their heads at the pace of the shots and how the players can still slide far enough and fast enough to get to them. Many times it appears that a point is over, and a few people begin to clap only to see the other player slide into view at the last second and pick the ball up off the clay. From up close, the mens’ shots sound like a gunfight, but their movement is a dance.

Almagro is tense, but he’s mostly quiet. A bad error, though, will elicit a babble of rapid-fire Spanish that often ends with him repeating the word “Nada!” over and over. Almagro vents, but you don’t feel like he’s using his emotion positively. A few times, he stands and screams in the direction of his coach—not at him, but toward him. If he weren’t on a court, you might mistake him for a madman.

Almagro’s flaw is his inability to resist the spectacular. When he first appeared, I thought he had as much, if not more, talent than his countryman Rafael Nadal. The difference is, Almagro is a slave to his talent. Because he can hit the big shot, he likes to try the big shot. Still, he appears, underneath his surface agitation, to believe he will win, and his game has a little more variety and flexibility to it.

Baghdatis’s problem is that he lacks belief. He’s been a Grand Slam finalist and in the Top 10, but now, at 26, he’s ranked No. 42. Today, wearing a baseball cap, he lacks his old goofy spark—it’s almost as if playing the role of the hard-working pro robs him of some of his old genius. He makes the match close; virtually every point is hard fought, and virtually every game goes at least to 30-all. But the truth comes out late in each set, when Baghdatis’s shots, which never have much margin over the net, start catching the tape. He looks over at his coach, Miles Maclagan, as if to say, “I knew it all along.”

(Aside: Watching Baghdatis dribble the ball through his legs before he serves, as he always does, I wonder whether he’ll still be doing that when he’s 80. I hope so.)

When it’s over, the ball kids line up again on the sideline. They do their own share of running during a match. As the players mull over which ball to use to serve, and which to send back to them, the kids circle the player like pigeons hoping the crumb will come their way. Now they run off and join their giggling colleagues—there are no adult ball kids at the French, as there are at the U.S. Open—in the bullpen again, to await the next match.

The crowd stands; there’s a little more excitement in the air because a Frenchman, Jeremy Chardy, is playing next. The grounds crew, again looking like they’ve just been woken up, begin their casual cleaning. One of them has a cigarette attached to his lip as he dusts the lines. The slides and bumps and divots created by Almagro and Baghdatis are covered over, all physical evidence of their battle has vanished. The clay is smooth again, ready for the next two players to be announced and take their places across from each other, to fight and dance. Life goes on in the country.