I didn’t think it would feel this way. I thought I’d be happier; somehow, freer. I thought watching Rafael Nadal crumble quicker than he rose would be some sort of evil poetic justice. I wanted the smart, strategic game of tennis to win the war against grueling, grunting tennis on the battlefield of Nadal’s knees. And while that may have just happened, I feel more misery than relief.

You see, I’m an admitted Roger Federer fanboy. I absolutely love the guy. I would gladly trade places with any of his children just to make it socially acceptable to request piggyback rides from the 17-time grand slam winner.

Federer’s game first enchanted me well over a decade ago, and I’ve been smitten ever since. Watching him play tennis was like watching Rembrandt paint your portrait: you’d find beauty in things you didn’t know were beautiful, let alone there. Then Nadal kicked the door in and threw a bucket of paint on every canvas in the room.

Looking back it wasn’t so much Rafa himself that made me despise him, it was his timing. Federer wasn’t done. Roger’s career grand slam total was supposed to enter the echelon of DiMaggio’s hit streak, Jim Brown’s career yards per carry average, and Oscar Robertson’s career triple doubles. Every former great publicly fawned over, and gladly deferred to, Federer’s greatness. Maybe it was Federer’s class and grace that softened their egos, but still, they said it and I believed it.

Then a flaming bull with biceps from Manacor, Spain gored history before it could be made. Nadal was hellfire with a racket. Those Rembrandts Federer was painting melted anytime Nadal was placed on the opposite side of the net. Suddenly Federer, my Federer, was being forced to age in dog years.

Like any great general, Nadal built a fortress from which he would solidify his position. His was the French Open. Nine of his 14 grand slam titles were won at Roland Garros. Dominating the clay in Paris for a decade, only a fluke fourth round loss to Robin Söderling (6/2, 6/7, 6/4, 7/6) in 2009 prevented the streak from reaching ten — proven by the five straight he won to make up for it.

This year Novak Djokovic steamrolled Nadal in a way-too-comfortable-looking straight sets (7/5, 6/3, 6/1) quarterfinal French Open win. Suddenly Federer’s quarterfinal loss to fellow countryman and the tournament’s eventual champion, Stanislas Wawrinka, didn’t sting so bad. It’s hard to experience sorrow while you’re grinning.

A couple months later, watching Dustin Brown dispatch Nadal (7/5, 3/6, 6/4, 6/4) at Wimbledon should have — at its most innocent — been forbidden sadistic pleasure.

Nadal had been battling injuries, but he still didn’t look unlike Nadal. He skittered about, grunting and returning shots he had no business returning — but so did the other guy. Blaming the loss on the list of injuries ignores the truth that these things are a part of him now. They’re never going to get better. At this stage of his career, Nadal’s aches and style of play are fused together tighter than the ligaments that once held his knees together.

What’s odd is that I care.

I’m a renowned Nadal-hater. If there’s a club for such a terrible thing, I’m President by default. But even I find it sad that what was once so dominant can be vanquished so routinely. Nadal was the bull in the china shop-delicate sport of tennis with enough dexterity to avoid shattering everything outside of his own body. Believing his tempestuous style was unsustainable provided me an eerie solace — at least until he wouldn’t stop winning. My god, the winning. And the trophy biting. Why was that his thing? Oh and did I mention the winning?

Perhaps that’s what makes his plunge into mediocrity saddening. I expected it to happen for so long that when it didn’t, I gave in, resigning myself to expecting the opposite. Now, and suddenly, after all the lessons Nadal has taught me about doubting him, I’m finally right.

I kind of don’t want to be.