PARIS -- It finished as it began. But if the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain, the rain in France fell mainly on a couple of Spaniards whose brave efforts highlighted the tournament all week ... until Sunday. That's when Juan Carlos Fererro, 22, and Albert Costa, 26, -- the one named after his country's king; the other so anonymous even a Spanish journalist addressed him as "Alex" -- tried to throw a little excitement into a late afternoon championship round at Roland Garros that progressed under not merely heavy storm clouds but amid that particularly noses-toward-the-heavens French ennui.

	Albert Costa, wearing a Spanish traditional hat, kisses the cup after winning the men's final of the French Open. Costa didn't even finish last year ranked in the top 30.

Okay, okay. So neither man had ever appeared in a Grand Slam final. So neither was in the world Top Ten -- Ferrero was ranked 11th, Costa (without a tournament victory in three years) 20th. So Fererro had taken out Andre Agassi, the American favorite whom the Parisians peculiarly love in the same manner they worship Jerry Lewis -- and also whipped the statuesque Russian, Marat Safin, whose popular big game was again countermanded by his tin heart.

So Costa -- who might have been the inspiration for Paul Simon's "You can call me Al" musical epiphany -- had eliminated both of last year's finalists. That would be his best friend, Alex Corretja, and the three-time champion, Gustavo Kuerten (ending a personal six-match losing streak against the Brazilian). And so in between, Costa had come from 2-4 behind in the fourth set to the estimable Argentine ironman, Willy (Guillermo) Canas, to win the last ten games and give notice he was finally ready for this major opportunity.

None of that seemed to alter the strange sense of nonenthusiasm that enveloped Court Philippe Chatrier -- from the early moment the dreaded rain interrupted the final at 1-1 through the time the combatants returned and Costa won the next 11 consecutive games in approximately 28 seconds. As Ferrero flailed about on the clay from the ankle injury he suffered early in the tournament, his 1-6, 0-6 scoreline dramatically reflected the most pitiful performance on a grand occasion since -- oh, since about nine hours earlier when Mike Tyson mailed in the same type of no-hitter against Lennox Lewis.

At least Ferrero momentarily found the cajones to get up off the canvas of red clay, the same surface upon which he won the prestigious tournament at Monte Carlo in April (beating among others three different Spaniards, none named Costa). The man they call "The Little Mosquito" finally found his range, won a few games and then the third set, 6-4, when Costa -- who was to score on nine of 13 attempts at his pet drop shot -- missed the last one of the set.

By that time, thank goodness, the Roland Garros denizens were stirring. Probably, they realized that -- similar to the Olympics and The World Cup -- the Spanish seem to put forth this all-Spain, all-the-time stuff in the finals of the French every four years. (1994 -- Sergi Bruguera over Alberto Berasategui; 1998 -- Carlos Moya over Corretja). Undoubtedly, they also recognized Costa as that curly-haired, pleasant little fellow -- he's 5-foot-11, 180 by the book but he plays much smaller -- who, though he's won 11 clay court titles in nine years on the tour, hasn't won anything since Kitzbuhel in 1999. (And Pete Sampras thinks it's been a long time between drinks.) Costa fell as low as No. 40 last year and has always been considered a faint-of-heart under-achiever when it mattered most.

	Juan Carlos Ferrero only won one game in the first two sets.

For the prospect of a new contest, everybody also knew that Ferrero happens to be among the budding stars of the circuit. Already in his short career, he's won the Davis Cup for Spain, beating both Lleyton Hewitt and Pat Rafter in the final tie, and at this particular venue he'd lost only to Kuerten in the semifinals both of the past two years. Then, too, Ferrero had come from a set behind twice before in this very tournament, beating Gaston Gaudio and Nicholas Coutelot -- the latter so upset by the 'Skito's recovery he insinuated Juan Carlos was a cheater who "tricked" him and whose injury was "like saying bin Laden is dead. Is not true."

In the fourth set, Fererro broke Costa's serve, squaring at 3-all. But instantly he had another brain drain, attempting a bewildering drop shot from practically behind the baseline that never had a chance.

Costa, the slender cat from Catalania, quickly took advantage and roared back to break at love. This wasn't the hesitant, gagging Costa who passed up a terrific chance to make his mark at the French in 1995 (at 19) when he blew a quarterfinals lead to the Austrian animal, Thomas Muster (who went on to win the championship). It wasn't the Costa who lost in the first round here last year to the French journeyman, Julien Boutter -- his earliest exit since '94. Or even the Costa who looked like he would be blown out of the first round this year by the Parisian superboy, 15-year-old Richard Gasquet -- who nailed Costa in their first set, then went on to win the junior championship.

"The most difficult thing is to believe in yourself and now I'm believing," the eighth straight different Grand Slam campion and fourth straight first-time one said. "I took the decision against Guga (Kuerten) to not stay in the back and just put the ball in the court. I was trying (to be aggressive) against him and I played unbelievable tennis. I tried with Canas, unbelievable. I tried with Alex, unbelievable. Today it was for me the better one. I was just hitting, no misses."

Sure enough, not missing, Costa only had to win two more games to emerge from the shadows of his more illustrious peers whom he trained with in Barcelona and who have since guided the Spanish Armada into a place of honor across the tennis globe: Bruguera and Moya, the awesome looker, who won their French Opens, and runnersup Berasategui and Corretja -- his close pal with whom Costa built new houses on the same block in the trendy Barcelona suburb of Sant Cugat and who will serve as one of his testigos or "witnesses" (best men) at his wedding in Lerida, Spain, on Friday.

"I say to myself, they are no different from me," Costa said of all those mates. "If they can be in final, why can I not be in final? They are so close friend from me. I said 'Why? They are regular person and they are in final. Why not for me?'"

Why Not For Me/You Can Call Me Al's fiancé, Cristina Ventura, was there in the stadium box on Sunday -- along with their twin daughters Claudia and Alma (born nine minutes apart a year ago April). And they didn't seem to mind at all when Costa, sweaty and grimy and dripping dust from lying on that wet dirt floor at the end, disappeared into the bowels of Roland Garros only to emerge kissing and hugging his family all around.

"I feel very proud of myself. I don't want to say it's dream come true -- because everybody says that same thing," Costa said afterward. "But sometimes you think 'Oh, I'm going to win or not? What's going to happen?' And now I did it, no?" Costa reflected how last year in Rome he was at a low point, "completely down. I was getting completely crazy in the court. I start to think, just be more relaxed, not to think that if I lose is a drama or not drama."

Then Cristina had the twins. "And I start to think about other things," said Costa. "Before tennis was hundred percent of my life and now is not. Now I have my two little babies who I love. Sometimes now when I lose a match, it's: 'OK, I'm going home. I'm going to see my little babies.' And I don't get that drama, no?"

Ah, no. Now Albert -- not Alex -- Costa wins a match and he only has to go up in the players' box to see the babies. Now, when Costa wins a Grand Slam, there isn't much drama, either.

Curry Kirkpatrick is a senior writer for ESPN The Magazine. E-mail him at curry.kirkpatrick@espnmag.com.