Carlos Alcaraz, or pleasure for pleasure

With everything lost, Flavio Cobolli stirs, knowing that he is draining the last cartridges and that, after all, his debut in a Grand Slam is exhausted; only 11 games on the ATP circuit, still very green, facing first the disproportionate challenge of trying to tickle the number one, who fiddles with him, draws and solves a small knot in the final stretch. The closing is delayed, the Italian’s pride stings, but Carlos Alcaraz, the youngest seed in the history of Roland Garros since the Swedish Björn Borg headed the roster in the 1976 edition, at the age of 19, puts the finishing touch when the sun has already lost strength and eliminates the first stop of the desired route for these days: 6-0, 6-2 and 7-5, in 1h 57m. The man from El Palmar, in white and green zebra, scratches his temple and responds to Mats Wilander, who has conquered the territory three times and knows well the psychology of the tennis player. “I have never seen a player who enjoys as much as you do at these levels,” summarizes the Nordic, general feeling: How the hell can you smile when so many eyes are on you?

“I try to forget about everything serious and enjoy on the track. I love playing tennis and that is the most important thing. I have heard Stefanos [Tsitsipas] say that thanks to me he has begun to enjoy himself and have a good time; It’s great to hear that from other players; the most important thing for me is to smile on the track. Juan Carlos [Ferrero, su preparador] He always reminds me before the games that I enjoy, and tells me many times that he has a great time watching me play”; explains the boy, hedonistic tennis player, quoted on Wednesday in the second season of the tournament with the American Taro Daniel (6-0, 6-2 and 6-4 to Christopher O’Connell); “When I come off the court and talk to my team, we always remember the good shots and laugh about it. I play well and relaxed, I try to do it every day”.

Before jumping into the arena, in the morning, Alcaraz crosses the room where the journalists type and carefully observes the performance of those who these days pour rivers of ink on him, still sweaty, with a towel around his neck and who Curiously, he exchanges some impressions with Ferrero during the journey. He has just completed the warm-up, heads to the locker room —along the alternative layout, to avoid the crowds that form in the street in his wake and that of former French president Francois Hollande, also an assistant— and speeds up the countdown to the feast. This takes place on the Suzanne Lenglen track, because this Monday the afternoon slot of the Chatrier has been reserved for Novak Djokovic and the hierarchy is the hierarchy; Alcaraz comes in the form of a whirlwind, it is clear, but the Serb’s file reveals 22 grand. But for now, a pair of galaxies between one and the other.

Even so, the atmosphere that exists in one setting and the other differs significantly. He exercises his Spanish in a playful environment and with a recreational spirit, while the Balkan gives few smiles and some crooked gestures. Official victory for Nole and lots of fun on the second court of the complex, where the dimensions allow you to savor the carats of Alcaraz’s tennis from a privileged perspective. The proximity of the walls to the clay accentuates the explosiveness of the Murcian in running and striking, the definition of his quadriceps and the suffering of the strings every time he releases one of his rackets and overwhelms Cobolli (159th in the world) as if He was practically a junior. Nothing of that. Only a year apart between the two, but the first plays one thing and the second several gears below.

Playful sense of competition

So when he scratches a game, late in the second set, he raises his fist like one who has trodden the top, happy to get some calm and finally stop the bleeding. He gasps, short of breath, swells his pectorals. Engine to the limit. an ordeal. Up front, Alcaraz plays forceful as well as graceful, a mixture of Tyson and Ali, fists of steel and virtuoso sparring depending on what he wants. Yes, he is having fun; this time he does not compete, but rather plays, in the strictest sense of the word. Today history is going to be enjoyable, and in this field he starts with several bodies ahead of the vast majority, because he still retains his playful sense and does not stick to the cold demands of professionalism. For him, tennis still hides the component of having a good time, although reality (his reality of him) leads him little by little towards that less friendly corner in which everything will be figures, records and merits. Judgment. The price of talent.

There is a lot of movement in the stands, the people —full, about 10,000 spectators— stir every time the number one produces some goldsmith detail and he, little sin of a young narcissus, loses himself in looking at the video scoreboard when he dismounts the good old Cobolli with a fabulous contradiction. He looks for applause, he likes himself. He looks over at his bench, finds approval and smiles. “Shit them! Shit them! Shit them!”, dedicates the public with the r bite. Alcaraz, the proper name of this edition; Alcaraz, the boy who until recently played the qualifying rounds or competed on court 17, and who now sets the pace in a season that may or may not establish a definitive turning point in tennis history; Alcaraz, the hedonistic king who resolutely goes for all without shying away from pressure or throwing balls out. To open mouth, diligence and firm step. Determination and display of force. This is the only way to build great stories. In Paris, sighs for the new boy wonder.

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