Carlitos has shaved, it’s a big day and to be in the photo for the semi-finals you have to look handsome, well groomed. And Stefanos Tsitsipas knows a bit about beauty, Greek proportions (in the strict sense) and a source of sighs, here and there, unhinged in this Parisian episode in which the second set has barely begun and he is already swearing in Aramaic while his father, Apostolos, He transmits on the bench as much or more nervousness than his son, overwhelmed and overwhelmed in the arena, overwhelmed by the impeccable demonstration of the rocket. There goes Alcaraz, without brakes, serious, constant, sharp, inspired again: 6-3, 7-6(3) and 6-4, after 2h 29m. The Murcian has acquired cruising speed and without eating or drinking it and despite everything, this bloody spring that had not allowed him to take flight until landing in Paris and that triggers sneezes in the stands due to the proximity of the Bolonia Forest and the allergies, it is already there, sparkling, growing and increasingly smiling, overwhelming towards the penultimate round of this Roland Garros in which Novak Djokovic is now, officially, a fallen in combat.
The abdication of the Serbian due to the meniscus injury rethinks the scenario, and not because this time he was the great candidate, that Nole in an incandescent phase, immense, ogre, but because hearing his simple name and observing his simple presence always intimidates and he a side now, everything looks different. Very different. Better, why fool yourself. Carlitos, fast, forceful and precise down there, remembers the episode from a year ago, when the tension oppressed him so much in the semifinals against the Serbian that he could not think or sprint, and he thinks that this time it will surely be different, equal to equal against the one who rules. But it is no longer the empire of empires, brought down by Nole’s knee, but on the other side of the net will be a certain Jannik Sinner, double agent: the smiling gesture and the kindness off the court, a charming young man, but a cyborg merciless within the rectangle, under the visor, which will also debut the command chair; yes, devoid of that gigantic aura of the Balkan. Neither one nor the other came out on top here, but the new wave triumphs naturally, without the fears of the previous batch. At Sinner’s feet now.
He has already beaten Tsitsipas from time to time, a tennis player in a mess that sometimes he doesn’t even understand himself; where would he go if there, in that mischievous mind, there was one more point of order. The soliloquy that he maintains from beginning to end is impressive, without dissimulation, extraordinary food for the one opposite, and in parallel that endless debate that he maintains loudly with Apostolos, like son, like son. Everything is unintelligible, of course, unless your name is Vicky Georgatou, the Helena journalist who follows in the footsteps of her people around the circuit, and you can decipher all that dialectical hieroglyph. Greek is still a victim, first of the big guys, those unattainable Nadal, Federer and Djokovic; He defeated all three, and at the same time all of them closed the door that the youngsters now deny him, be it Sinner or Alcaraz, the latter a nightmare. Receives tow Zeus again, the sixth in as many meetings between the two. “I know how I have to play him,” the Spaniard warned two days before, already swollen, plan in hand: punishment in reverse. “I want to show everything I have inside,” Titsipas replied.
And immediately, once the first partial has been delivered, disorder emerges again. As at the beginning, he gives up the entry service in the second and although he later makes a feint, recovering the break and trying to get the crowd on his side, “Es-tefanós!”, Chatrier encourages him without much faith, in the tiebreaker Alcaraz hits him with another blow of aúpa. The one from El Palmar flows, fine in both profiles and fast, increasingly more imposing, and two radios continue to play on: one from the Greek, hot all the time, and another from Ferrero, who enjoys what he sees but does not It allows relaxations, we already know what happens. “Ambitious to the rest!”, he claims to his player. “He just hit it!” He continues; translated, finish him off, don’t let him get up. “Bend down and hit him!” He insists. “Let’s go look for it, hey, let’s go look for it Charly! Body language already for him! “Some parallel too!”, prescribes the coach, who doesn’t even flinch (he sees it daily) when the rival throws a tremendous ball at his boy’s feet, in anger, and the response is a volley cut backhand and with backspin. . Deli. Carlitos and the hundreds of Federer videos.
By dint of watching and rehearsing—and of the excessive talent that comes as standard, of course—Alcaraz continues to internalize, assimilate and project himself as a different competitor; with the defects typical of his age, happy 22, but with a repertoire outside the norm, to a certain extent transgressive in these herd times in which it seems to be forbidden for him to go out of his way. All obedient, almost all equal. Two exceptions: his and that of the new king, Sinner, a fabulous contrast. Both have reached the top, both have tasted the joys of a great. Tennis is in good hands. The Spaniard counts 50 victories already in the majors and on Friday he will face his seventh semi-final, even though Tsitsipas tries to keep his cool in the final stretch, once he has already argued with his father, with the judge and, above all, with himself. He curses non-stop, he runs out of strength. He throws himself at the net in desperation, up to 46 approaches, but it’s of no use. “Demand yourself! “Tough there, eh?” Ferrero presses again and the Chatrier makes the wave and licks its lips. And Carlitos, applied but to his own, left to round off, smiles and celebrates at night. Sinner waits, a party is coming.
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