Carlos Alcaraz shakes his fist and celebrates with rage because, indeed, this victory against Sebastian Korda (6-4, 7-6(5) and 6-3, after 2h 39m) is worth a fortune. The last two months have not been easy at all in which the pain, first, and then the fear have greatly burdened the Murcian tennis player, who has competed little, against nature —arm imprisoned, with the handbrake—and fearing that his muscles could play tricks on him and deprive him of the always greedy Roland Garros, after the rejections of Monte Carlo, Barcelona and Rome. The physical, he explains, has led to the mental. If last year he landed in the Bois de Boulonge on the back of a concorde, currently fights a double battle during the matches: one against the rival, and the other against that little devil who has leaned comfortably on his shoulder and whispers in his ear over and over again to be careful, not to press, not to force and check it, because at some point it could break. To the devil with the devil!
Alcaraz’s face says a lot these days in which he does not lose his good gesture, but in which the usual overflowing smile also goes in sips, dosed, like the right hands. He has come here to have fun, to enjoy and to have a good time, because at the end of the day this is still a game and his is still a free soul, so the containment imposed by the blessed muscle (and now by the mind) ) produces a certain boredom, a certain satiety, too much sadness for a bombshell of talent who truly expresses herself through playfulness. What he wants is to flit here and there and, above all, spread out on the track all that cast of genius that he has inside. A delight, when that torrent of imagination and the body that sometimes represses it find perfect synchronicity. See if not that balloon, that velvety backhand balloon that avoids Korda’s almost two meters (1.96) after an exchange of 15 blows in a dog’s face, without respite; clash of antlers that cheers the center with a roar.
In Paris, he is singing at this time as if the world were going to end, and the purring generated by the impact of the rain on the deck is interspersed with the suggestive sound emitted by Alcaraz’s rackets, which does not completely break when it comes to hitting. but it does explore territories that it had been deprived of in the first two interventions. Excessively silent against Wolf and De Jong, against Korda he projects the shot with greater determination and more precision. Balls in, don’t rush; Obvious, but wise advice. If on Wednesday he was overcome by haste at various times, this time he does not shy away from the long rally and although the American throws long and flat, and reacts firmly to the slaps he receives —breaks from the beginning in the first set, another exchange in the second—, his tennis is gaining temperature and the cloudy mind of this spring gains freshness and lucidity. This is another Alcaraz, more authentic and liberated, less slave of the and if that the lounging imp slips from under his nose.
“You have to be tough, but you have to go look for it, let things happen!” shouts Juan Carlos Ferrero from the bench. “Loose and searching!” “Just worry about the ball and playing, just that!” And he, obediently, appreciates the guidelines and continues to apply himself without oddities or misunderstandings, increasingly comfortable in a very demanding pulse in which the North American (23 years old and 28th in the world) does not give up. As much as he has water up to his neck, Korda is not one of those types who gets overwhelmed. Walking slowly, not even making a fuss. He has the makings of a great player, but for one reason or another he can’t break loose, take off, or even get close to the highest level of the circuit; a shame, because he is usually generous in his proposal and his tennis surely deserves a higher ranking in the ATP rankings. This time, as happened two years ago in Paris, he runs into Alcaraz again and the Spaniard – Shelton or Aliassime in Sunday’s round of 16 – rounds off a complete and mature match, of great value at this point in the film of this adverse tour of Earth.
Shackled until now, he raises his fist and comes to say that he is here too, that confidence is rising and that if he can completely get rid of fear, Paris will have a candidate. Welcome to the second week. He stretches like a piece of gum in the net and hunts down a spectacular volley; He seals the second set with an open, low right hand that astonishes the bustling crowd at the center, packed from top to bottom to see him; he howls, knowing that he has the pass very, very close, two sets up; and he seals it with a delicate volley, a knowing look towards his people. Do you see it? This is me. And he smiles like in the old days when he chats with Mats Wilander. “How fun it is to see you!”, says the Swede, triple champion of the French great. “It was a very good game, better than the previous ones. I wanted to get into the rally and find myself again. I’ve had to run a lot, it’s been like a marathon, but I wasn’t worried at all because I know my abilities. I hope this continues like this,” he says before taking the bag and heading to the locker room with another face, 21 left on the score. There you stay, devil. To hell with you!
Yes sir, this is Alcaraz.
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