Perhaps this episode will not be remembered, the first of many between the two in Paris, probably due to the excellence of the game. But it will be recorded as a magnificent emotional brawl of phases, nerves and moments, from which Carlos Alcaraz emerges victorious, the Murcian superior to Jannik Sinner, entering the fluctuation and, for the first time, finalist of the tournament par excellence of Spanish tennis, the third in a big: 2-6, 6-3, 3-6, 6-4 and 6-3, in 4h 09m. This is Paris and this is Chatrier, and here you come to battle. To come back. No other registration is allowed. There is a discovery. From Nole to Italian, lesson learned. “You have to find fun in suffering. This is Roland Garros, four hours and five sets, so you have to fight and suffer. I had cramps and so did he, but I learned from last year against Djokovic,” says the one from El Palmar, who was scheduled to meet on Sunday with Alexander Zverev and Casper Ruud – measured in the other semi-final, below.
Before, a bomber is loose in the Chatrier, where Sinner attacks again and again, the Italian charging from the first ball in play, hitting it very hard, very flat and opening a gap, destabilizing. He doesn’t even blink, he can’t be heard; His strings give off a metallic and crunchy guitar sound, clicks and notes from the Sex Pistols: no feelings, No Feelings, which the song said. With all of you, The Cyborg. Lendl? No, Sinner, Jannik, the redhead, the silent one. The modern incarnation of this century: the same expression as the stone man, the rude one, the merciless one, but in a much kinder format because when he takes off his visor he is a completely different being, a smiling guy and a good kid, the boy who works and works, who does not say one word louder than another, without distraction. His thing is tennis. It’s clear.
And in those, Alcaraz, tense when leaving, perhaps stiffened by the bad memory of a year ago at this same point against a certain Djokovic, suffers for a very long half hour that seems eternal, trying to take over the rally but denied again and again . There is no way. The low and open strokes of the opponent, who reverses with the forehand or dominates with the backhand, weigh much more, it doesn’t matter. He throws the Tyrolean deep and violently, clearing the sand of the lines and sticking out his chest from humility: here number one. He is a total Sinner, also willing to struggle and go down into the mud, to the harshest body if necessary; If a certain Roger Federer got dirty, who wouldn’t? He attacks, while the Spaniard wants and cannot, he is not fine, he does not find the point. The unrest persists, 4-0, and the stands come to the rescue.
“Cag-los, Cag-los, Cag-los!“, the center roars, converted into a defibrillator that little by little returns the biorhythms to the Murcian, very angry, punches the air when he resists in an exchange and, finally, begins to release ballast. High balls, angles, without rushing, let’s see if he can start scratching the wall there, but the one in front has the habit of pushing the limit with each shot and the feint remains a mere intention. Set up and break As soon as the second begins, the Italian continues to get on his nerves: “Let’s see if anyone misses!” he shouts, pointing to the boat in a hurry, with a pious look towards the bench. “I’m wrong all the time, man!” He continues to complain. So he goes out to the Ferrero intersection, because he is in charge, looking for a change in attitude: “This is very long, Charly, but you have to look for it! Constant! Constant!”.
And Carlitos, of course, turns green.
Tennis, after all, is a state of mind that rarely does not force you to cross the desert, no matter how good you are. And, in the same way that Alcaraz has had to endure the downpour, the powerful electric shock, Sinner is the one who now encounters the turbulence phase and the one who fades, now uncomfortable and failing. The tension goes through neighborhoods, and even the coldest guys suffer, no matter how much they don’t say a word. He remains silent and clenches his teeth, while the Spaniard finds a way to engage in the duel, which gets dirty and drifts towards the strange, the ugly, a lot of error and a lot of imprecision on both sides. The day requires as much courage or more than play. It’s about nerves, rigidity, rapid heartbeats. “Yesssssssssssssssssssssss off in rage, shouts Cristiano Ronaldo to celebrate that, for the first time, it is ahead.
This is a game
“Force Jannik!”, they try to revive Sinner, once he has given up the second round and has started the third on the wrong foot, breaking down, he and the opponent decreasing in the opposite direction, going towards where he likes the most, to the terrain that interests him the most. : there is no better therapy than smiling. But the joy is fleeting. They are both stiff, strangled by circumstances. Psychology afternoon. One step away, so close and so far away is the decisive Sunday, the first final at Roland Garros. Who will last the longest? Who will stand? Which body will best withstand all that restlessness and eroding anxiety that goes on inside? Number one’s punished forearm and adductors are massaged, while the Murcian’s first serves lose 30 km/h, around 170, without much explanation.
“Be hard, hard! Set times!”, they prescribe from the boxes. But the one who appropriates the message and accelerates is Sinner, devastating with that backhand cross, pure engineering in the shot; break and set back up. Does not matter. Alcaraz’s genuine ability to de-dramatize is striking, to say that this is, after all, a game; elite and competition, of course, but a game. And he gets up and fights and hits too. Impressive slap from the corner, all strength and all arm, very Nadalian. “Believe it! Everything here, Carlos! It’s time to grit your teeth!” And so he does it. And Sinner will remember, a big mistake, that shot at will that went to the hallway due to excess spirit and that penalized him. Painful for him. Without knowing it, or maybe yes, a good portion of the party has gone there, a guerrilla war.
Two equal sets, then another bite at the beginning of the fifth and, emerging, more complete, more accurate and more consistent in the inevitable final journey through the troubled waters of the resolution, Alcaraz raises the winning fist: Paris, here I am .
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