Here is a resurrection. And with it, a definitive landing in the heights. Carlos Alcaraz has a partner. Make way for Jannik Sinner, the boy who defeated Novak Djokovic two days ago and who has just completed a monumental comeback in Melbourne, witness to an exceptional episode: only eight times has the final of a major in the Open Era been reversed, starting of 68. It is almost 12 at night and he, already crowned after masterfully reducing Daniil Medvevev, the first great in the showcase, heads to the stands of the Rod Laver Arena. It needs filming in parliament, of course. Brief and direct. “Hello everyone,” he says with the trophy in his hands. “I don't know what else to say…” he adds naively. The red-haired boy with messy hair who was threatening hard hits (3-6, 3-6, 6-4, 6-4 and 6-3, in 3h 44m) and the elegant Russian giant congratulates him and consoles himself. What a remedy.
“Losing in the final is better than losing before. Next time I'll try to do better. Maybe my family has turned off the TV,” he says optimistically, seeing the glass half full because, otherwise, he would drown the sorrows: six outcomes, five defeats. Third in Australia. He closes the trip with 24 hours and 17 minutes on the court, 31 sets. An atrocity. Molten, he has not managed to put the lasso on and Sinner, reborn, burns him. “It is better here, with the sun, than in Europe,” says the champion, at 22 years old, the youngest in the major of the antipodes since Djokovic, 2008. He is also the fifth tennis player of his nationality to reach his peak on a big stage after Pietrangelli, Pannatta, Schiavone and Pennetta. And he simplifies: “I try to improve every day.” Here is Sinner, then, the Tyrolean from San Candido who this Sunday suffers, rectifies and rises to turn the situation around.
From the outset, Medvedev has that hitman look of Medvedev, that of the one who has meticulously hatched the plan and executes it in cold blood, without bending, methodical, in his own way. Like Daniil, trademark. Perhaps it may seem that his proposal simply responds to anarchy, due to heterodoxy and that strange way of hitting and moving, that there is no order or control, but the forms hide the substance. The Russian is a chess player disguised as a tennis player. For that complex and strategically twisted mind—in the good sense of the word—the track is little black and white squares, a constant land of opportunities. Every ball is an opportunity to do damage. He has it all in his head and, aware of the upstart's nerves, he approaches it by land, sea and air, backhand coming and forehand coming. The entire arsenal. This is how it opens a gap and this is how it marks territory: Hey, kid, I do know what this is about.
Frying pans everywhere, deep ball and intention in each and every one of the balls. Rasea, which thus multiplies the effect; No matter how young he is, 22 years of effervescence, the rival will end up with lumbago. He is always clever. “Maybe experience will help me,” he said two days before. And so much. He also loves to outline, opening angles and exploring the limits again and again, and he greatly enjoys service. He resolves each turn in a flash, while Sinner limps quickly and falters, beginning to lose his grip, as if he had stayed in Friday's semifinal against Djokovic. A final of a great is another story and the Italian replies timidly, stiff, to a certain extent self-conscious. “I am dead,” he will say in the third set. He doesn't let go even with shots. He quickly relents and there is a murmur at headquarters because it is feared that the final could be decided too quickly. Mr. imbalance.
The ghosts of 2022
The first set lasts just over half an hour, 36 minutes, and the second offers a bit more debate in the rallies, but at the moment in which the Russian confirms the break, 4-1 up already. The feeling is little more than that the final has only one path and only one exit, because there is the resolute and majestic Medvedev, the implacable, the fierce, the one who does not allow discussion and who solves so quickly that he seems to be in a hurry to take a shower. and go home. Daniil, the practical one. That's how he is. He delays it a little longer, 49 minutes. But he doesn't forgive. Not even because of that Sinner gets hooked on the duel, not yet. There will be a turn later. Yes, this is tennis. His machine does not warm up, as if he had remained in a dream, hanging on the historic victory against Nole. The date is going great for him, and the opponent even more so. But Medvedev should not claim victory. You'll see why.
From the trench, his paradise, he continues to strike without respite and to the side his trainer, a good guy, unique, the Frenchman Gilles Cervara, strokes his unkempt beard. Don't trust him, Daniil, he says with his gesture. Don't trust him, he insists again with the grimace. He remembers what happened here. You know: 2022, two sets up, that 96% -4% that reflected the blessed Artificial Intelligence in his favor and… the nightmare that he will never forget. That wound still stings, but the story is totally different this time, he thinks perhaps. In front of us there is no longer a certain Nadal, but rather a young man who projects, climbs and promises, but who in the face of the new circumstance loses his punch and that inalterability that is so characteristic of him, because nervousness cancels out his forehand and all that reliability to which he is accustomed turns into tension and insecurity, long ball or into the net, faded with the serve. He had lost it twice in the tournament, Medvedev stole it four times.
Everything turns into a rather flat, rectilinear and emotionless act, as the Russian wants. Pure chloroform. Aseptic night in Melbourne until he, confident perhaps, bad for not heeding Cervara's encrypted winks, slows down and shows the crack. This time it is not what happened in 2022, that lack of focus and that connection with the public that ended up tearing him to pieces, no; On this occasion he penalizes her relaxation. It's that simple. Without knowing very well how, Sinner suddenly finds himself there, thanks to two very poorly hit balls by his opponent, and since tennis is a state of mind (in reality, like almost everything in life) he revives, he grows. and shows that you are now ready to really fly. It's possible, he thinks, why not? Incredibly, there is an end. Two one down, the Tyrolean exhibits the virtue of not giving up, of believing and waiting. It is no longer a monologue, but a full-fledged you to you.
As the clock ticks, Medvedev begins to feel too burdened by the hours spent on the track, six more; something like two extra games. He arrives late, those two legs weaken like wires and the one from Moscow fades, surrounded once again by ghosts and gradually surrendered in the rallies by Sinner's heavy, metallurgical ball, transformed once again into that impassive and lethal puncher who pushes, push and push without stopping. In that way, there is hardly anyone who can stop him. He overwhelms and overwhelms until the person in front has no escape, from blow to blow. He has that performance somewhat of Borg himself, the highland cyborg. And here he is now, Jannik, the good, educated and diligent boy who also plays like angels and speaks well. What more could you want? Magnificent new exponent for this beautiful and cruel sport. Let them ask Medvedev. Not a bad gesture this time, but the same outcome: Australia and him, a nightmare. Glory now to Sinner.
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