Game, Match, Sinner. Beyond the Wimbledon Triumph: The Phenomenology of a Dream Match

On the same topic:

The sound. The sound of the ball hitting Sinner's racket sticks in your head. It's incredibly violent. They say on TV, perhaps exaggerating a bit, that it borders on criminal law. And yet, to be blunt, it actually hurt. A lot. Really bad. And it's quite an effect, in this temple that was once strictly forbidden to us, to hear, at the winner's presentation, "ladies and gentlemen, from Italy..." The older ones struggle to hold back their tears. The less sporty ones can't help but say unkind and very un-British words to Carlitos and the claque of crowned heads and ministers he brought with him. Let's just say Alcaraz will remember it for a while. One wonders, in the hours that follow, when the adrenaline subsides and the memory lingers, whether it hurts more to lose like this, truly staying in the match for an insufficient amount of time, unworthy of his greatness, or in the way Jannik lost in Paris, after wasting three consecutive match points, at the end of a five-hour and twenty-nine-minute battle.

In that fairytale strawberry field that is the Wimbledon garden, inaccessible to an Italian in the as era, that is, before Sinner (may the Lord forgive us), the battle, which in reality was an almost absolute domination by ours, lasted "only" three hours and a handful of minutes, a banal time even for a Slam final, indeed the Slam par excellence.

The difference between Alcaraz's victory at Roland Garros and Sinner's at Wimbledon, in terms of the taste it leaves in the mouth, is the same as that between winning a football derby with an own goal, perhaps in the final minutes, and dominating it from the start by a three or four-goal margin.

Another question: what is more enjoyable? One thing we are certain of is that the whispered question that a dazed Sinner, perhaps still incredulous at having played cat and mouse with Alcaraz, asked the kind young lady, strictly in white, who was explaining the rules and rituals of the ceremony, "But how should I address Princess Kate?", will not be repeated. For this tennis phenomenon and his hard work, rest assured, winning at Wimbledon will become a habit. Nothing will change the course of history, which foresees a decade of challenges between these two giants, Martians, heroes of the racket. And, probably, Sinner will win more. He is perhaps the less gifted of the two tennis players (now it sounds like blasphemy, but bear with us for a moment), but in terms of self-denial, dedication to work, and ability to take stock when the time comes, he is overall the more complete. Certainly, he is the more solid, even psychologically. He could have lost his composure after the first set, but instead he returned to the court with the obvious desire to eat it up (and to tear his opponent to pieces, as he actually did). The other player, however, once Jannik had caught up and overtaken him in the set count, became confused, and the clear, and for us reassuring, sign was when, turning to his corner, rather impatiently, he said: "From the baseline he's much stronger than me." No, Carlos. Even on serve, even at the net, everywhere, Carlos. It happens. It's happened before. It'll happen again.

Where in your heart should you place this feat? Shall we place it alongside Tomba's Olympic gold medals, Jacobs's 100 meters, the 1982 World Championships, or Marco Pantani's Tour de France? Here, the freedom is truly total. Let everyone choose where in their heart this fairy tale will be placed.

Meanwhile, to emerge from this other epic battle, we mere spectators, literally exhausted, would like to be endowed with the sense of the sublime that Kant attributed to man, so that he could free himself from the sense of bewilderment caused by the magnificence of nature—magnificent but also, as Leopardi would soon reveal, a stepmother. Kant's man was able to recognize his own superiority; his moral action allowed him to place himself above it. Today's man can only recognize his own limitations and accept that those two, even though they beat us to pieces, gifting us with further hours of violent beauty, belong to a supersensible dimension. It's best to avoid feeling lost or, worse, frustrated. Let's leave the frustration that comes from knowing we can never reach that level to the old heroes whose bodies have been worn down by years of battle and their spirits weakened (the charming Djokovic, for example), or to the aspiring heroes of this incredible age in which sport daily offers up stories and events that are beyond belief, stories you'd struggle to believe even if someone told them to you. In tennis, we could mention Zverev, Medvedev, or Fritz (the restless Rune has disappeared). In cycling, all professional riders whose last names aren't Pogacar, Vingegaard, Van der Poel, Evenepoel, and that's it. In football, anyone without the class, beauty, and youth of a Yamal or a Doué. Because, as the poet said, heroes are all young and beautiful. Always. So, let's enjoy these racket-wielding Martians, let's fill ourselves with the sense of relaxed emotional fulfillment that contemplating such a spectacle provides.

Starting tomorrow morning, we'll talk about it at the bar, where tennis chatter has long since replaced football chatter. And since we're honest and kind-hearted people, over a cappuccino we'll also spare a kind thought for Saint Gregory Dimitrov and his fragile muscles, may they be blessed, now and forever. As they used to say in our day, in life it's better to be born lucky than rich. They end up being rich anyway. But for those like Sinner, may God make them richer. Because in the end, we all enjoy it. See you on the hard court. Watch out, Carlos, there's no contest there.

More on these topics: