It's almost midnight in Paris, midnight on Tuesday, and this Greek colossus is a poem.
A dozen journalists occupy their place in the guts of Philippe Chatrier and contemplate Stéfanos Tsitsipás (24), a ruined guy. Tsitsipás has a lost look, he snorts before answering, he speaks in monosyllables, he is the image of pain.
He just wants to get out of here.
The Greek, finalist in Paris in 2021, today the fifth racket in the world, will not forget this day.
The day that Carlos Alcaraz (20) has taken everything from him, including his hopes.
Do I look affected right now? A bit? Well I guess that's normal. It means that I care (what has happened). If it wasn't like that, bad thing. Tennis means a lot to me, and living days like these are never a good experience –Tsitsipás manifested.
So, what happened affects you personally?
–It is important to have a group of people around you who understand you and share these moments with you. I'm not talking about compassion or anything like that, but in my inner circle there are those who suffer for me. I just hope that what happened doesn't happen to me again. Stinks.
The chronicler must recover the story, the affront that Tsitsipás has received.
An hour before, Carlos Alcaraz has run over him, knocking him out of the tournament in the quarterfinals, 6-2, 6-1 and 7-6 (5), to meet Novak Djokovic, his rival this Friday, at 2:45 p.m. (Eurosport).
(...)
In barely an hour, the Murcian has snatched two sets. And in a little over two hours, he was thrown off the track, in a barrage of right hands, volleys, drop shots and passing shots that stunned the Greek and astonished the Parisian public, the one that before, in recent times, chanted:
–Raaa-four, Raaa-four!
Still flushed, Tsitsipás attributes part of the disaster to melatonin. He says that he had taken it shortly before the match, determined as he was to take good naps, and that he will not do it again, because the pills have ruined him in the first two sets.
-Well, I'm not going to take credit away from Carlos. The boy has played really well. He deserved to win. Anyway, let's not talk about this anymore. I am demoralized, let's look ahead,” says Tsitsipás.
Ahead is the Alcaraz-Djokovic this Friday.
Tsitsipás takes a position. He says:
I will always support the younger ones.
Perhaps the Greek exorcises, as tormented as he is: he is a sandwich between the veterans, people like Nadal and Djokovic, and the puppies, like Alcaraz (5-0 down he is in the face-to-face with the Murcian).
Then, Tsitsipás leaves the stage and makes way for Alcaraz.
The world leader shines with his own light. He is a child and that is how he manifests himself. He says that he is him, and that's why he refuses to look like Federer, Djokovic or Nadal.
In particular, comparisons with the latter, the one absent in Paris, are avoided. If Nadal was all modesty (imposed or not), Alcaraz says what comes to mind.
They ask him:
–When you are off the slopes, is there something you do very wrong?
Alcaraz is silent for a moment. And he says:
I'm not good at many things. Ehhh, good. I don't know what to say.
(No salt).
Alcaraz is youth and waste, and modesty is reserved for other needs. His age and his manner connect him with the new leaders of the sport, people like Kylian Mbappé or Tadej Pogacar, that cyclist who just a year ago said:
–If one day they see me not attacking it is because I don't have the strength.
Juan Carlos Ferrero, the coach who sponsors Alcaraz, says:
–If I am impressed by your level? Well, I've been training him for five years, and because of that I'm able to see how far he can go. Seen like this, I'm not impressed at all because I know that (Alcaraz) can play at this level.
On court 2 at Roland Garros, after his session this Wednesday, the Murcian talent signs balls and throws them to the crowd that packs the stands.
The children call out:
-Charles, Charles!
