I’m Carlito Alcaraz, my name is Nobody

Tennis has a problem: it’s called Alcaraz. He is unbeatable, and therefore ruins the competition. I would like to eat him, as if I were a Polyphemus, but he shouts that his name is Nobody, exactly like Ulysses did, and I can’t eat anyone, I would die of hunger. The Spaniard is a prodigy, and he’s also likeable and respectful. He says his name is Nobody because he is humble, within the reach of everyone’s smile. This complicates matters, who would want to eat such a person. And so what to do? Changing rackets as suggested by Martina Navratilova may not be enough, as the feeling one gets is that of an invincible boy regardless. Tennis is a wonderful sport only when it exposes all its imperfections. Borg won a lot, but if he met Panatta, the Italian would knot his racket, throwing him into confusion. Lendl was always losing at first, as if he were afflicted with a growth complex. I go fast, in bulk, maybe I forget someone in the race. Leaving aside McEnroe, whose dreamy way of playing was striking, which led him straight into a fairy tale without referees or opponents, then there was Sampras who occasionally lost himself in his majesty, and Agassi who never changed gears, always fast, so concentrated on forget the father. Up to Nadal, who hit the ball with his forehand whip like an Indiana Jones, but occasionally fell because of his opposite Federer, erroneously defined as “the perfect one”, since if he were really perfect he would only ever win he, given the undoubted superiority. Djokovic has been able to give himself the idea of ​​the victory maniac, the fanatic of the point now, when it’s needed, or later if it’s all right. Sometimes boring, with strategic tennis, elastic with its rubber muscles, but part of a trio, Nadal-Federer-Nole, which is now my turn, tomorrow yours, and the day after tomorrow the other. And now that Nadal’s exhausted muscles and Federer’s memories remain, the Serbian is left to fight number one Alcaraz.