it’s a bit Nadal and a bit Federer-Corriere.it

The revolution, in these parts, which is rare. The monarchy since Alfred the Great, Wimbledon since 1877. There is a Spanish boy born in 2003, however, who doesn’t care about the traditions and the coat of arms of Novak Djokovic, tears Wimbledon to pieces at the age of twenty and mortgages the history of tennis. Is called Carlos Alcaraza Martian disguised as a teenager who plays the tennis of the gods with the maturity of a veteran and awkward to Gary Lineker, a former football star who is now the voice of the BBC, the boldest of comparisons: Carlos moves on the grass like a footballer, has the frenetic pace and power of Ronaldo plus the touch sensitivity of Messi. But with the racket.

Noble eyes to witness the coup

Just such a special guy naïve, mix of talents and compendium of generations of phenomena, could have succeeded in subverting the natural order in five sets that we will remember for a long time, forcing the Djoker to go down to the cellar to meet his ghosts and raising himself to levels, to traits, sidereal. For Alcaraz he bothered the King Felipe of SpainThere are William and Kate with little princes, they peel their hands Brad Pitt And 007
(the latest, Daniel Craig): there is a scent of coup in the air and no one wants to miss the spectacle of the child who ousts the great old man, furious to the point of breaking a racket but, in the end, as sporty as ever: I thought I had problems with you only on clay and instead you manage on grass too – said the champion of the 23 Grand Slams, who hadn’t slipped on the center for 10 years, to the heir -. I lost to a better player.

Here’s how he beat King Djokovic

The first set (sold 6-1) serves Ercolino to fuel up (Carlos, play a little better, I said to myself); from the break to the first game of the second, although immediately returned to the Serbian, another match was born. Bold but never arrogant, intense like Nadal, natural (almost) like Federer, efficient like Djoker — from the fusion by induction that the sublime Frankenstein of Murcia is born -, Alcaraz invents the Serbian’s nemesis by facing the final as if everything were due to him, the central lawn is his playground (ingenuity included), Wimbledon the quick learning (only the fourth tournament on grass in his career, it comes from the victory at Queen’s) of the shop boy who has already finished his apprenticeship. The match explodes in the tie-break, the protected space in which you only shoot on the lines: Carlos comes back from 0-3, cancels a deadly set point for the Serbian, closes 8-6 (7-6) thanks to a blunder by the master in confusion, outclassed in personality by student number one.

Inertia turns, cheering too. Djokovic’s life story: to swim upstream of popular love like a salmon. Now Alcaraz is a cat, he reaches everywhere, he continues the work left unfinished by Sinner in the semifinal (but how much more quality), he goes further. Beyond the imagination, his own limits of him. The fifth game of the third set lasts 26′ and orients the sliding doors of two existences: at the seventh break point Carlos completes the work of wearing down the colossus, the first cracks open in the stone, 6-1, Wimbledon crouches at the feet of Carlito, purring. The fourth set of Djoker with a resurgence of pride (6-3), the fifth is an open-air psychoanalytic session, why kill his father (I grew up watching you say Spanish on TV in your acceptance speech, making Methuselah feel the Serbian plugs his ears), although tennis, from Brutus onwards it has always been a delicate matter.

If initially this affair of grass, sweat and strawberries had a favorite (Djokovic) and an underdog (Alcaraz), now the differences are cancelled, the inertia suspended, the karma doubtful. The break decides in the third game, which Carlito pierces in the manner of a bullfighter with a backhand passer down the line that brings down the stadium and causes Novak to have a nervous breakdown. 2-1, 5-3 with an ace from second (in the repertoire, forehand chops and demi-vole included, nothing is missing), then Alcaraz goes to serve for the match always looking for the point, without retreating a millimeter: ball short and lob, stop volley, winning serve at 209km/h, serve-forehand combination, a guarantee (6-4). He can dive on the lawn after 4h42′. He won two points more than his rival (168 to 166), the stake deserved the supreme effort of 45 unforced errors compensated by 66 winners but above all the hug with his father Carlos senior, a mediocre former tennis player, who through his phenomenal son can sublimate his youthful dream, keeping the unsolved Oedipus. I’m in the tennis books for I’d be proud of myself even if I’d lost says Alcaraz after winning the second Slam, the most prestigious. Say hello to King Felipe (When you’re here, I win: come more often!), makes an awkward bow to Kate, mutters an English that will need to be improved quickly without ever losing the Iberian accent, like the pioneer Nadal. She smiles under the pimples: I learn quickly but I remain a twenty-year-old boy. Sar. They look double.