Bill Simons
PARIS
In many a European land, elegance is vital, style is crucial. They matter in America too, but not so much. Energy, power, initiative, diversity and individual adventures and misadventures are key.
But here in Paris the French Open’s motto, “Go for the lines with style” is everywhere.
After the fast-rising Lorenzo Musetti beat Frances Tiafoe in the quarterfinals, he explained the secret sauce of his game: “We’re Italian. We’re elegant.”
No kidding. The 23-year-old, who reached the semis of all three of the big clay tourneys before Paris, moves with ease. He brings an old-school grace to clay. Rhythm, flow, cross-court lasers, user-friendly power – he’s so easy on the eyes.
Andre Agassi spoke of his signature shot: “Musetti brings back the one handed backhand like a dream. Every time he hits it, I say, can we see that again in slow motion?” His backhand is a dashing whip that punishes. He weaves a Tuscan web.
Today’s quarterfinal was a battle of two great tennis cultures. These days Italy rules. Jannik Sinner is No. 1, Musetti is 7, Jasmine Paoline is No. 3. They are the Davis Cup champions – and Sara Errani and Andrea Vavassori just won the French Open mixed doubles.
But Spain has long delivered a clay-friendly tennis culture with depth. Years ago, their Davis Cup Captain Alex Corretja explained, “We have to be humble. It’s transcendental. We have to suffer, maintain and be quiet. I will sacrifice and think globally.” Plus, it helps to have Rafa and Carlos Alcaraz on your team. They’ve won 25 Slams, including 15 of the last 20 French Opens.
Carlos, the Roland Garros defending champ and the tourney favorite, had a commanding 5-1 head to head lead over Musetti. Recently, he’d beaten the Italian in Monte Carlo and in Rome.
But today in the first set, the Spaniard struggled with his serve – just 41%. His forehand wavered as Musetti grabbed the opener, 6-4. Alcaraz was sub-par. His usual fire didn’t flare. The Italian ascended, confident and in gear.
But slowly, the best clay courter in the world tapped into his resolve. (“I’ve won three Slams, this guy hasn’t reached a final.”) He gained break points, but couldn’t prevail. Then he did break, but couldn’t serve out the set. Finally, he seemed to say “enough already.” A backhand on the line, convincing overheads, a drop-shot let chord winner, flawless anticipation – the Spaniard came back. His confidence roared. He won the second set tiebreak convincingly, 7-3. As Dustin Hoffman looked on from his courtside seat, we dared to note that Carlos “graduated” to a new level.
Grace is nice, but Alcaraz’s power and athleticism now imposed. Plus, fitness is key. In the Monte Carlo final, Musetti wilted after winning the first set. The dispiriting pattern again returned. Lorenzo wobbled, his left leg faltered, he lost the third set 6-0.
Tennis’ high-profile thoroughbred was pulling up lame. Down 3-6, 7-6 (3), 6-0, 2-0 and at a loss, he barely could move. He shook his head. Sorrow flooded his classic face. He threw in the towel.
The elegant man suffered an inelegant end. Alcaraz prevailed. It’s been said that beauty will save the world. But today, on the world’s most celebrated clay court, it was Alcaraz’s substance that clearly prevailed over Musetti’s style.
NOVAK DJOKOVIC AS A BOXER: Boxing is different from tennis. Heavyweight Tex Cobb put it best: “If you make a mistake in tennis it’s an unforced error. If you make a mistake in boxing it’s your head baby.”
Yet the sports are similar. They are one-on-one – you against me. In both it’s best to have a big blow, great footwork and you have to be resilient.
Andre Agassi, who’s getting dandy reviews as a TNT analyst, is the greatest athlete to ever emerge out of Vegas, a town where boxing is huge.
Mike Tyson and Floyd Mayweather live there. The late great champ, Joe Louis, was a greeter at Caesar’s Palace. Scores of the sport’s biggest bouts have been staged there.
More importantly, Agassi’s father Mike, who lived in a Teheran apartment with 12 other family members before he came to America and worked at the Tropicana and MGM casinos.
Reportedly he was a frustrated Iranian Olympic boxer who was said to be bitter about being wronged at the 1952 Helsinki Games. And, according to legend, he took his frustrations out by raising his son to be one of the best tennis players of all time. He placed a tennis ball above Andre’s head in his crib and built a court in his backyard.
So maybe it’s not surprising that the other day Andre launched into a brilliant boxing commentary about Novak Djokovic’s game. He said, “Novak’s instinct is to go in [against his opponent] and be like a boxer who wants to feel the leather on his face.
“He wants to take your best punch and know if he can handle it. So he gets out there and lets you throw blows. And he fights them off.
“Then he gets irritated. You keep throwing punches. So he goes into lockdown defense…Then he goes into his hyper-like, sonic defense that takes that kind of pounding and resists…Then he gets a little pissed and says, ‘No, no.’…and he sprinkles in his offense. And the opponent says, ‘Wait a second, I was on offense… “Now this guy’s on offense. How am I supposed to win?’
“Novak just rips your heart out…He wants to beat your mom, too. His choice when he plays Sinner is simple. Can he use his lockdown defense to stop the Sinner’s arsenal? Bet against Novak at your own peril, but…He’s going to be facing somebody that can throw blows.
“It’s going to be like rope-a-doping Mike Tyson…You can’t do it…The question is how is he going to come out aggressive and will it be enough to withstand Sinner’s barrage.”
BTW: TNT reported that their views for their Paris coverage are up 23% and hours watched has jumped by 53%.
GALLOWS HUMOR: Alexander Bublik always puts things in perspective. After being destroyed by Jannik Sinner, 6-1, 7-5, 6-0, he joked on Instagram, “I almost got him.”
PARIS’ PICKLEBALL PROBLEM: One of our favorite t-shirts here reads, “Less pickle, more tennis. Thanks.”
MONSIEUR REFEREE, YOU SUCK: Decades ago, the San Francisco Chronicle insisted the wave would never come to Wimbledon – but then it did. Everyone knows the French Open crowd is unsparing. Still, an American journalist told a colleague that he’d cough up $100 if the French crowd launched into an NBA style chant, “Ref, you suck!”
LIFE’S FRAGILE GIFT – REMEMBERING D-DAY: Yesterday in the White House Germany’s Chancellor recalled the Normandy invasion of France in 1944 and how it led to liberation. While covering the French Open years ago, we went to the sacred beach where the battle occurred. Here, on the 81st anniversary of D-Day is our remembrance of a noble moment.
Lazy lagoons capture still water. A gull swirls free, the sparrow offers a morning song above cruel hills. Waters, so murky, cling to their secrets by this flat, too-wise beach, where a mighty tide was turned.
The surly crimson pools are unseen; still, the knowing sands harbor a bitter truth, beyond our grasp.
This morning, steel clouds hide a horizon like no other; a horizon that wrought a vast gray armada for the ages: 5,423 ships, one goal.
On that day – “The Longest Day” – boys from Moline and Mobile, the sons of Brooklyn and Burbank, Phoenix and Philly, huddled cold in shivering clusters. Wide-eyed, bone-wet, tossed by an uncaring sea – they puffed their last soggy smokes and whispered muted prayers, final invocations before destiny’s dawn.
What unforgiving fear did they feel? What gut-wrenching terror shook their souls before they strode forth – each one to meet his fate?
Some never reached shore. Packed heavy with battle gear, they sank, a fatal stone descending to an unsparing depth.
Some managed just a single step, dropping to that hard beach. Others scaled storied cliffs, subdued bunkers, or trudged on to wage war in the hedgerow maze, emerging to tell tales – a generation’s pride.
Today, the morning wind is cool. But nothing like the chill of horror that gripped the boys of Omaha on that wide, too wide, beach below cruel hills. Wretched little rises that turned into imposing peaks; impenetrable bastions raining fire, tearing flesh – the sea ran red.
Such agony – dreams and destinies ripped asunder – and a shout of death heard by a distant steeple. The mourning dove flees – the world ablaze – chaotic flames tell of the madman’s fury, a potent poison.
So, step by terrible step, the battle is fought, the beach is won, a continent is conquered. Step by step, the Nazi knot is undone, and we wake from a twisted dream to again embrace that elusive thread, life’s fragile gift.
