Painting elbow

Dans l’agglutinat où s’entremêlent nos identités concurrentes, on dit qu’il faut séparer l’homme de l’artiste. Si l’on part de ce postulat, il faut tout aussi instamment séparer l’artiste de sa légende et le tennisman de l’homme, sans quoi on ne s’y retrouve pas. Malgré les apparences, cette entrée en matière fait sens. 

Cette entrée en matière fait d’autant plus sens que c’est une histoire dont on ignore dans quel sens elle doit être racontée ; nous nous fierons donc, pour dérouler le fil en évitant les nœuds, à cette entrée en matière, puisqu’elle fait sens. Quelques précisions : l’homme, c’est Rinus Van de Velde ; l’artiste, c’est à la fois Rinus Van de Velde et la représentation fantasmée qu’il livre de sa vie ; la légende, c’est celle d’un artiste contemporain qui s’épanouit dans une normalité mythifiée ; le tennisman, c’est une part de cette identité fragmentée qui irradie chez toutes les autres. Tous ces personnages se croisent quotidiennement chez Rinus Van de Velde au fil de jours qui prennent des allures de vies entières, de vies qui s’accumulent et se superposent toujours semblables et toujours différentes. Évoquer le travail de Rinus, c’est donc s’attaquer à l’écriture d’une Genèse en mouvement, c’est raconter les histoires simultanées et concurrentes vécues par celui qui s’est accaparé la réalité pour la rendre infinie en la concassant. C’est refuser de séparer qui que ce soit de qui que ce fût. Everything. Everywhere. All at once.

Au commencement était Anvers

Andre Agassi et Brad Gilbert, Pete Sampras et Paul Annacone, Rafael et Toni Nadal, Carlos Alcaraz et Juan-Carlos Ferrero, Rinus Van de Velde et Tim Van Laere. Je vous laisse le soin de fredonner silencieusement le générique d’Amicalement Vôtre à la sauce belgepour accompagner la rencontre de ces deux-là. 

A sa naissance, on ne sait pas trop si rien ne prédestinait Tim Van Laere à devenir joueur de tennis professionnel. A sa retraite sportive en 1995, en revanche, il fallait être dans le secret des dieux pour savoir que Tim préparait l’ouverture deux ans plus tard de sa propre galerie d’art contemporain et que cette galerie deviendrait, dans son écrin brutaliste adouci par la prédominance du rose, la Mecque (plus ultra) de la scène artistique européenne. En ce temps-là Rinus avait 14 ans et s’apprêtait à abandonner le tennis au profit de la consumation frénétique des premières cigarettes d’une série qui deviendrait longue comme un Mahut-Isner. Ne vous y trompez pas : j’ai beau digresser, parler de tout de rien, c’est un match de tennis qu’on est en train de vivre, voyez plutôt : 15, comme le nombre d’années depuis lesquelles Rinus et Tim collaborent, 30 comme le nombre de clopes que Rinus fume chaque jour, 40 comme l’âge actuel de Rinus Van de Velde et jeu comme celui auquel tous deux se livrent dans A Life in a Day, la dernière création de l’artiste sur laquelle nous allons revenir. 

Car avant A Life in a Day, il y a donc eu la rencontre décisive. Elle date de 2011, quand Tim et Rinus ont entamé une collaboration qui allaient les faire changer de dimension. Diplômé cinq ans auparavant de l’Académie royale des Beaux-Arts d’Anvers, Rinus s’était d’abord adonné à la sculpture avant de trouver dans le fusain le médium idéal pour raconter son autobiographie fictive. Une autobiographie nourrie des grands anciens : comme les enfants apprennent en copiant leurs aînés, Rinus a à cœur d’incorporer à son travail des tableaux de Van Gogh, de Hockney, de Rembrandt pour mieux les comprendre et créer une symbiose entre l’art et son histoire. 

Sur ces gigantesques panneaux en noir et blanc entre néo-noir lynchien et conte gothique, Rinus met en scène une version alternative de lui-même qui explore l’univers des possibles. Car Rinus aime rêver sa vie et la mettre en scène. Il est tantôt prisonnier d’une green room inquiétante, tantôt champion de tennis sur matelas, tantôt grand maître d’échecs et tantôt marin dans la tempête. Le tout depuis son atelier qu’il ne quitte pas. Cette propension à la rêverie est assez peu compatible avec les obligations de l’artiste. Rinus trouve en Tim son ancrage dans le réel, si tant est que le réel existe.

Aujourd’hui encore, Rinus décrit Tim comme son mentor, auprès de qui il peut tester ses idées et les faire rebondir. Si l’artiste est isolé dans son atelier comme le tennisman sur le court, il a besoin d’une connexion avec le monde extérieur (et d’un peu de coaching). Comme le box d’un athlète, le galeriste représente l’artiste, organise sa vie. Il est un physio, un entraîneur, un préparateur mental et un agent. Il est aussi une source de conseils précieux quand on a mal à l’épaule à force de peindre. 

Chaque réel a son revers

En 2013, voilà l’épaule de Rinus foudroyée par la douleur façon painting elbow. Incapable désormais de tisser les fils de ses linéarités parallèles, Rinus est bien obligé d’affronter le réel. Il se tourne naturellement vers Tim qui lui conseille alors de se remettre au tennis pour se muscler le bras. L’avantage, quand on a été joueur de haut niveau, c’est qu’on a dans ses contacts un certain nombre de profs putatifs un peu plus attractifs que Michel, ancien 15/3 au Puy-en-Velay. Tom Vanhoudt est de ceux-là. Ancien 200ème en simple et 36ème en double, il a entraîné Ruben Bemelmans et donc Rinus Van de Velde qui pourrait bien atteindre le sommet de la hiérarchie dans l’une ou l’autre de ses réalités. Si les photos semblent attester que Vanhoudt avait un revers à deux mains, sachez que les sites officiels de l’ATP et de l’ITF laissent planer le doute en précisant “Unknown backhand”, tout comme si en 10 ans de carrière pro il n’avait frappé que des coups droits. 

L’anecdote est savoureuse quand on sait qu’avant de se rapprocher de Tom, Rinus avait repris le tennis avec un autre coach qui lui avait conseillé le revers à une main. Mais Rinus, insatisfait de sa progression, s’était donc rapproché de Tom sans le dire à son premier coach pour prendre des cours supplémentaires. Cours pendant lesquels il faisait son revers à deux mains.

D’une séance à l’autre, la seule chose tangible était la médiocrité de son revers, à une ou à deux mains. 

Les deux coachs ignorant l’existence respective de leur alternative, Rinus pouvait transposer dans le monde réel son goût des vies parallèles, dissimulant derrière la honte d’avouer cette trahison bien innocente le plaisir immense d’être tout à la fois Federer et Nadal. 

Le tennis aidant, la douleur disparue, Rinus s’en retourna à son travail d’artiste tout en continuant le tennis avec Tom auprès de qui on ne doute pas qu’il avait signé des deux mains. 

Légendes de légende

Dans la vie ou dans ses œuvres, Van de Velde est donc un conteur de légendes qui se sert desdites (légendes) pour propulser ses travaux dans une dimension nouvelle. Car ses oeuvres sont systématiquement assorties d’un court texte en forme de voix off qui éclaire la scène d’une aura mystérieuse, promesse d’une continuité dans les pensées de son alter ego ou de ses comparses, preuve que les images que l’artiste nous donne à contempler ne sont que des instantanés arrachés à des réalités sensibles et complexes, à des histoires écrites ailleurs. Il y a sur la représentation d’un court de tennis vide cette mention : “Now I have to find my big serve”. Rinus assure ne l’avoir pas encore trouvé. Force est pourtant de constater qu’il l’a rencontré en la personne de Reilly Opelka. 

Mr. Pink

Caméra embarquée. En bon tennisman du dimanche, imaginez un peu vous tenir sur un court, aussi loin que possible de la ligne de service, le dos penché vers l’avant et les jambes ancrées dans le sol, prêt à bondir à gauche, à droite pour retourner le service de votre adversaire. Maintenant, imaginez que cet adversaire soit Reilly Opelka et qu’il décide de kicker. Est-ce que vous allez toucher la balle ? 

Non. Même toi, là, au fond, qui es sûr que si tu anticipes du bon côté et tout et tout tu vas pouvoir faire un retour gagnant bloqué en revers, je te le dis, non. Tu la touches pas, la balle.

Rinus non plus ne l’a pas touchée, mais son travail a touché Reilly. Et en trouvant son big serve, il s’est fait un ami qui, non content de lui acheter des oeuvres et de débarquer sur les courts de Flushing en 2021 avec un sac rose de la Tim Van Laere Gallery (ce qui lui vaudra une amende pour sac non conforme), lui a aussi permis de rencontrer Venus Williams et d’assister à Wimbledon l’année passée. Un ambassadeur extraordinaire pour la galerie même si Opelka, blessé, n’a plus joué depuis un an. 

Des trains qui partent

James Dean, Reilly Opelka et Venus Williams. Glamour, la vie de Rinus ? C’est précisément pour démystifier cette idée romantique qu’il a décidé, pour sa nouvelle exposition A Life in a Day, de renverser ses habitudes. Plutôt que de livrer au public les morceaux choisis d’une autobiographie fictive, il s’est décidé à montrer la réalité de sa vie en mêlant au train-train la magie de la rêverie. Rouvert à la couleur suite à la découverte des pastels à l’huile, il s’est mis à utiliser la beauté et l’éclat pour construire dans le réel le théâtre de ses rêveries. De ses habitudes, Rinus n’a rien changé : il se lève et il fume et il peint et il fume et il ne sort de son atelier que pour rencontrer Tim avec lequel il échange sur son travail ou pour voir sa famille ou pour jouer au tennis. Une vie monotone de laquelle il s’échappe désormais physiquement en bâtissant au sein de son studio les maquettes de son imaginaire. A défaut de s’évader, Rinus voyage statique, comme le font les personnages de Lettre d’une inconnue de Max Ophuls assis à bord d’un wagon de foire et qui voient défiler aux fenêtres de leur train des paysages magiques dessinés sur rouleaux. Dans son atelier, Rinus invente des paysages, de nouvelles planètes, de nouveaux horizons. Les décors complètent les pastels, les sculptures s’y ajoutent, tout s’immortalise sur pellicule. Dans sa nouvelle exposition, il joue avec les différents médias, les différents supports, pour fabriquer le kaléidoscope intérieur/extérieur de ses vies qui s’emmêlent. Quand aucun train ne part, il ne reste qu’à rêver la destination. 

C’est que pour Rinus, le risque est de perdre le désir. Quand un désir s’accomplit, il disparaît. Il s’agit dès lors de jouer avec lui, de l’attiser sans le frustrer, d’y répondre différemment de façon à garder la flamme. Dans son film, comme Cadet-Roussel, Rinus a trois maisons de rêve : dans la première, il dort, entouré de vêtements accrochés à des séchoirs d’une étrange banalité ; d’un coup de métro il rejoint la deuxième, où il rencontre Tim autour d’un terrain de tennis ; pour gagner la troisième, entièrement constituée d’une piscine digne de Hockney, il traverse des paysages inventés qu’il reproduit sur ses Canson. 

Un fragment d’une journée d’une vie toujours semblable. Car il y a dans le travail de Rinus cette idée d’éternel recommencement à la recherche d’une perfection jamais atteinte. Comme les athlètes répètent inlassablement leurs passings à l’entraînement, l’artiste cherche encore et encore à briser les barrières qui séparent le réel de son imagination. Dans la galerie, tout est concret, établi : les maisons sculptées sont présentées au milieu des peintures, le film unit le tout. Mais c’est en suivant le cheminement de l’artiste que l’on peut réellement créer de la continuité narrative, du vivant. Le mouvement d’une vie qui se projette en mille éclats de rêve sur différents supports, s’il se décompose, doit s’envisager comme une force unifiée. Chaque étape d’un service sert à donner un sens, une énergie, une trajectoire. C’est l’interdépendance de tous ces enchaînements qui engendre la vie. Chez Rinus Van de Velde, les vies se superposent, entremêlées. Il n’y a ni homme, ni artiste à séparer : il y a une avalanche de possibles aussi puissante qu’un service d’Opelka au moment de l’impact.  

The Glided Age Clubs of New York

Tennis began in Victorian England; it thrived in the new wealth of America

The YouTube Video dates from 1931. In the first few seconds, a large, ornate placard gives of summation of its contents: “’Big Bill’ Tilden defeats Kozeluh in brilliant style in his first match as professional.” The tape rolls on. Three men walk onto an indoor tennis court 9two carrying racquets) that looks to be Madison Square Garden as droves of clapping men in tuxedoes cheer them. Cut to the players, dressed in long white pants and white polo shirts battling with slices and long strokes, one towering above the other, as a small team of line judges look on. The lanky Tilden wins, shaking hands with Karel Koželuh, a Czech tennis and football standout known for getting everything back. The men escape into the crowd soon after, likely enjoying a cigarette or cigar and a glass of scotch at the nearest clubhouse. 

In 1930s New York, these sorts of events took place across Midtown at indoor courts from the TK Grand Central Station to the Racquet and Tennis Club a few blocks East. In fact, Tilden, in his later years, enjoyed the comforts of the Town Tennis Club, on Sutton Place near the East River. Founded by six-time Grand Slam champion Don Budge and 1931 Wimbledon champion Sidney Wood, since 1954 the Town Tennis Club has served “as a home away from home for countless tennis legends.” Here are TK more Gilded Age Tennis Clubs hidden among the 13 miles of Manhattan’s skyscrapers. 

The Racquet and Tennis Club

As much of a time capsule of the Gilded Age as can be found in Manhattan, the Racquet and Tennis Club members observe a strict code of silence about all that takes place behind its thick stone walls, including its tradition of after-work naked swimming and still-existing “men only” policy. (Women are welcome at club social events if accompanied by a male member). Located at 370 Park Avenue between East 52nd and 53rd Streets — some of the most sought-after and expensive land in the world —  the club charged an initiation fee of $200 with annual dues of $150 for access to four international squash courts, one real tennis court, and two indoor lawn tennis courts, as well as a dining room, bar, library and billiards room. In 1987, the club famously refused to allow real tennis player Evelyn David, who lived a few blocks away,  to train for the Women’s World Tennis Championship, a real tennis tournament. At the time, there were  only nine real tennis clubs in America. David Evelin had to travel 70 minutes each way to Tuxedo. 

Town Tennis Club

In the early 1950s, friends, competitors and business partners, Don Budge and Sidney Wood had a vision in a city in which street corners were becoming few and far between: take tennis to the rooftops. The two found a building along the East River and  in 1954 —above an FBI garage — The Town Tennis Club opened for play. That day, Budge also became the club’s very first teaching pro — at $8 per hour. Since then, the Town Tennis Club has hosted movie stars, such as Charlton Heston, Ginger Rogers and Kirk Douglas,  and countless tennis celebrities alike, often seen hitting and dining with each other. Billie Jean King and Bobby Riggs held their pre-match Battle of the Sexes press conference at the Town Tennis Club — Riggs’ home turf. Town Tennis still hosts many USTA events in its clubhouse, flanked by a long hallway in which a collection of wooden racquets used by the greatest hang, and many current pros turn up to practice on its three rooftop courts. 

The River Club

While other clubs may have attracted the players, the River Club’s roster of names featured among a Who’s Who of Industrialists and Robber Barons from Roosevelt to Astor to Vanderbilt. Opened in 1931 and headquartered on five levels at the base of River House a 26-story cooperative apartment building on the East River, in addition to two porous Har-Tru tennis courts, three squash courts, a golf simulator, pool and new padel court,  the club once boasted an enormous marina for members’ yachts. That has changed. But River House remains Manhattan’s only apartment with its own club, and one that espoused modern rules and family values — men and women were equally allowed in all parts of the club from the beginning. As of 2013 members pay approximately $10,000 in annual membership fees. A few years back, the club attempted to separate from the co-op by buying the space. The board agreed and listed the club’s space for sale as a private residence — setting an asking price of $130 million. 

The Heights Casino

“No other clubhouse in America is quite like the Casino, for it will combine in the heart of the city many of the attractive features of a country club.” That was the blessing the New York Times bestowed upon Brooklyn’s first indoor tennis club, let alone tennis club, in 1905, a year after it opened. Sitting on Montague Street, just a few blocks from Brooklyn’s storied waterfront, the Casino put its indoor tennis court front and center, while its squash courts sit above it among several lounge and dining areas. In a pinch, however, staff could remove the tennis nets and create a huge ballroom to host some of Brooklyn Society’s most exclusive social soirees. The building’s Beaux-Arts façade and Dutch riffs still pay homage to the city’s prominent Dutch founders, many of whose descendants were members. In the 1950s, due to its no-Jews, no-Blacks policy, the Casino almost went bankrupt, however, until it changed its ways. And although called a “casino,” and gambling that took place was under the table and spoken in whispers. “Casino” means “little house,” in Italian.

The Legend of Midtown’s Secret Courts…

Tudor City had fantastic courts a stone’s throw from the UN. But development won… again

A recent New Yorker cartoon — originally published in 2018 and reissued on the website this week — lampooned the situation of the city’s tennis court availability. “The U.S. Open skirts what can seem like the game’s most insurmountable hurdle: getting on a court,” it reads, before surmising how the Grand Slam would fare if professionals had to fend for themselves without Flushing Meadows. 

It would be an unending match. The situation may not be as bad as the housing crisis, but the pedestrian tennis player who isn’t a Wall Street banker is getting quickly out-maneuvered all over the city. Courts for which it used to be difficult to get a time, prove nearly impossible. Courts where an eager player could always count on a pick-up game, still mandate signing in and waiting. And those secret courts — the ones that were permitless? Published in the Times’ U.S. Open edition long ago.

Once upon a time, however, there were fantastic courts in East Midtown, a stone’s throw from Grand Central Station. Bill Tilden played there, as did Jack Kramer and Pancho Segura. Katharine Hepburn would come down from her 49th Street digs and have a match. After his sets, Bobby Riggs would smoke a Chesterfield, which had Riggs under contract at the time, and look cool.

Tennis courts came to Tudor City not by design but by a twist of fate. The Fred F. French Company owned the entire development rising above 42nd Street and 1st Avenue, advertised as a respite from the commuter train to the suburbs. The roaring 20s brought that building boom; the Depression caused a lull. French put the brakes on constructing another edifice of studio and one-bedroom apartments. Instead, he did something communal: he set the land aside for activities, such as concerts, dancing, ice skating and even ski sliding. Tennis stuck.

Inaugurated in May 1933, the Tudor City Courts arrived when there were few outdoor courts in Manhattan — and only one indoor (the Heights Casino in Brooklyn). Forest Hills was long opened and Central Park had consolidated into one central location from many random, hand-lined courts, but Tudor City had it all: location, East River views and a place to sun. It was also dirt cheap: about $1 per hour ($14 adjusted for inflation) during off-peak and $2.50 during peak ($34).

The French Company realized the public relations value of the courts — much like Chase bank uses Grand Central as its Squash HQ in January — and promoted them heartily. 

Tennis in Tudor City reigned until the post-World War II, when the last holdout of a four-story rowhouse constructed in the 1870s, finally sold, and No. 2 Tudor City Place broke ground in 1954. City dwellers would have to wait another couple of decades to have more available courts. With demand currently at capacity, they are now popping up in the courtyards of buildings with co-ops in the $1 million range (Atelier on the West Side), studios going for $3,000-per-month (River Place in Hell’s Kitchen) and in those nooks and crannies of the city yet undiscovered (Staten Island).

FILA Players To Take The Court In Flushing

Meadows Debuting Iconic Heritage Collection 

The newest edition of FILA’s iconic Heritage Collection has arrived just in time for the final Grand Slam of the season, with FILA sponsored ATP and WTA players set to sport a mix of classic looks and colors at the biggest tournament on American soil. 

Women’s Heritage Collection 

The new FILA’s Women’s Heritage collection will be worn by Barbora Krejcikova and Karolina Pliskova, two players who are no stranger to success under the bright lights of New York. 

Krejcikova, the reigning women’s doubles champion, will debut two new Heritage kits during the tournament, the first being a FILA Navy-based Heritage Racerback and Heritage Knit Skort Combo. Both pieces are complemented by an elegant Fuschia Purple color pattern seen throughout. The second of Krejcikova’s looks will be another Heritage Racerback Tank, this time pairing with the Heritage Pleated Woven Skort. These two pieces blend together in an eye-catching wavy color scheme that showcases the Women’s Heritage collection’s modern take on classic FILA colors. Krejcikova is pictured below modeling her Wave/FILA Navy Heritage Racerback Tank with a Fuchsia Purple Heritage Pleated Woven Skort. 

Pliskova, a former singles finalist in New York, will also sport two unique Heritage looks in New York, with the first being an all-green Heritage Racerback Tank paired with the Heritage Knit Skort. Both pieces feature Pinstripe jersey material, a nod to one of FILA’s signature fashion styles of the past. Pliskova’s second look will pair a FILA Navy/Fuschia Heritage Halter Tank with the Heritage Pleated Woven Skort in the Fuschia Purple colorway modeled by Krejcikova above. 

Although unable to compete in New York this year, Shelby Rogers is pictured below modeling some of the Heritage collection’s other signature pieces. On the left, Rogers wears the Heritage Long Sleeve Crew, which includes stitched FILA lettering for a retro look and feel. Rogers is also pictured in the FILA Navy Heritage Dress with Ecru secondary coloring compliment. This performance dress is complete with an elastic V-neck, pleated skort bottom, and inside forza ball short for maximum comfort.

Men’s Heritage Collection

The Men’s Heritage Collection will be worn by John Isner and Diego Schwartzman in New York, each sporting different combinations of the new release that includes three shirts and two shorts.

Isner, a two-time quarterfinalist in New York, will sport the collection’s two polos, the Heritage Colorblock Polo and the Heritage Pin Stripe Polo. Isner’s Colorblock Polo will feature an Ultramarine Green color base with accents of FILA Navy and Ecru around the chest and collar. The Pin Stripe Polo consists of an Ecru base color with drop needle striping and FILA Navy contrast accents, a modern take on a vintage FILA look. 

The American veteran is pictured below in his Heritage Colorblock Polo paired with a pair of

Heritage Woven Shorts in FILA Navy.

Diego Schwartzman will take the court donning two colorways of the Heritage Short Sleeve Crew – the final of the collection’s three shirts. The two-time quarterfinalist in Flushing Meadows is pictured below sporting the crew in FILA Red to go along with a FILA Navy Woven Short, and will also wear a version of the crew that is FILA Navy based with Ultramarine Green and Ecru trimming.

Reilly Opelka is pictured below sporting the Heritage Short Sleeve Henley Shirt in a FILA Navy-based color with accents of the collection’s green and ecru colors. The Heritage Collection also features a version of the Henley in an Ecru/FILA Navy/FILA Red color scheme, paying homage to the United States’lone Grand Slam tournament. Opelka is pictured below in a pair of the Heritage Woven Shorts in green with a touch of FILA Navy and Ecru secondary color striping on the right side.

The Heritage Collection is rounded out by archival-inspired tracksuits for both men and women that celebrate FILA’s distinguished history in tennis. The men’s tracksuit focuses on signature FILA colors with a classic FILA Navy Track Jacket and Track Pant. The women’s tracksuit also features predominantly in FILA Navy with secondary color striping of Ecru and Fuschia Purple throughout the jacket and pants.

The jacket includes a full front zipper and two front pockets, while the pants are complete with an interior drawcord waistband and two front pockets.

Both the Men’s and Women’s Heritage collections are available for fans to shop on FILA.com and select tennis retailers nationwide.

Where are the Gay Men in Tennis?

U.S. Open Pride Day Highlights the Discrepancy Among LGBT Players

It was an otherwise ordinary day in the world of tennis. Just two weeks before, the men had wrapped their 2022 season in Turin and the women had said goodbye in Texas. But on 7 December, the LGBTQ+ papers lit up with front page news: French doubles players Fabien Reboul (ATP Doubles No. 46) and Maxence Broville (ATP No. 737), had posted an Instagram photo of the pair passionately kissing each other.

The image has since been removed, but anyone following Reboul’s account (Broville’s is private) might have seen it coming. Previous posts allude to the relationship multiple times; Reboul’s photographs often feature him shirtless; captions included “When your BAE is looking at you” and “People can talk, people can judge, but I am still gonna do me” with likes from Jan-Michael Gambill and other gay men. 

Rebould, 27, and Maxence, 24, weren’t the only LGBT players to come out in 2022 — Russian player Daria Kasatkina (WTA No. 14) condemned President Vladimir Putin in her process; Argentinian Nadia Podoroska (WTA No. 70) announced her relationship with fellow player Guillermina Naya (WTA No. 434); and Belgian Alison Van Uytvanck (WTA No. 280) pledged to marry Emilie Vermeiren — but the Frenchmen finally opened up the possibility that the ATP Tour could finally have open, active gay players for the first time in its history. 

Since the US Open has celebrated its now annual Pride Day, the issue of male gay players on the ATP Tour has remained perplexing — even Rebould and Maxence have not publicly affirmed or denied the Instagram posting. Although Top Ten standouts Taylor Fritz and Daniil Medvedev have stated that the ATP is progressive enough to accept gay players, former players who are now out of the closet say different things. 

“Tennis is perceived as that country club sport, a highly competitive individual sport played across every country of the world. There are a lot of reasons not to come out as a gay man,” says Brian Vahaly, the highest-ranked tennis player to ever cross that rubicon — after retirement. (Vahaly, ATP No. 57 in 2003, retired in 2007 and announced his sexual orientation on a 2017 podcast.) “Outside of the States and Europe, there are a lot of countries not accepting of gay men. It’s not a team sport; there are not teammates on whom you can rely — you practice with your competitors.

“There are a lot of homophobic locker room comments made in jest so it’s not going to feel like a safe space. And after 20+ years of grinding hard work, to get to the finish line and then for (the media) to focus on your orientation rather than your achievement, may be a bridge too far for people.”

Vahaly has a point: despite efforts at LGBTQ+ acceptance and inclusion worldwide, more than 25 countries in Africa and nearly every one in the Middle East — places that are holding not only more Challenger events, but also high-level tournaments — criminalise homosexuality with either significant prison time or in some cases, death. A 2022 ATP Tour survey found that 75 percent of players had reported having heard colleagues use homophobic slurs. It also indicated a “strong fear of rejection, isolation from others on tour, and loneliness” as being likely barriers to LGBTQ+ players’ publicly disclosing their sexuality. Finally, the study also overwhelmingly concluded that the ATP should take action to combat homophobia leading the tour to partner with the You Can Play Project, an organisation committed to furthering LGBTQ+ inclusion in sports.

“I’m not sure if there are homosexual tennis players in the top 100,” Taylor Fritz told Reuters last December, not long after the news of the gay Frenchmen broke. “Statistically speaking, there should be. 

“Myself and my friends, other players on tour wouldn’t have any issues with it; it would be totally normal and I think people would be accepting. I couldn’t tell you why (no one has come out),” Fritz added. “That would be a lot of big news and maybe people just don’t want to be in the spotlight, maybe they don’t want the distraction of getting all the attention and stuff like that.”

While many tour players may lend an encouraging word and the ATP has support programs, one thing neither can necessarily provide is an actively playing — or even actively on tour — mentor. As far as the records book indicate, only two openly gay men have played at an elite level, both before World War II, according to the book, A People’s History of Tennis by journalist David Berry. The first, Gottfried (Baron) von Cramm, a German aristocrat noted for his gentlemanly conduct and fair play, won the 1934 and 1936 French Open before the German government arrested him in 1938 for having a gay affair with a Jewish actor. He was jailed for six months before marrying a heiress, facing down a ban from Wimbledon after the incident, being conscripted by the German Army and unwillingly fighting in World War II. 

The second, Bill Tilden, an American, won 14 Major singles titles, including 10 Grand Slams,  before he was arrested in November 1946 on Sunset Boulevard by the Beverly Hills police for having sex with an underage male. Tilden was sentenced to a year in prison, served seven months and received five-year parole conditions so strict that they virtually erased all his income from private lessons. After having another encounter with a 16-year-old hitchhiker, he was arrested again in January 1949 and was incarcerated for another 10 months. In both instances, Tilden believed his celebrity, privileged background and friendships with the Los Angeles elites would keep him from both detention and social death. It didn’t. 

The Hollywood tennis clubs banned Tilden from giving lessons and as a result of that and a subsequent injunction from public courts, he had fewer clients — and less money. At one point, a prestigious professional tournament at the Beverly Wiltshire Hotel invited Tilden to play and then kicked him off the draw. His one true friend, Charlie Chaplin allowed Tilden to use his private court for lessons. But the former No. 1 — and a candidate for the greatest male tennis player of all time — died of heart failure, in poverty at age 60. 

But remaining closeted can be its own asylum.

“I played Pat Cash at a tournament in Forest Hills on 2 May 1986 and a couple of nights before that match, I had gone to a gay bar in New York City for the first time and I can’t even begin to tell you the panic attacks and the stress I had when I had to do media,” said Bobby Blair, one of Nick Bollettieri’s first protegees and a junior standout. “I felt like if I was going to be outed, if I am going to have ‘this curse’, no one can tell by looking at me.

“I never felt I would be welcomed; if I had a breakthrough would never get any sponsorships. The summer before I quit I won a big tournament in Spain, but I said to myself that I can’t deal with this fear anymore and I quit sooner than I should have…” Blair, a friend and contemporary of Billie Jean King published a 2014 memoir, Hiding Inside the Baseline, about his dual life and the suffering of gay male athletes in the past.

For now, however, the past remains present in men’s tennis. Although there are openly gay players in men’s football, baseball, basketball, rugby and American football, it seems as if in tennis, gay players’ “love for the sport and what sport gives them overrides the exclusion they feel,” according to Vahaly, who is on the USTA Board of Directors and was instrumental in starting and continuing the U.S. Open Pride Day. “The women’s tour is 40-50 years ahead (of the men’s),” Vahaly said from Washington where he now lives with his husband and two sons. 

“There are people fighting for rights and inclusion, and we have no conversations with active players about how to change things. There needs to be a camaraderie. I  have spoken with players who are still reluctant to come out. But there is tremendous joy for athletes who feel less alone.” 

When Forest Hills Almost Lost the U.S. Open

But per the usual, the West Side Tennis Club saved the day

Over the weekend, the U.S. Open qualifiers were crowned, Forest Hills kept tennis tourists busy with  celebrity cameos and clinics on the fresh grass (with each participant dressed in all-white attire, of course) and the last Slam of the season finally kicked off. 

And while grass may be the West Side’s signature surface, for years the U.S. Open there was played on clay. But way before the U.S. Open, some crafty New Yorkers had to take the U.S. National Championships from Newport, R.I., set it up in Queens and prevent it from going to Philadelphia — permanently.

And while grass may be the West Side’s signature surface, for years the U.S. Open there was played on clay. But way before the U.S. Open, some crafty New Yorkers had to take the U.S. National Championships from Newport, R.I., set it up in Queens and prevent it from going to Philadelphia — permanently.

How did they manage this? By relocating the West Side Tennis Club in Queens, then building a grand stadium.

The West Side Tennis Club did actually start on the West Side — of Manhattan’s Central Park, that is, in 1892, when 13 tennis players rented land for three clay courts and a clubhouse. In 1902, they moved the club to the Upper West Side and expanded it to eight courts, only to have to relocate again to 238th and Broadway (the Kingsbridge Section of the Bronx), six years later. After hosting the Davis Cup in 1911 and drawing thousands of fans, the club realized it still needed more room and in 1912 bought land in Forest Hills, a planned community based on English “Garden Cities”, and put up the Tudor-style clubhouse.

Following the construction of the new facility and the vociferous exchanges led by Karl Behr, a tennis champ and Titanic survivor, and Lyle Mahan, a Columbia University stand-out, who argued that tennis had outgrown the “dwaddling methods” of the Newport Casino — or that traveling there inconvenienced most New York players — 58 of them signed a letter to the United States Lawn Tennis Association (the forerunner to the USTA) demanding the U.S. Open be moved to New York. “It is asserted that tennis is no longer the pastime of a few but has grown to be a national heritage, and as such, it is contended that it is the duty of all interested in the sport to expand, rather than retard the sport,” the New York Times wrote about the debate at the USLTA’s annual meeting at the Waldorf Astoria.

It worked, and West Side hosted the U.S. Nationals on grass — up until 1920, anyway, when the Germantown Cricket Club in Manheim, Pennsylvania claimed them. With a Beaux Arts clubhouse designed by famed architects McKim, Mead & White — also known for the Brooklyn Museum, the original Penn Station and the Columbia University UWS campus — and swayed by hometown boys Bill Tilden and Victor Seixas Jr., the Nationals remained just outside Centre City for two years.

It was a battle of the architects until 1923, when Germantown eventually ceded the championships to the West Side after the club built Forest Hills Stadium, a 14,000-seat, horseshoe-shaped arena between April and August 1923. Designed by West Side member Kenneth MacKenzie Murchison, the building became a paean to the Beaux Arts, not the superstructures in Paris, Rio, and London for which Murchison’s firm was known.

Forest Hills Stadium became the first tennis stadium built in the U.S. The Times approved. “….the proposal to erect the stands that are expected to represent toward American tennis what the Wimbledon stadium does to the game in England.” The U.S. National Championships returned to New York.

The West Side had a number of “firsts” despite its stuffy reputation. It was the first club to host a professional Black tennis player when it allowed Althea Gibson to play the U.S. National Women’s Championships in 1950. It was the first place to host a Grand Slam in the Open Era in 1968. And it was the first court to host a tournament in which a transgender player competed, when Renee Richards played the U.S. Open in 1977.

New York’s Last Undefeated Hitting Partner

It sounds like a riddle: Who never swings a racket, but wins every point? The answer, at least in New York City, is a simple one. It’s the same hitting partner New Yorkers have dueled with for decades: the handball wall. 

The wall––think a singles court bisected by a giant concrete wall instead of a net––offers practical relief from the supply-and-demand chaos that is finding an open tennis court in New York City. Limited space, long lines, and ludicrous fees prevent even the most dedicated amateurs from scoring a weekend court time. The wall adheres to a simpler economic model: show up, grab a ball, and start hitting. There’s no pretense, dress code, or online booking portals. If you hit it back, the rally continues. All hail the ball machine of the people.

But the handball wall deserves credit beyond its accessibility. There is beauty to this brand of tennis. It does not offer a gradual acclimation back into city life. There is no post-match martini by the pool. The city submerges you in its signature mix of sounds and smells. Rap music blaring from a passing car. Garbage piling up on the sidewalk. And you’re there––struggling, showing off, bargaining. Against the wall, the only option is to surrender your senses to the simplicity of an unbeatable opponent: backhand, backhand, backhand, backhand…

My wall on Roosevelt Island, the small stretch between Manhattan and Queens, is next to a playground and two basketball courts. I showed up on a Saturday morning around 8:30 AM. As I opened the gate, a red-faced man stepped off the court, carrying a racket and three balls. “Enjoy,” he said, panting. The wall’s first victory of the day.

I laced my shoes, picked up a ball, and pounded it three feet above my imaginary net. It shot wide off the wall to my backhand, forcing me to my left. I dug the ball out with a lunging slice. It angled off the wall to my right, bouncing ten feet behind me. 0-15.

Over the next 30 minutes, the wall answered every question I asked. Heavy topspin forehand? No problem. Backhand down the line? All day. Dropshot? Nice try. Chipped white paint, sprinkled in the vague outline of an imaginary net line, served as a record of the players who came before me.   

With defeat inevitable, my mindset changed from playing the wall to playing myself. I realized the lesson of New York City’s undefeated hitting walls. The wall is so consistent, so perfect that it almost becomes invisible. It doesn’t disguise wild spins or unexpected angles. It echos an adage every player knows by heart: you have to play yourself. 

I began seeing NYC’s brand of tennis everywhere. Unlike tennis courts, typically constrained to big parks and private clubs, handball courts are tucked tight into corner lots and playgrounds. They don’t redirect the city’s flow––they channel it.

The courts off West 4th Street in Greenwich Village, known simply as “The Cage,” lure a passing crowd of downtown train riders, basketball players, and NYU undergrads. Further down the island, in Rockefeller Park, an errant forehand on the handball court might just end up in the Hudson River. The game continues outside of Manhattan. Off Jackson Ave in the Bronx, players step into St. Mary’s Park––an ampitheater of barbeques, birthday parties, and blaring speakers. Down across Randall Island in Astoria, Queens, tennis balls echo off the underside of the RFK Bridge. These walls mark the contours of the city. They cover its boroughs, map its neighborhoods, and mirror its cultures.

The next time your hitting partner oversleeps or misses the train, try your luck against the city’s last undefeated tennis player. It won’t brag, miss a line call, or make you sit in two-hour lines. And it already lives in your neighborhood. Try the wall. It’s tennis for one––and for all.

“New York was no mere city. It was instead an infinitely romantic notion.”

Joan Didion

The arid, Californian sun beats down on me as I begin to pack my bags for the US Open. I pick through my dresses and summer wear, my comfortable and not so comfortable shoes, as my brain fills with images of the New York I’ve consumed over the years. From sitcoms to films to music to the writings of many great authors, New York’s image is palpable and ever present. I’ve seen her as many have seen her; broadcast across not only the remaining 49 states, but the world as well. Watching her from afar in the small bedrooms I’ve lived in across Northern and Southern California. She’s become an amalgamation of all the media made in her image, of all the odes to her we’ve consumed. We feel we know her, or the image of her we’ve been shown. She’s cultured, never sleeps, storied and most importantly: she’s authentic.

But even without those images broadcast across our screens, there are distinct echoes of New York on my own Californian shore. There’s the Brooklyn Dodgers who moved west to become the Los Angeles Dodgers — or as we call them Los Doyers. And who can forget their age-old rivalry with the Manhattan Giants? Who themselves moved west to San Francisco, poetically maintaining their feud with a dual journey from sea to shining sea.

But not all echoes are one way. Most prescient to my current voyage to the US Open, are the halls of Arthur Ashe Student Health and Wellness Center that nursed me back to health many times as a student at UCLA. An inclusive, safe space where any student could go to get care without question or judgment. Named after Arthur Ashe, who played for UCLA tennis winning both the NCAA singles and doubles titles, before becoming the international titan of tennis, civil rights and social justice he became known to be. Now the US Open’s largest stadium, where the greatest matches are played, bears his name — the Arthur Ashe Stadium. 

Yes, so much connects the two cities of LA and NYC, of California and New York. But just as the image of New York rings in the minds of children elsewhere as a romantic place that’s served as the backdrop of so many of their favorite stories, so does it ring in the minds of Californians.

I hate California, I want to go to the east coast. I want to go where culture is like, New York, or Connecticut or New Hampshire.

Are the lines Christine Mcphersen acerbically points at her mother in Lady Bird. Christine, who prefers to go by “Lady Bird” – a stage name worthy of a New York transplant – has the same romantic notion as many teenagers, and even adults, around the United States. You’re meant to giggle at the idea of Connecticut and New Hampshire having any more culture than California, and perhaps to acquiesce to the idea that New York holds a special place in the cultural memory of the United States. After all, not only is New York seen as a cultural capital of the USA, it’s also old. It’s established in the memory of the USA. In fact it’s one of the first 13 states. A history that is distant to those of us from California and the west. 

California is young when it comes to being a part of the “United States of America”, declaring statehood in 1850 after being a territory of the Republic of Mexico, a province of New Spain and of course its own pre-colonial history prior to Spanish expansion and colonization. This difference is so marked that in our schools we have to learn our history in parallel with those of the “First 13 States”. Creating a separation in our minds; one that makes clear that New York, Connecticut, New Hampshire and so on to the remaining 10 original states, have a history different from ours. A history that’s as old as the formation of the United States.  A history that converges with that of the west through the bloody movement of manifest destiny and westward expansion.

One might gasp at Christine asserting that she “hates” California. But consider for a moment the media you yourself have consumed about California and New York. In these sitcoms and films New York is glamorous, filled with culture and is above all “real”. California is sunny, stuck-up and above all “fake”. Of course these simplifications aren’t true and Christine eventually realizes the youthful ignorance of her own words. Coming to a crescendo of emotion as she sits on the steps of a Catholic Church in New York listening to hymns pour out the heavy, wooden doors. Their sound transporting her to thoughts of her own hometown of Sacramento, California, leading her hands to grasp for her phone and dial home. An emotional moment anyone who’s moved far away from home can understand. And a moment particularly full of Californian imagery. Catholic Churches line our state, their missions forming “El Camino Real” — something far apart from the Protestant and Quaker history of New York and the East Coast.

That moment where Christine reaches for her phone, led by the pull of homesickness, not only holds imagery inherent to California but also of “New York”. It’s a moment of yearning that many New Yorker’s themselves can understand. They say New York is a world unto itself. Made by the many people who move there from all corners of the world, crossing over its waters past the protruding figure of the Statue of Liberty and into Ellis Island. It’s many Burroughs and blocks full of food, sights and sounds unique to many different cultures. Home’s away from home built in a new and daunting place. Just as the steps of that Catholic Church were for Christine.

I said earlier that New York is an amalgamation of all the images we’ve consumed, and for Californians it’s the images we’ve consumed in our history books as well. New York is towering not only in its importance in art and media but in a historical sense as well. As people from around the world rush into NYC for the hectic frenzy that is the US Open, frenzied themselves to see for the first time how that image of NYC they’ve consumed through their screens and the pages of their books holds up — so will I.

This and all that I’ve ruminated on above is why it only makes sense that the US Open is held in NYC. New York is not only an amalgamation of all the stories we’ve read, heard and watched, it’s also an amalgamation of our 50 states. At some point in time some child, in some bedroom in the vast United States, has sat and watched a movie, read a book, or listened to a song about New York and made a silent pact to themselves right then and there that they’d one day live in that city. Just as Christine did. And just as so many others have done. Because not only is New York a fantastically romantic notion that graces our screens and pages, it also holds a distinct place in the historical memory of the United States. Those two truths meld together to make New York a unique cultural and historical landmark. Similar to her Statue of Liberty.  And one perfectly fit to host the US Grand Slam.

Why Stefanos Tsitsipas?

Who is your favorite player? This is always the first question that occurs when I talk about tennis. I answer even though it doesn’t really matter to me. Roger Federer made everyone agree for a long time. Now that the has Maestro retired, a silence often follows the question. I always need a few seconds to be honest with myself. I could answer Novak Djokovic or Rafael Nadal, and no one would judge. However, I always end up saying Stefanos Tsitsipas – I can’t help it.

I always kept an eye on the French Open without being a huge tennis fan. The 2020 edition, which took place in October due to Covid-19, wasn’t an exception. I just started my senior year and hurried to come back from school every day to catch the last couple of hours. I ended up watching Dominic Thiem by pure chance. I remember being hypnotized by his one-handed backhand and his devastating forehand. I followed his remaining matches with a lot of passion – but there weren’t enough according to me. I went through a roller coaster during his thriller encounter against Hugo Gaston (6/4 6/4 5/7 3/6 6/3) before having to face a huge disappointment when he lost to Diego Schwartzmann in the next round (6/7 7/5 6/7 6/7 2/6).

I thought that the French Open had lost its taste. I didn’t watch any match for a few days – until Friday night. I turned on the TV to kill my boredom. Stefanos Tsitsipas played Novak Djokokvic. The Greek, who I didn’t know then, was about to lose by two sets to love. I thought I would just watch the end of a platonic encounter before going to a family diner. I didn’t consider the ATP Finals champion’s fighting spirit. Stefanos Tsitsipas took me on a journey of several hours. All dressed in black, he made a string of slides on clay and ran after each of his opponent’s dropshots. While Novak Djokovic served for the match, he won a sixteen strikes rally by using his power on the forehand side. Astonished by the game of this unknown player and the suspense of the match, I couldn’t take my eyes off the TV. I decided to keep watching in the streets, in the subway and while eating (with my phone under the table). His loss (3/6 2/6 7/5 6/4 1/6) left me with a bitter taste in my mouth. 

When the Philippe-Chatrier reopened its gates eight months later, the name of Stefanos Tsitsipas remained in my mind – as well as Dominic Thiem’s. The Austrian was defeated by Pablo Andujar (6/4 7/5 3/6 4/6 4/6) in the first round. I focused all my energy on Stefanos. I didn’t miss any of his matches. A class of philosophy? I watched his dazzling forehand accelerations from my phone that was hidden in my pencil case. A test the next morning? I learnt my history lesson while watching my new favorite player’s rises to the net. By chance – and with a lot of talent – Stefanos Tsitsipas reached his first Grand Slam final. I devoted my Sunday to it. 

His match against Novak Djokovic had me in a tizzy. In a few hours, my enthusiasm transformed into a huge disappointment. His hidden dropshots and forehands down the line gave way to the Djoker’s indisputable domination. This loss (7/6 6/2 3/6 2/6 4/6) was even harder than the year before. It left me wanting more. How could I spend a year without watching a single match? I couldn’t. I dove into the ATP Calendar and discovered that I could watch tennis everyday if I wanted to. This simple fact changed a lot of things in my life. 

I spent the next few weeks watching the tournaments on grass before Wimbledon. As Stefanos Tsitsipas isn’t at his best on this surface, I discovered new players. Alexander Zverev’s serve and backhand were enough to convince me. I thought that Roger Federer could do the impossible one last time at the All-England Lawn Tennis and Criquet Club. Novak Djokovic’s game was so perfect that I couldn’t resist to it. In the blink of an eye, I was totally in love with tennis. From this summer – and all the ones after that – I spent sleepless nights watching the American swing before enjoying the US Open climax. 

After all these lines, I still haven’t answered the must burning question: Why him and not another player? I often talk about his one-handed backhand and his abilities at the net to summarize. Some think that the first aspect is his biggest flaw, but I actually think that it is what defines his game – that I love so much. When it is perfectly hit, there isn’t a more beautiful gesture in tennis. Can grace take over efficiency? Stefanos Tsitsipas managed to unite both. His devastating forehand – crossed, down the lined or as a lifted volley – leaves his opponents meters away from the ball while his dazzling backhands, his dropshots and his talent at the net leave them speechless. 

Stefanos, why does your first Grand Slam title still isn’t a reality? Years go by, there are more and more competitors and I sometimes think that your dream is escaping. I feel disappointed when you walk on the greatest courts of the world without really being there, when you lose in the first round of the US Open or in the Monte-Carlo quarterfinals. But when you free your talent and your will to win – against Dominic Thiem and Andy Murray at Wimbledon – I remember that you made me love tennis. There aren’t a lot of people still believing in you, but I am sure that you will win a Grand Slam one day. 

Three years after the 2020 French Open, my ambitions have never been clearer. For years, I have driven myself crazy trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. Today, there isn’t any doubt. Becoming a tennis journalist is my biggest dream. Who knows, Stefanos Tsitsipas might be right in front of my in a few years to talk about the biggest achievement of his life – his first Grand Slam title.

Pourquoi Stefanos Tsitsipas ?

Qui est ton joueur préféré ? Cette question est toujours la première à tomber lorsque je discute tennis. Pour moi, elle n’a pas grande importance mais j’y réponds tout de même. Roger Federer a eu l’avantage de faire l’unanimité pendant de nombreuses années. Maintenant que le Maestro a tiré sa révérence, un blanc suit souvent cette interrogation. Quelques secondes me sont toujours nécessaires pour être honnête avec moi-même. Je pourrais répondre Novak Djokovic ou Rafael Nadal sans prendre de grand risque. Cependant, presque malgré moi, ce sont deux autres mots qui s’échappent de mes lèvres : Stefanos Tsitsipas.

J’ai toujours gardé un œil sur Roland-Garros sans être une passionnée de tennis. L’édition 2020, qui a lieu en octobre à la suite du Covid-19, ne fait pas exception à la règle. Je commence alors mon année de terminale et me presse de rentrer du lycée pour regarder les dernières rencontres de la journée. Par un pur hasard, je tombe sur un match de Dominic Thiem. Je me souviens avoir été transportée par ce joueur. Son revers à une main me séduit et son coup droit ravageur m’impressionne. Je suis avec attention la suite de son tournoi, qui ne sera pas assez longue à mon goût. Je passe par toutes les émotions pendant son marathon contre Hugo Gaston (6/4 6/4 5/7 3/6 6/3) avant de faire face à la déception de son élimination au tour suivant contre Diego Schwartzmann (6/7 7/5 6/7 6/7 2/6).

Je pense que ce Roland-Garros n’aura plus de saveur. Je me désintéresse des matchs qui se déroulent les quelques jours suivants – jusqu’au vendredi soir. Afin de combler mon ennui, j’allume la télé sans grand espoir. Stefanos Tsitsipas affronte Novak Djokovic. Le Grec, qui m’est alors méconnu, est bientôt mené deux sets à rien. Je crois regarder une fin de match platonique avant de m’enfuir à un dîner de famille. C’était sans compter l’esprit combatif du vainqueur de l’ATP Finals. Stefanos Tsitsipas m’emporte dans une épopée de plusieurs heures. Tout vêtu de noir, il enchaîne les glissades et pourchasse les amorties adverses au filet. Alors que Novak Djokovic sert pour le match, il remporte un échange de seize frappes en libérant toute la puissance de son coup droit. Subjuguée par le jeu de cet inconnu et le suspens du match, je suis incapable de lever les yeux de mon écran. Je décide de poursuivre la rencontre dans la rue, le métro puis à table en toute discrétion. Sa défaite (3/6 2/6 7/5 6/4 1/6) me laisse un goût amer dans la bouche. 

Lorsque le court Philippe-Chatrier rouvre ses portes huit mois plus tard, le nom de Stefanos Tsitsipas est encore ancré dans mon esprit. Il est aux côtés de celui de Dominic Thiem. L’Autrichien est évincé dès le premier tour par Pablo Andujar (6/4 7/5 3/6 4/6 4/6). Je dirige alors toute mon énergie sur Stefanos. Aucune de ses rencontres ne m’échappe. Un cours de philo ? J’observe ses fulgurantes accélérations de coup droit depuis mon téléphone caché dans ma trousse. Une évaluation le lendemain matin ? Je récite mon cours d’histoire devant les montées au filet de mon nouveau joueur préféré. Par chance – et avec beaucoup de talent – Stefanos Tsitsipas atteint la première finale en Grand Chelem de sa carrière. J’y consacre mon dimanche. 

Son match contre Novak Djokvovic me met dans tous mes états. En quelques heures, mon extase se transforme en une grande déception. Ses amorties camouflées et ses coups droits longue ligne en bout de course laissent progressivement place à une domination indiscutable du Djoker. Cette défaite (7/6 6/2 3/6 2/6 4/6) m’atteint encore plus que celle de l’année passée. Elle me laisse sur ma faim.  Comment attendre encore un an avant de revoir un match ? Impossible. Je me plonge alors dans le calendrier ATP. Une révélation s’impose à moi : je peux regarder le tennis chaque jour de l’année si cela me chante. Ce fait change pas mal de choses à ma vie. 

Je passe les semaines suivantes à découvrir les tournois sur gazon qui précèdent Wimbledon. Stefanos Tsitsipas n’étant pas un grand adepte de l’herbe, je m’attache à de nouveaux joueurs. Le service et le revers d’Alexander Zverev sont suffisants pour me convaincre. Je me persuade que Roger Federer peut réaliser l’impossible une dernière fois à l’All-England Lawn Tennis And Criquet Club. La perfection du jeu de Novak Djokovic s’impose à moi, sans que je puisse y résister. En un claquement de doigts, je suis éprise d’une nouvelle passion : le tennis. A partir de cet été – et tous ceux qui suivront – je passe des nuits blanches à suivre la tournée américaine avant de profiter du climax de l’US Open. 

A ce stade de l’article, la question la plus cruciale demeure encore sans réponse : Pourquoi lui et pas un autre ? J’ai souvent tendance à évoquer son revers à une main et son talent au filet pour simplifier les choses. Si certains pensent que le premier est son plus grand défaut, je reste persuadée qu’il définit l’identité de son jeu qui me plait tant. Lorsqu’il est réalisé à la perfection, il n’existe pas un geste plus beau dans le tennis. Mais l’élégance doit-elle primer sur l’efficacité ? Stefanos Tsitsipas a réussi la prouesse de réunir les deux. Son coup droit ravageur – croisé, longue ligne ou en volée liftée – laisse ses adversaires sur place tandis que ses gifles de revers, ses amorties et ses finitions au filet les laissent sans voix. 

Stefanos, pourquoi ton premier titre en Grand Chelem se refuse encore à toi ? Les années passent, les concurrents se multiplient et je me surprends parfois à penser que ton rêve t’échappe. Un sentiment de déception s’empare de moi lorsque tu foules les plus grands courts de tennis du monde en paraissant désintéressé, que tu perds au premier tour de l’US Open ou en quarts de finale à Monte-Carlo. Mais quand tu libères ton talent et ta hargne de gagner – contre Dominic Thiem puis Andy Murray à Wimbledon – je me souviens que c’est grâce à toi que j’aime autant le tennis. Plus grand monde n’y croit mais je reste persuadée qu’un Grand Chelem t’est destiné. Il ne te reste plus qu’à l’attraper. 

Trois ans après ce Roland-Garros 2020, mes ambitions n’ont jamais été aussi claires. Des années durant, je me suis creusé la tête pour savoir ce que je ferai de ma vie. Aujourd’hui, l’incertitude est levée. Devenir journaliste de tennis est mon plus grand rêve. Qui sait, Stefanos Tsitsipas sera peut-être assis en face de moi dans quelques années pour me raconter l’accomplissement d’une vie – celui d’un premier titre majeur.