It was a curious day yesterday. We left Madrid Barajas with the warm-up rally in Philippe Chatier and many uncertainties regarding the outcome of a final in which Rafa Nadal could well have also been involved had he had better luck in the draw. The fact is that two hours later we landed in Zürich surrounded by advertisements for watches, chocolates and various products with the image of Federer and Wawinkra, both winners in Paris taking advantage of the occasional interim in Spanish hegemony in the cathedral of tennis on clay. Alcaraz continued to battle. An hour and a half later, under incessant rain that flooded the border highway with the Black Forest, We arrived at this unique enclave, Villingen-Schwenningen, where the terraces open to the slightest ray of sunlight and the large television screens witnessed the defeat of a German from the north against a Spanish from Murcia ready to break unimaginable records. 21 years old, three Grand Slams, one on each surface, charisma in abundance, room for improvement and a lot of tennis in his racket where the letter c, the one for heart, head and balls that his grandfather prescribed, is used, moreover, to champion once again and thus lead a generation willing to make us relive another Golden Age of Spanish sport. Carlos Alcazar, you have to see it to understand it. Like Murcia.
