‘Game, set, match. Jannik Sinner wins’

How wonderful it would have been to hear Gianni Clerici and Rino Tommasi commentate the first historic victory of an Italian at Wimbledon. Everyone thought so, in one way or another, from the commentators of the Sinner-Alcaraz final to the fans on their couches.
Giuliano Malatesta surely thought so too, who published a lovely tribute to the odd couple Gianni-Rino in the newspaper Il Manifesto, mentioning a particular gesture that did not go unnoticed:

The other evening, after an excessively spicy Indian dinner at Wimbledon Village, Stefano Semeraro, esteemed journalist from La Stampa and editor of Il Tennis Italiano, the oldest tennis magazine, raised his glass calling for a toast: “to Gianni.” This was not the first time, and certainly won’t be the last.

No one calls him by his last name. Everyone just says Gianni. And then come the strangest anecdotes: “Remember that time at Holland Park…?” The same goes for Tommasi. Everyone calls him Rino. Since my first day here at the All England Lawn Tennis Club, what struck me positively was the respect and reverence with which veteran reporters speak of these two well-known sports journalists.

Stefano Semeraro, the promoter of this toast to Gianni, to which we warmly join, was also the only representative of the Italian press invited to the Champions’ Dinner, the gala dinner at the ‘The Raffles London at the OWO’ hotel, which culminates with the famous dance between the Wimbledon winners, in this case Iga Świątek and our Jannik Sinner. A splendid evening, indeed, which he recounted as a ‘privileged spectator’ on the portal Il Tennis Italiano, concluding thus:

Around 2 AM the organization’s cars were ready again, the line of ladies in sparkling dresses and gentlemen in attire far more appropriate than mine was long but quick. The journey back to Wimbledon awaited me, once again through a magnificent and sleeping London. What a day, folks.

Speaking of trips to Wimbledon, one cannot help but recall the legendary story Gianni told of his very personal odyssey when, in 1953, he reached Church Road starting from Como in his Fiat 500 Giardinetta model. Here are some excerpts from the anecdote, taken from the book Quello del tennis. Storia della mia vita e di uomini più noti di me (Mondadori 2015):

One fine morning, the ticket arrived, bordered with the divine green and purple colors of the All England Tennis and Croquet Club. I was admitted. All my expenses and the trip would be reimbursed with a 50-pound ticket. I was finally touching the sky with the tip of my Maxplay, the best racket of the time, a brilliantly crafted wood that shifted from ivory to walnut. The strings, thin and resonant like those of a violin, were also the best, Babolat and Maillot. Since the pounds were not even enough for the plane ticket, I had decided to split travel costs with a tennis friend, Antonio Maggi. But at departure time, Maggi had a setback, so I set off alone, at the wheel of my Fiat 500 Giardinetta.
At an average speed of 70 km/h, London is far from Como. I reached it after twenty-two hours of non-stop driving, at dawn on a Saturday morning, and finally managed to enter Church Road, along which the great Club’s facilities rise. I got out of the car, leaned on the massive bars of the Doherty Gates, and was enchanted.

From there, in a musical succession, spread a perspective of green courts. A green I had never imagined before, of such density, softness, and heartbreaking beauty. The emotion caught in my throat, and I remained in a trance similar to that of a pilgrim reaching St. Peter’s Square. I then returned to the seat of the 500 and fell into a deep sleep. A few hours later, I was awakened by a policeman who forced me to move away and park elsewhere. I waited for the gates to open and slipped inside with my bag and racket, hoping to finally set foot on that magical green carpet.