Rafael Jódar leaves thoughtful, processing it with that squared mind: there is still a lot of work to do here. Much to grow. He is 19 years old, this is the Philippe Chatrier and there is the bar, very high, perfectly defined by an Alexander Zverev who commands, orders, and advances like an express train once the first set, contested, is resolved. The rest, a lesson: 7-6(3), 6-1, and 6-3, after 2h 25m. The 29-year-old German lands for the fifth time (in the last six years) in the Roland Garros semifinals and definitely positions himself, although he nuances and laughs mischievously. “You’re not going to catch me,” he seems to tell the Frenchman interviewing him, the elegant Julien Benneteau: “I won today… And that’s all.” There doesn’t seem to be a more reliable candidate than him, but time passes and it’s wise not to trust blindly. For now, the penultimate stop, Friday against João Fonseca or Jakub Mensik.
Read more Princess Leonor, first paratrooper of the Royal Family
Meanwhile, Jódar finishes this first trip in Paris and checks where he must travel, that dividing line that separates the good from the very good, and then the best. With the burden derived from the previous days, those two four-set matches and on Sunday the five-set bonus against Pablo Carreño, the Madrid native’s credit runs out, but he passes: quarterfinals in this first time, so it’s not bad at all. A fighter up to here, he faces an incomplete competitor who lacks the ribbon (the big one that eludes him) and who doesn’t want to lose focus for even a second: Zverev, overwhelming with that backhand and forehand that fires off 35 winning shots and deprives Spanish tennis of a spot in the tournament semifinals after ten years of guarantee. That last running smash puts the finishing touch.
It’s all a matter of attitude and, judging by that expression, Zverev’s initial disposition is not the best. He, always with that dawdling and warming up that drags on, as if he needed a shake to fully get going. He, diesel. And this time it’s not convenient, considering that opposite him is one of those diligent students who takes note of everything and who, looking to the horizon, sees himself where he always wanted to be, in the vastness of the Chatrier, floating, with all that court to run and hit from the baseline, and thus release all that he carries inside and wants to tell the world. The stage doesn’t weigh on him. On the contrary, the Madrid native, in French-style blue and without a cap, is a young man who has arrived with much of the kit, or at least the essential. The special one: head.
In terms of maturity, Jódar is a more formed guy than other members of his generation, with things clear — without the hesitations or conformism that abound — and the script perfectly learned; then, time will tell, but in this dazzling climb he started from January, coming practically from nowhere, he has shown he wants it. And that is everything. However, still with a generous margin to polish and logical shortcomings, the duel with the German is becoming longer and as the big guy wakes up and adds precision to his hammer and compass, everything changes. Jódar competes head-to-head for almost an hour, but one grows and the other shrinks. Experience, that treasure.
The ideal occasion
The scaled roof of the center court does not prevent those in the upper stands from getting wet because the wind blows through that profile, and the break that puts the Spaniard ahead ends up becoming a mere illusion. Zverev, the tower everyone looks at once taller ones have fallen and Alcaraz is not here, charges with all his majesty. Bam, bam, bam! Shots to give and take. The man in the front row almost gets hit by a ball and the ball boy shows good reflexes: phew, just in time. He saves himself, not Jódar, to whom the growing tension plays a bad trick at an inopportune moment. He leaves patience aside and the anxiety to be there and try to impress causes a misstep. He rushes, spits out several shots too quickly and pays for it.
Zverev even has an option to break his serve again, which would have been 6-5, but in the tiebreak he no longer forgives. There, at that point, the Hamburg native flaps his wings and fires: Boom! The advertising boards at the back shake. Once he gets warmed up, his tennis is violently delicious. He dictates from the lookout with the backhand and becomes dominant. Jódar’s forehand goes wide by a couple of fingers, and almost immediately he sees a trail pass by at 227 km/h. “Ra-fa!”, is heard a couple of times, timidly, so the boy doesn’t lose heart. But not even the old battle cry changes the German’s course, who once shattered his ankle on that court and now walks firmly: he, the favorite.
The Madrid native watches him and takes notes: this is how you play quarterfinals. With class. Zverev wears all black and everyone (already warned) wonders if he will be able not to get tangled and if later, in case of progressing, he could reach where he was expected. Almost thirty, he still doesn’t have a Grand Slam on his shelf and maybe he won’t find a better occasion than this: without Sinner, without Alcaraz, without even the old Djokovic or any insurgent who has so far altered the scene the slightest. We’ll see. On the clay tour, there has been no firmer opponent than Jódar, but there is a lack of experience — maintaining the pace against a top-level figure — and surely experiences of this caliber. Going through hardship.
With the first set in the bag, the world number three sails as he likes: feeling in full form, powerful. Attitude, that so important thing. A giant between two worlds; the one where he starts from inferiority and with that somewhat complexed gesture — two phenoms pressing him —, and the other overflowing in front of the others — distracted or disconnected —. At the beginning, he was the one rallying a couple of meters behind the line, but it is Jódar who yields ground and who is seen bailing water. The Spaniard doesn’t turn his back, but the storm intensifies. A 13-2 run breaks the match and Zverev, focused, decisively heads to the semifinals, thus closing the adventure of a young man who, despite the farewell, hints: remember it, Paris; here Rafa, the one from Madrid.
