6-0, 6-2, 6-0.
And so, having passed the tests of boisterous French fans, physical discomfort, exhaustingly long rallies, unbearable humidity, pissing Parisian precipitation, and clumpy, cakey clay, Jack Spade and Ugo Bellezza are pitted against each other for the very first time, and, to boot, for all the major Juniors marbles.
* * *
It is Sunday, June 11, 2045. A date that might well go down in Italian history, right alongside September 13, 1321 (the death of Dante); May 2, 1519 (the death of Leonardo da Vinci); February 18, 1564 (the death of Michelangelo); and, on a happier note, April 28, 1945 (the death of Mussolini). A date when tennis greatness will perhaps capture center stage like at no other time in the long and storied history of l’Italia .
The date holds a similar importance for the U.S., potentially vying for placement in the pantheon of American unforgettables—July 4, 1776; June 6, 1944; and September 11, 2001.
There is that much that has been built up and that much at stake.
It is fifteen minutes before the big match, and in a corner of the players’ locker room, Jack Spade is anxiously—
“It’s showtime !” Ira Spade shouts, mimicking Roy Scheider’s call to arms in All That Jazz.
“Showtime!” Odi Mondheim mimics Ira mimicking Roy.
Jack excuses himself, goes into the gentleman’s washroom, pukes in the sink, cleans it up, and pops a lifesaving Xanax into his mouth.
And he looks into the mirror, brushes his jet-black hair back with all ten fingers, flashes at his reflection that devilish smile of his, and mumbles a single, obedient word under his breath.
“Showtime!”
* * *
A 15,166 capacity crowd anxiously awaits the entrance of the two young whizzes into Court Philippe Chatrier. Unusual, not only because not only is a capacity crowd watching a Juniors match, but because a crowd of any kind is watching a Juniors match in Court Philippe Chatrier. The tournament committee has seen to it that the fans’ request to see this match merits this unprecedented venue.
To thunderous applaudissement , thirty years of talent and brilliance enter the stadium, first the all-black-clad Jack Spade, then, all in white, the statue of David -come-to-life.
While the prodigies warm up, the contrasts in style and demeanor couldn’t be more obvious. Jack is a living, breathing health hazard, with fire in his eyes, grunts belching from his mouth, and smoke coming out of his ears. Ugo is a composed Italian Hercules whose labor it is to slay this Cretan bull. In the oppressive heat, Jack is dressed in his intimidating, heat-soaking black Nike outfit. In his white Fila duds, Ugo is as cool as a concombre and as dry as an os . Intense battler Spade attacks every practice stroke like a charging lion, while Bellezza prances with the grace of an antelope. Lefty Jack wears his Halloween costume of rainbow-colored racquet strings and funky, rock-star reflecting glasses. Righty Ugo has nothing up his proverbial sleeve. Jack, in the mold of lefties Muster, Vilas, and Nadal, is an absolute physical specimen, a beast, perfectly built for the rigors of clay. Ugo is more like a Federer or a Borg, built athletically but not bestially. Jack grunts after every shot. Ugo is as silent as a B-2 Spirit Stealth Bomber.
Jack is fire, Ugo ice.
As the two towel down one last time before the battle begins, words are exchanged in each corner of the boxing ring.
On Ugo’s side of the net, Virgilio Marotti sits in a chair next to his protégé’s. Ugo lip-reads from Giglio’s mouth an aphorism, a quote from the great French poet, Paul Valéry: “On ne termine pas un poème, on l’abandonne,” “You don’t finish a poem, you abandon it.” Giglio signs that this is what tennis and art and, yes, life are all about. It means that you never stop working on something you are passionate about and on developing your skills. You never stop editing, polishing. And so the goal is not to win per se, but to improve, to be the best
And so, having passed the tests of boisterous French fans, physical discomfort, exhaustingly long rallies, unbearable humidity, pissing Parisian precipitation, and clumpy, cakey clay, Jack Spade and Ugo Bellezza are pitted against each other for the very first time, and, to boot, for all the major Juniors marbles.
* * *
It is Sunday, June 11, 2045. A date that might well go down in Italian history, right alongside September 13, 1321 (the death of Dante); May 2, 1519 (the death of Leonardo da Vinci); February 18, 1564 (the death of Michelangelo); and, on a happier note, April 28, 1945 (the death of Mussolini). A date when tennis greatness will perhaps capture center stage like at no other time in the long and storied history of l’Italia .
The date holds a similar importance for the U.S., potentially vying for placement in the pantheon of American unforgettables—July 4, 1776; June 6, 1944; and September 11, 2001.
There is that much that has been built up and that much at stake.
It is fifteen minutes before the big match, and in a corner of the players’ locker room, Jack Spade is anxiously—
“It’s showtime !” Ira Spade shouts, mimicking Roy Scheider’s call to arms in All That Jazz.
“Showtime!” Odi Mondheim mimics Ira mimicking Roy.
Jack excuses himself, goes into the gentleman’s washroom, pukes in the sink, cleans it up, and pops a lifesaving Xanax into his mouth.
And he looks into the mirror, brushes his jet-black hair back with all ten fingers, flashes at his reflection that devilish smile of his, and mumbles a single, obedient word under his breath.
“Showtime!”
* * *
A 15,166 capacity crowd anxiously awaits the entrance of the two young whizzes into Court Philippe Chatrier. Unusual, not only because not only is a capacity crowd watching a Juniors match, but because a crowd of any kind is watching a Juniors match in Court Philippe Chatrier. The tournament committee has seen to it that the fans’ request to see this match merits this unprecedented venue.
To thunderous applaudissement , thirty years of talent and brilliance enter the stadium, first the all-black-clad Jack Spade, then, all in white, the statue of David -come-to-life.
While the prodigies warm up, the contrasts in style and demeanor couldn’t be more obvious. Jack is a living, breathing health hazard, with fire in his eyes, grunts belching from his mouth, and smoke coming out of his ears. Ugo is a composed Italian Hercules whose labor it is to slay this Cretan bull. In the oppressive heat, Jack is dressed in his intimidating, heat-soaking black Nike outfit. In his white Fila duds, Ugo is as cool as a concombre and as dry as an os . Intense battler Spade attacks every practice stroke like a charging lion, while Bellezza prances with the grace of an antelope. Lefty Jack wears his Halloween costume of rainbow-colored racquet strings and funky, rock-star reflecting glasses. Righty Ugo has nothing up his proverbial sleeve. Jack, in the mold of lefties Muster, Vilas, and Nadal, is an absolute physical specimen, a beast, perfectly built for the rigors of clay. Ugo is more like a Federer or a Borg, built athletically but not bestially. Jack grunts after every shot. Ugo is as silent as a B-2 Spirit Stealth Bomber.
Jack is fire, Ugo ice.
As the two towel down one last time before the battle begins, words are exchanged in each corner of the boxing ring.
On Ugo’s side of the net, Virgilio Marotti sits in a chair next to his protégé’s. Ugo lip-reads from Giglio’s mouth an aphorism, a quote from the great French poet, Paul Valéry: “On ne termine pas un poème, on l’abandonne,” “You don’t finish a poem, you abandon it.” Giglio signs that this is what tennis and art and, yes, life are all about. It means that you never stop working on something you are passionate about and on developing your skills. You never stop editing, polishing. And so the goal is not to win per se, but to improve, to be the best
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