California Dreamin’ in 41 Carats
Novak Djokovic parked his luggage before eternity the way one leans a bicycle against Notre-Dame: a last kiss for Roland-Garros’s red clay, a sigh—“It was perhaps my last match here.” The press, a flock of sparrows, heard the call of dusk. Wrong horizon: the Serb’s gaze reaches farther, to where the Pacific already laps the Olympic courts of 2028.
The Cannibal Turns 80 : his shadow is vast—Pogacar brushes it, but cannot bleach it
Our era—the swirling bowl of the now—adores a memory barely three seconds long. The last man to win is always right: John McEnroe, the other day, swore that Rafael Nadal would « sans doute » have lost to Carlos Alcaraz or Jannik Sinner on Parisian clay. Cycling is no safer from this merry-go-round: Pogacar rules the cobbles, and some already dub him “GOAT”, eager to shelve Eddy Merckx in the attic trunk. Beware the rush; the Cannibal’s legend is no tyre you swap with a finger-snap.
Pogacar, the tight-rope walker who strolls on thin air
They had promised us a chiaroscuro July, a blade-to-blade duel between Vingegaard and Pogacar. The Dauphiné—France’s dress-rehearsal where every man adjusts the tassel of his cap—turned into a solo delivered in perfect Slovene: Tadej Pogacar spoke, and the mountain fell silent.
Ibiza nights and Tyrolean dawns: Alcaraz and Sinner after their Parisian epic
A week has drifted past, like a taffeta handkerchief carried off by the wind; yet in the maze of locker rooms the echo of their Paris duel still clicks, the pendulum of an ancient metronome. Five hours twenty-nine of opera buffa, a suspense fit to make Dumas blush: two sets and a break for Jannik Sinner, three squandered match points, and then the Murcian revolt—super-tiebreak, curtain, and fairy-lights.