Capricious Clay
A whole lot of croissants and a whole lot of chaos (Week 1)
Dearest Reader,
It’s been a while since I’ve landed in your inbox. 64 days to be precise. My apologies!! A lot has unfolded since behind the scenes, the ebbs and flows of sickness and health and everything in between—moments of self-doubt and contemplation, of foggy roads and defogging, of re-immersing myself into avidly absorbing books and movies away from the harsh glare of the brain cell pruning algorithmic doomscrolls.
In this time, the Clay season set its sails into motion. (Would you believe me if I said it’s my favourite time of the year? Because I haven’t written a full-length feature on it yet, however I have been active on the Notes.) Arguably the hardest surface to traverse through, a real test of one’s psychological endurance and physicality. Throw in rising temperatures across the globe and you can already imagine yourself like a kebab on a rotisserie or in the depths of a deep, dark, fiery dungeon—a.k.a hell—as you desperately try to claw your way out.
I’m not making this up. It is BRUTAL. Always has been and I think always will be.
The beauty of the Clay--for a writer who can’t understand her musculoskeletal system and can trip on air--lies in its primitiveness. It rips to shred the “country-club-esque” conjuring of Tennis and exposes the laborious grind that each athlete goes through in order to make it to the top. Or simply make it. Sport is, in a cruel sense, nearly Sisyphean; I would argue that art is as well. We’re all pushing a boulder of our dreams uphill, only to be knocked down, over and over again. Still, we rise, and perhaps in this repetition, allegedly mistaken as purely futile, lies the conception of our dreams.
Speaking of dreams, this fortnight in Paris is unravelling like a Cinderella story, especially on the men’s side. The elusive first Slam title is now tantalizingly close. By now all of the last 16 must have had glimpses of holding the La Coupe des Mousquetaires (The Musketeers’ Cup). Since 2000, this trophy has only touched the hands of 9 men—Gustavo Keurten, Albert Costa, Juan Carlos Ferrero, Gaston Gaudio, Rafael Nadal, Roger Federer, Stan Wawrinka, Novak Djokovic, and its most recent addition, Carlos Alcaraz—upping the rarity of achieving a Roland Garros title.
But why the phrenzy?
Because, oh dearest reader, the world number one, Jannik Sinner, the one who has had the entire field in a stranglehold, steamrolling their dreams for a victory is OUT. Gone. In Round 2. No, I did not anticipate writing this less than a week ago. Strangely, here we are. And following this shocker, Novak Djokovic was knocked out day before yesterday in Round 3 throwing the draw wide open and making a contest out of it.
Jannik Sinner was riding a 30-match winning streak, and with Carlos Alcaraz out for the foreseeable future, in theory, this had to be his for the taking, especially after the gruesome way in which he came agonizingly near to victory: 3 championship points within his reach for the title last year at roughly the 3-hour and 43-minute mark and blink! it slipped away. (Alright, not blink but for the rest of the one hour and 46 minutes, it was all awry for Sinner.) Similarly this time around, he served for his round two match at 5-1 in the third set. He was almost there.
Almost.
Is there a word crueller? With Never comes finality, a door slammed shut. With almost, the door is left ajar. I can glimpse you, or what you could have been; my hand grazes at the handle but can never fully turn it. The pain of these two syllables lingers long after the moment has passed like a faint bruise beneath the skin. The temporary tsunami swirls you in and flings you out leaving you stranded ashore in a state of paralysis—hair dishevelled and thoughts tattered. Like a cruel mirage it injects hope in your bloodstream, lets it almost settle beneath your skin and then wrenches the IV out. Everything’s a balancing act now. A trick of the light, a trick of fate, almost is a mean ache; the phantom pain of something so close yet so impossibly far—a dizzying escape. Are we still talking about tennis?
But someone’s heartbreak is someone else’s breakthrough. Once the threshold of almost is crossed a new life begins, the same hope that held one aloft in ethers becomes a horsepower for the other. You’re not sure how you managed to emerge from the storm unscathed, when statistically the odds were bellowing minus. It should have ravaged you, and for a moment, it almost did.
For Juan Manuel Cerundolo, Almost, in this second act, transfigures to hope.
Not even in his wildest dreams must he have had an inkling that he would be the one to crush Sinner’s hopes for the title. Albeit abetted by the sweltering Parisian temperatures on Thursday 28th May. But we cannot take anything away from him as he stood firm and emotionally composed to see himself through. Yesterday (30th May) he battled for 5 hours and 58 minutes—against Martin Landaluce—to make it to the second week of a slam for the first time in his career. Not only did he miraculously pass the Sinner test, but he went on to consolidate it—not a fluke.
Meanwhile, on 29th May, Novak Djokovic took to Philippe Chatrier fervently awaiting another shot at the enigmatic 25th Grand Slam title. But on the other side of the net stood Joao Fonseca, half his age (19) equipped with a monstrous forehand or should I say “fearhand” and skyrocketing self-belief. So, what happens when two generations clash? Mayhem. I was glad to witness this 4hour 53-minute spectacle from start to finish. What has stayed with me though—and I’m sure will remain ingrained for many years to come—are the 3 aces Fonseca blazed to seal the match. Thunderstruck. Fonseca is only 19 and his career is only starting to take shape, yet the discourse that had risen over the last few months was that “he’s just not good enough”. Simply absurd, illogical, and unwarranted. This performance should hopefully silence the naysayers. (although they’d find a way to override this too)
All South Americans can and must rejoice for an Argentine, Juan Manuel Cerundolo, and a Brazilian, Joao Fonseca, have performed sorcery—and the rest of the 14 should be buying them macarons, and Éclairs and pain au chocolats—to set ablaze everyone’s hopes.
And to Novak Djokovic, the last of the stars still shining bright, you were, are, and will always be the epitome of a great-hearted champion. Per usual one question recurs: how much longer? No one knows but one thing is certain, you are never ever going out without a fight. And that is what I love and admire endlessly and also how the younger generation genuinely looks up to Novak and that respect suffuses the atmosphere even in the heat of a battle.
This tournament, however, has not been without its oddities. Think of any of the 32 seeds on the men’s side and chances are they’ve been sent crashing out. Remember it has been only 3 rounds. Going into week 2, only 11 seeded players survive. Moreover, this year has been marred by withdrawals, and retirements since the beginning. With big names on the men’s side like Carlos Alcaraz (also the defending champion), Lorenzo Musetti, Jack Draper, Arthur Fils, Sebastian Korda, Arthur Cazaux, Holger Rune, Alexander Blockx (due to tripping over a tarpaulin during his practice before R2) out even before a ball was hit or a series of retirements from; Valentin Vacherot (foot injury); Gabriel Diallo (heatstroke); Cameron Norrie (Rib injury); Alexandre Muller (calf injury); Sebastian Baez (knee injury).
Injuries. Ah yes, equal parts painstakingly miserable and eerily inevitable.
This time, the unforgiving landscape came to stake its claim, delivering its verdict in the most gut-wrenching manner imaginable. Hailey Baptiste tore her ACL on court 6 on the 27th of May. There’s a video out there and I chanced upon it while scrolling for scores. She jumped to hit a forehand, landed wrong-footed, and she collapsed to the ground with a searing wail—so raw and frighteningly distraught that its echo has lingered with me for 3 days, almost 7000kms away. Without a second thought, her father jumped onto court to reach for his daughter. Amidst the chaos, I heard the heartbreaking plea: “Why me?” and my heart sank.
“Why me?”
Two words that birth a longwinded existential dread as your mind races across the millions of possibilities, sinking towards the darkness because that instant feels like an all is lost moment. To Hailey Baptiste, a fireball of energy and kindness, I know the next time we see you out on the court, you will take the WTA by a storm and unleash those forehands stronger than ever before. I hope and pray you heal well!
Pro tip: As the internal monologue drawls out, someone will—perhaps innocuously—holler at you, “Everything happens for a reason”. Now if it’s this specific wording, you must take into account your situation and who the person is, otherwise it is very important that you punch them in the face. Because in that moment when writhing in pain, the last thing I’d want to hear is this—even though perhaps later on I will befriend that sentiment.
Moving on to the Women’s side, the WTA seemed to be sailing relatively smoothly, a little less chaotic and lesser wounded until a few hours ago when Anastasia Potopova rocked the draw. She knocked out the defending champion Coco Gauff in three unflinching sets, managing to out-defend the best defender on tour. Both halves remain stacked with the biggest names still alive and looming. Aryna Sabalenka and Iga Swiatek lead the charge in their sections but Naomi Osaka, Elina Svitolina, Mirra Andreeva, Belinda Bencic, and Madison Keys are some of the top names ready to fight for the Coupe Suzanne Lenglen!!
As I’m typing this article, I’ve hit more backspaces, added more addendums, screamed at the screens (but this is normal) and gotten progressively more dramatic as the first three rounds have come to a close. I’m channelling Vito Corleone because “Oh look how they’ve massacred my boy Roland Garros 2026 Bracket!!” ((jk I didn’t make a legitimate bracket this year but this initial week has been chaotic)
On the clay everything feels Ad Infinitum. In the world of tennis, you aren’t confined to a clock, everyone knows this and yet, somehow, playing on the clay vaporizes any semblance of time. This year we have seen some of the longest matches, one marathon after another. 4hrs 53 minutes, 5hrs 58 minutes, 2hrs 58 mins, 4hrs 41 minutes, 4hrs 34 minutes, 3hrs 30 minutes, 4hrs 43 minutes, and 5hrs 13 minutes are just some of the insanely bizarre figures that jump out at you.
Tennis is the hardest sport in the world. And if you ever doubted this before, let this fortnight ensure that it is tattooed on your brain.
I must confess:
I’ve thoroughly enjoyed this first week. Yes, my attention has been fragmented and it’s everything, everywhere, all at once, but that is the thrill of a Grand Slam. I want to talk more, in detail, about who all have captured my eye but that will have to wait for a later post. Or should I say thesis? Iva Jovic, Jakub Mensik, Matteo Berrettini, Sorana Cirstea, Rafael Jodar, Raphael Collignon, Moise Kouame, Casper Rudd are just some of the names who have been magnificent.
For now, I wonder: Whose picture will be hung in the Louvre? Who will dazzle under the lights of the Eiffel Tower? Paris is the city of love and this fortnight someone’s love will cinematically be realized as the clay becomes their home, as they nestle their name alongside stalwarts, as we see a flurry of players believe that they too can win at the grandest of stages.
Paris, je t’aime ! En route pour une nouvelle semaine de tennis, de croissants et de chaos.7 days to go. See you on the 6th and 7th of June (P.S. also my Birthday 😉)
Thanks for reading!
Love,
Areyah
Ahhh you're finally back 😼 missed your posts so much 🫂❤️