Sinner’s wait

We have observed him frequently—winning, above all, but also losing now and then, getting hurt, suffering, and then smiling. Winning again, before retiring in silence, in a cone of shadow and sudden light, without a racket in his hand, dressed in elegant clothes; an athlete who, attired in that manner, appeared implausible, a dazzling reflection of reality. Now that he is about to return, Jannik Sinner seems quite different to us, almost a different person, compared to the champion we bid farewell to at Wimbledon in his last match. We’ve missed him, and perhaps, paradoxically, this absence was just what was needed to make us appreciate him even more.

He is due to return to Shanghai, in that Far East which we Westerners see as shrouded in the mists of mystery. Who knows what he’ll be like, how he’ll perform, or whether he’ll win again with the same confidence as ever. Alcaraz and Sinner have made way for him; the Spaniard has been out for months on end, and the Italian has also been sidelined for a long time. The Spaniard’s hair has grown so much that it has changed his appearance. Today he looks more like a man than the young lad in a vest top with a clenched fist we left behind, whilst retaining the same brilliance, imagination and genius as before.

What will Jannik be like, though? During these many days of absence, he has appeared in various guises: elegant at fashion shows, casual in a T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, sudden and fleeting, between one check-up and another for a knee that has suddenly started playing up. Before this long absence, some experts were saying that his image was starting to become rather over-hyped. Too many adverts, too many consecutive victories. I remain cautious of experts, who are always ready to fire a bullet into someone’s body, just to justify their own role. Yet perhaps there is a grain of truth in this theory.

The issue is not that Sinner wins too frequently, but that we are perpetually craving novelty. We inhabit an information bubble, yet we continue to demand ever more content, regardless of its quality. It is as if we are perpetually thirsty: despite our constant consumption, we remain unquenched. What we lack is a space—something to fill with our imagination. A void that demands an effort of the imagination. A writer navigates the void, moving weightlessly within it, in search of a foothold, a story, an image. Sinner has filled our lives with his victories, to the point where we began to think that winning was normal, robbing us of any room for doubt. Then he retired, rather suddenly, leaving us suspended in a void. And in that void he will find us again, perhaps a little regretful, certainly tired of all this waiting.