I was a McEnroe fangirl in the ’80s.

I was in love with Roger.

I am obsessed with Carlitos.
I watch his highlights.
I’m not much on social media, but I follow him on Instagram.
I listen to his interviews.
I read about him.

Why?

McEnroe was a beautiful rebel. His banter made me laugh. He was a clown. I was fascinated.

I felt swooned by Roger in his dance. He moved like a ballet dancer. When he lost his Wimbledon ’08 final to Nadal, I didn’t sleep. I left tennis then.

On June 8, 2025, I was following the scores of the French Open men’s final while gardening. In a month or so, I would be on Centre Court at Wimbledon watching my very first live pro tennis match. Going to Wimbledon was a lifelong dream, and I needed to catch up on tennis. I knew that Roger would get hurt, Nadal would come up, then Djokovic would dominate. I didn’t know anything about this 22-year-old player.

Carlos Alcaraz was about to lose the match. He was love forty down, serving. Sinner had three match points against him. I turned off my phone. I knew this boy was done. I went back to my gardening. I was working to turn my lawn into a desert garden. Later in the evening, I saw the news. He had won! Carlitos won! What?

After that, I wanted to know everything about him. He seemed to collect every “youngest ever” accolade. I watched his games and saw how he makes the impossible possible. And he’s so young! How is he doing this?

His movements are kinetic and wild yet beautiful. Even his serving hand, the way he raises it to toss the ball into the air, is so beautiful. He makes you hold your breath a bit longer. He comes off a bit corny at times but somehow original and warm. His broken English is funny and charming. His smile, though, is what gets to the soul. You want in on that joy. He repeats, “I’m not going to lie,” with a wink in interviews. He always waits for the opponents to cross the net first between games. He corrects calls and gives points away. While under pressure, he would make the gentlest drop shots, then point his finger to his ear!

He’s audacious but he doesn’t come off cocky. Yet, I saw something in his eyes. There’s something behind all the exuberance. I wondered: will he survive like the Big Three?

I woke up in the middle of the night and followed his Australian Open semifinal against Zverev early this year. He was winning. He had taken the first two sets. He needed just one more game to win the match. Then the cramps came. He would lose the next two sets, then somehow come back from 3–5 down in the fifth to win the match. Two days later, he would defeat Djokovic to complete the career Grand Slam as the youngest ever. Yet again.

In the 2023 French Open semifinal, he had barely managed to win a set against Djokovic. Carlitos was the favorite going in. His body failed him and he could hardly walk. His nerves got to him, playing as the world No. 1 in front of nearly 15,000 spectators. He was 20 years and 35 days old.

Five weeks later, he won his first Wimbledon final in five sets, defeating Djokovic.

Who is this?

This past year, I learned more about tennis than ever in my 40 years of following the game. Tennis players are, in a way, glorified nomads. Carlitos was in London playing, then flew 15 hours to Tokyo. Two days later, he played his first match. The following Tuesday, after winning the tournament, he flew to Shanghai for another tournament. I feel tired just following this schedule!

How did Roger manage that for more than 20 years? How did he survive this? I still can’t watch his press conference after losing the ’08 Wimbledon final. What propelled him to show up for each match, win or lose?

Since retiring, he seems to have danced as smoothly as he did on the tennis court into another side world.

Will Carlitos?

I think he’s an artist, a modern dancer. He wins mostly, but what sticks with me is his

losses, because sometimes they are so spectacular and unexplainable. Sometimes he wills himself to the finish. Sometimes he just can’t.

Then he packs his bags.

He spent almost five months sidelined by a wrist injury. Would his forehand ever be as powerful again? I saw him briefly at the World Cup final, smiling and laughing as he held the trophy with the Spanish team. Then he showed up at the 2026 US Open with a slim headband over his grown-out hair. He looked like a Latin gigolo. Made me laugh out loud. Now he has a mustache. He wears baggy clothes that don’t fit him well. What are Louis Vuitton and Nike doing to him?! Can I be his stylist?

He would eventually lose his quarterfinal match in a fifth-set super tie-break at 3:33 a.m. But he walked off the court with his head held high, waving and smiling.

He missed his tennis.

At heart, I think Carlos is a goofball. He wants to have fun. He is his own game. Sometimes he’s merely good. And along the way, he is learning to be a gracious loser. As the world still waits for him to arrive.

Will he beat all the records? Does it matter?

I’m growing old as I watch this young artist making his way into the world.