Today Sinnermania, yesterday the fierce criticism of its “Italianness” on social media. The value of the South Tyrolean tennis player for integration
excluding the Cannibal, this edition of the ATP Finals will remain in the name of Jannik Sinner for centuries. For the young Sinner, entering the Cartesian parallelepiped of Corso Sebastopoli at sunset must have been like entering the black box of a journey to the limits of perdition, however beautiful and also a little threatening. His planet of tomorrow, among beams of light, deafening music and the no less deafening tumults of the heart. It doesn’t matter whether the den of the Wolf understood as Nole, or that of the Pupo understood as Jannik. Still a heavenly plot even without a happy ending. If Jannik was the expected Little Red Riding Hood Carrot of the fairy tale in question, Nole was the bad wolf, albeit always hungry. When he starts to dilate his pupils in the wolfish fixity of his face, you know you have no escape. You’ve seen that face a thousand times at the cinema, one of the many killers around the world, the racket instead of the machete. Paraphrasing Woody Allen and replacing Djokovic upon death, one could say: “It doesn’t scare me, I just don’t want to be there that day.”