Number 15

Sinner, Wordsworth, and Surrealism

Apr 05, 2021

An Introduction:

Those essays last week I am ashamed to admit were quite poor. I have considered this week pushing this newsletter to every two weeks but I do not think that that would solve my problem. I would never dare to compare myself to Norman Mailer (Town Bloody Hall is a fun watch), but I read recently that as an undergraduate he claimed to write 3000 words a day in order to get all of the bad writing out of his system. I am sorry to have to put you, dear reader, through that at times but so it goes. Let’s now see how this week unfolds.

-Cameron Page Thompson

Jannik Sinner, Tennis Savior:

Jannik Sinner burst onto the tennis scene about two years ago as a quite literal fresh face. At age 17, lacking any facial hair and sporting the untamed mane of a beachgoing (he spends his time on the mountain but do allow me such a description) youth, Sinner became the tennis world’s newest darling. (He now wears a goatee, and not very well.) From the outset, the narrative surrounding Sinner has been that he is the special one. And now these predictions are beginning to prove true, as today (Sunday) Sinner will take on the Polish 26 seed Hubert Hurkacz in the finals of the Miami Open (Miami is a Masters 1000 event which means that the champion wins 1000 points towards his world ranking and more importantly that it comes second in prestige only to the four Grand Slam Events, meaning that this would be the most important win to date in Sinner’s young career).

Sinner—whose biography tells me that he spent most of his adolescence up until age 13 skiing in Northern Italy (he was a national champion at age 8)—is tall and lanky. If he was not at the moment a world famous young upstart in the tennis world one could be forgiven for mistaking him for your average gangly youth. He walks almost as if he has just had his first growth spurt and does not understand how to elegantly maneuver his limbs (until he steps inside the court’s dimensions, that is). Everything about him signals an innocence of sorts. This I cannot put my finger on, but it may have something to do with his attire. He is not yet a big enough name for a brand to kit him out in custom clothing, so he wears standard Nike kit (he is so thin that everything looks a size too big on him, making it seem almost as if he has borrowed his father’s clothes to go play a match with a friend) and a cute little hat which shields his pale face from the fierce Miami sun (even this hat, a plain colored thing with a tiny Swoosh on it, seems like something that he has borrowed from a friend for the day). One thing that I likely should have mentioned is that Sinner is Italian by nationality, although there is almost nothing about his which would make this evident (Sinner grew up in the German speaking region of South Tyrol which would account for this seemingly un-Italian presence). He is calm, stoic even. He has pale skin, is, as noted above, tall and lanky, and has orange hair. One would assume he is freckled, but this does not come through on the television and also does not have much relevance to this article. But in any case for the American viewer he does not come off as the Italian who we picture in our minds (forgive my ignorance, per favore).

What I have not yet mentioned is Sinner’s play. He hits the absolute piss out of the ball. In his match in the quarters against the Kazakh Alexander Bublik which I had the pleasure of watching, Sinner consistently touched 100 miles per hour on his returns of serve. After the match Bublik could not help but laugh as he embraced Sinner at the net, joking, “You’re not a human, man. 15 years old and you play like this?” I can sympathize with Bublik here. It hard to believe that Sinner (who does look like a 15 year old who has pasted a fake goatee on his face in order to gain entrance to an R rated movie) plays such a mature game. He hits shots that are hard to believe possible, and all with such consistent pace that it is not uncommon for his opponents to not even react to some of his groundstrokes. And he does it all at such a young age (19 now. Scary for young people like me who are just reaching the age where sports stars begin to be younger than them) that he certainly deserves his being heralded as tennis’s next big thing. Coming into Miami he was ranked number 31 in the world—this was his highest rating but he is sure to break into at least the top 25 even if he loses in the final today (he would move into fourteenth with a win). He is an electric player who never seems fazed by opponents who seem to be gaining momentum in a match (likely because he knows that he is better than them and can dispatch with them just by turning the dial up a notch). This should be a fun final.

The match begins with a few tentative rallies. The players slap the ball about at a subdued pace before Hurkacz holds serve at 40-15. The hopes appear to be on Sinner, with the announcers seemingly ready to herald a new age of tennis if he is to win here. It would be a pretty massive upset if Hurkacz pulls out a win. Hurkacz breaks early and subsequently holds serve. Sinner looks stiff to begin, likely due to the nerves. One would assume that he will ease into the set as it progresses. An unforced error at 40-30 allows Sinner his first game, making it 3-1. The crowd roars as Sinner rips his first true rocket of a winner to make it 30-40. He breaks serve on he next point after a fierce return forces an error, making it 3-2. Sinner is beginning to hum now, whipping the ball across the court. He still must reduce his unforced errors if he is to win, but he is starting to hit more winners at least. 3-3 now. Hurkacz seems perfectly content to simply hit safe groundstrokes down the middle and wait for Sinner to make an inevitable unforced error. When Hurkacz wins a point he is lucky if more than ten people applaud him. There do seem to be many Poles at this final, however; red and white flags abound and gold crucifixes hang out of half-unbuttoned shirts. Sinner forces deuce at 3-3 with a sublime cross court passing shot. Hurkacz then wins the next two points to stop the bleeding and make it 4-3. Sinner hits shots of “beauty and brutality” at advantage to win the point and level the games at 4-4. The two players trade easy holds to make it 5-5. Sinner hits a magnificent inside-out forehand to set up two break points. He subsequently breaks and the announcers call him “something else.” Sinner, serving for the set, has not hit the level which he has generally played at in past matches that I have watched. He seems extremely tense. This is where he makes the viewer remember that he is still only a teenager. Hurkacz breaks and we go to a tiebreak that he wins without much challenge from the Italian. Despite being broken with a chance for the the set and getting crushed in the ensuing tiebreak, Sinner has still not changed his emotion whatsoever throughout the match. He remains, as above, stoic.

It is likely that if Sinner does not reel it in he will lose in straight sets. 28 unforced errors in the first set tells you, dear reader, all that you need to know. It has been so far a good match, but a player with more quality than Hurkacz would have put the set away with much less drama. Sinner does not have his best stuff today. Sinner, despite the quality that he may possess, is showing his lack of experience. Hurkacz has proved himself equal to his baseline wallops, a fact that has exposed the one dimensional aspect of Sinner’s game. The young boy refuses to come to the net or hit the backhand slice (likely because he is not confident doing either) which has allowed Hurkacz to sit back and dictate play. Sinner is playing today without the control or grace of a player with more years on tour. Forgive me the comparison, but it is almost as if Sinner has decided to play like me today—this means that playing like someone who has decided to show up and try to hit the ball as hard as possible, and make many errors in the process. And while this strategy may have worked on his road to the final, against Hurkacz—who understands that he cannot win if he attempts to equal Sinner’s game-plan and instead is happy to play a dull, defensive (read: mature) game—this strategy has proven useless.

Hurkacz quickly finds himself up 4-0 in the second set with Sinner seemingly exhausted. His first serve velocity has fallen 13 miles per hour, and at times he simply dinks in what is normally his second serve in place of his first. Hurkacz makes all ten of his first ten first serves and is described by the announcers as “perfection personified.” Hurkacz shows the first signs of the nerves which accompany a shot at the first big win of his career when he loses the next two games (4-2 now). The crowd predictably erupts in support of the 19 year old Sinner. Sinner wins 11 out of the previous 12 points on his way to 4-3. The announcers begin to perk up again; their energy seems to be tied to Sinner’s performance. There is a lady in the crowd with so many mirrors sewn onto her clothes that she looks like a disco ball. Sinner, who finds himself now down 5-3 and serving still has not changed his impassive expression once. Sinner holds to make it 5-4. After a long rally “Hubi” wins the match after, you guessed it, a Sinner unforced error. The two friends embrace at the net and Sinner looks happy that it is over. The crowd—excepting the aforementioned Poles—is not immensely congratulatory. The announcers claim that they are happy that “one of the nicest guys on tour” pulled out such a controlled win but I do not believe them for a second. Sinner lost himself a match that was there for the taking.

I should stop writing about players who I enjoy watching. As a dedicated sports fan it is natural that I believe in jinxes, and it would appear that I jinxed Medvedev in the Aussie and now Sinner in Miami. I am sorry, dear fellows. Sinner today has not lived up to the title of “Tennis Savior” that I gave him before the match, but I would suggest that the dear reader to keep an eye on him regardless, because there is no doubt in my mind that he will in a few years have at least one Grand Slam under his belt. I should be trusted here as well because I usually turn my nose up at all forms of hype, but after watching Sinner for a year or so I can confirm that he is the next big thing (if he is not that already).

A Cheap Imitation of Wordsworth’s Poem About Daffodils:

A spring day blooms along the sea,

Sounding of birds and bumblebees,

But while I sit I only dream

Of deep forests and verdant trees.

A fresh dawn breaks with light of day,

The birds still sing songs sweet and gay,

The grass whispers as the breeze blows,

The seagulls squawk, the sea bellows.

But something has in my mind changed

The mellow spring to one of rains,

The tender morn to one of winds,

The days from calm to arduous.

So now I sit as spring begins,

Waiting for sun to recommence,

Wishing for rains to wash away

My sins and bring me happiness.

On Zambra:

Alejandro Zambra is a writer who I often reference in this newsletter but have never given a full review. I suppose it has been a long time coming. In any case over the last few days I have been reading his delightful collection of short stories, My Documents, and now feel compelled to write about this magical author who I love so dearly.

While reading Zambra it is hard for the reader to not find him or herself perpetually grinning. His stories are truly delightful. And then he will write a tragic tale that pulls at the heartstrings. Regardless, by the end the reader is obliged to offer Zambra his or her silent congratulations for another wonderful story. His stories, like his novels, are immensely personal; even when the story is not written in the first person it is hard for the reader to separate the male protagonist from Zambra himself. His command over language is difficult to replicate, for it it not as if he is using Nabokovian terms or complex combinations of words. No, the language one encounters in Zambra is simple, but it carries such weight that it is a marvel to behold and forces the reader to wonder how he has pulled it off. The immediate comparison one may draw from this description is Hemingway, although I do not think that that is quite right. Zambra’s stories owe a debt to El Boom—the works of Cortázar, Fuentes, Garcia Marquez, and company—but that is not to say that he has copied them in form, but simply that these writers have had such an impact on modern fiction (and especially modern Latin American fiction) that it is hard to not mention their names when speaking on contemporary authors. It is more that the underlying qualities in his stories draw inspiration from the great Latin writers who came before him. But Zambra’s writing is, as stated above, incredibly personal and as such I do not believe that his stories could come from anyone but himself.

I have now read all but two of Zambra’s novels (he has only written five so this is actually shameful) and a collection of his essays entitled No Leer which I have recommended before. The one which sticks with me the most is his Multiple Choice due to its inventive form (written in the style of a standardized test used to criticize the Pinochet regime that Zambra grew up under), but possibly I would recommend leaving that one for a bit later so that the dear reader can first understand the Zambra voice that is found in his earlier novels such as The Private Lives of Trees. All of them are very quick reads and will leave the dear reader in bliss, I promise.

Surrealism:

Have you, dear reader, ever seen someone in person who you were just dreaming about? Likely not, but it happened to me yesterday. After a fire alarm went off at three in the morning and after I had shuffled down the stairs and along the path and out to the courtyard I saw a girl and felt a little off. I then realized that moments before, in another realm of consciousness, she had appeared. And now in the the common, conscious consciousness she was appearing once more. It is one of the most surreal experiences that has ever happed to me.

Another surreal experience, while we are on the topic, is the general idea of being woken up in the early morning hours. One finds oneself in a fugue state of sorts, trapped in a space between being intensely aware of everything around oneself and, conversely, still occupying the realm of the dream, a dream now, however, where one has power over the events that unfold but at the same time does not necessarily realize that this power exists. As such, the individual simply drifts along like everyone else who has just been awoken by a fire alarm at three in the morning before trying and failing to fall immediately back asleep.

Some Songs:

"Inner City Blues (Make Me Wanna Holler)” - Marvin Gaye - What’s Going On