Serena Williams and the rusticana cavalleria

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What Serena is this that we see now? The one of the Williams of all the life or the one of the last US Open? I wonder if it’s Serena Williams, the Williams sisters of a lifetime, or Serena Williams of the last US Open. I answer that it is the latter: the company, the logo, the pin, the neon lamp, the symbol under construction. I can not look at Serena for a long time since the last US Open. It is as if at each point I could see the essence of that woman and mother harshly battered by tennis. It’s like I’m watching The purple color.

Serena Williams and the rusticana cavalleria

This Serena Williams loses a point, a single point, and I can see approaching over the horizon the centuries of social advances of the woman who heads herself on horseback holding a flag like Liberty guiding the people. She waits, stops desolate for that lost point. Look at the sky, breathe deeply. Walk slowly, almost imperceptibly. He narrows his eyes, the gesture becomes dour for a moment. Look around for a guilty man with angry eyes. Everyone ducks their heads. Me too from my house.

Serena Williams and the rusticana cavalleria

It looks like glass. It seems that he is going to cry, that he is going to break, but he keeps the tears. The anguish is visible. That lost point is a small and intense drama. I have discovered that this Serena Williams post US Open 2018 saves the difficult moments supported by its paraphernalia of broad reminiscences, in addition to its reverse or its powerful service. This Serena Williams is a troupe on the track. She is not that amazing force player and feline agility. Today is the heavy smoking locomotive (the smoke of the ugly combustion of that US Open) that drags all those wagons full of Grand Slams.

That smoke is seen in the distance. It’s the first thing I see, before all those trophies that pass by, almost blurred, by the season. Serena Williams post US Open 2018 is the Sarah Bernhardt of the WTA, something more: a political-tragic actress. Yesterday I looked at his box, where they were, among many others, his mother, his sister, his coach and her husband, and seemed the impressionable public of a Neapolitan drama. Small faces of anxiety. It was not a popular tragedy but a tennis match turned into a rustic cavalleria whose libretto Oprah Winfrey could have written.

This Serena Williams does not seem willing to forgive that she does not win, because we are all guilty if she does not win. They are not their less mobility and their diminished resistance, for example, no. Serena Williams searches and finds out there, and if not they tell the chairman Carlos Ramos, that “thief and liar” who owes an apology to a mother who always does the right thing.

A stolen woman who not only does not regret the attitude of that revealing night, but who locks herself in it as if it were the social capital of her company. Serena Williams seems intent on winning the Grand Slam she needs to be the greatest winner of Grand Slams of all life. But she is flaying herself in the attempt.

The locomotive smokes from the past Wimbledon, when Kerber set it apart against the forecast of the privilege. A few months later everything was ready in New York to celebrate the milestone, but Naomi Osaka appeared in the form of the cyclone that she hoped to be this Serena that already resorts to theater, sentimentality and propaganda with desperation. It does not seem like the most honorable end to a great career like yours.

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