Semifinals at Godó

A Russian against a Serb: that's all I know. The Russian's name, Andrei Rublev, reminds me too much of the film based on the life of the 16th-century Russian artist, but he seems to be an old acquaintance of the house (both of the city and its Real Club de Tenis), as it is here that he strengthened himself as an elite tennis player. He is fifteenth in the ATP ranking. The Serb, on the other hand, is called Medjedovic and is 87th (last year he was number 57). They say they are two players who take a lot of risks, that it will be exciting, although the most avid fans have been left wanting Carlos Alcaraz (wrist discomfort has prevented him from continuing). They also say that Rublev has recovered from a leg discomfort. I will only have time to watch this match, but, at least, it promises. Blazing sun, spring, Pedralbes. One more year.

Despite Rublev, the Russian flag has been quite invisible: the international condemnation for the invasion of Ukraine still persists, it seems. Ironically, a few meters from where we are and at the same time this semifinal begins, Pedro Sánchez has hosted a group of anti-Trump world leaders. Sending weapons to Ukraine must be progressive; Rublev must be delighted, and the Ukrainians in conflict (like the Catalans) no one has asked them what they want to be. But, anyway, the fact is that the police presence in the republic (or rather the kingdom) of Pedralbes is noticeable (and very much so).

The Real Club de Tenis has not always been called that; it was founded in 1899 with the name of Barcelona Lawn-Tennis Club (Barça style, let's say) and only with Alfonso XIII was it "granted" the title of Real (as also happened with Espanyol in 1912, or the Náutico, much earlier and with Alfonso XII).

Regarding the Barcelona Open Banc Sabadell (Conde de Godó Trophy), this year it celebrates its 73rd anniversary, which takes us back to 1953 (with a clearly identifiable context). The cup, we repeat, is the only one in the world crowned by a silver tennis player in action and is the result of the mastery of the Soler Cabot house, with deep roots in the city. Now the Club is presided over by Jordi Cambra and they assure that, months before the tournament, they have to stop the activity of all members (of various ages and levels) to be able to face the assembly. For the disassembly, three quarters of the same. And that in a club that, in addition to being sporting, is above all social.

Networking, of course. Godó, politicians, journalists, businessmen, networking. Some of them have a good serve, that is, they greet with force (shaking hands intensely or hugging energetically), others make drop shots to the volley (fragile wrist, listless hand) and I even witness, for the first time in a long time, a passing shot that leaves someone with their hand alone and extended. Around the stands, always labyrinthine and with consecrated access, dozens of snack and beer stalls are deployed, which it is better to go to early (if you do not have access to the VIP area).

All of this communicated (so to speak) by this indecipherable mix of corridors, cypresses, scaffolding and logos that miraculously end up taking you to the place. There are children with big tennis balls waiting for an autograph, and who still shout "¡vamos Rafa!", but referring to Jodar, not Nadal, who is now just a court name. Right on the court where the match begins, and where at four o'clock the match between the Spanish Jodar and the French Fils ---who has ended up being the winner of the Tournament--- will be played. Good serve, they say, this Fils. And very athletic, and he unleashes a good "gardela" to the right and left. From the outset, and without knowing him, I already like him.

A dragon-shaped mascot from Park Güell. Okay, breathe. Calm. Let's go. The loudspeaker announcement is mostly in Catalan (native, without a foreign accent), the views from the stands are of Collserola de Vallvidrera, the ball boys wear Mango with green stripes, the hostesses wear Emirates Airlines. The tilted Lexus car, with the handbrake eternally on so as not to fall onto the court. Rolex. RTVE. Esportcat (Generalitat de Catalunya), Barcelona, Teknon (for the devices that unnecessarily mark the speed of serves). Occident, without Catalana. Eurofirms. Cava Vilarnau, from which a bottle seems to open sonorously every time a Serb responds to a Russian or vice versa. Lexus, again. Mango, again. Haier. Sabadell, big, immense.

Rublev has cut his hand, surely that's why he loses the first set. Both, in fact, make quite inexplicable errors. The fact is that from an initial 6-3 in favor of Serbia we move to a couple of resounding 6-2 in favor of the invaders of Ukraine, and that despite the finger injury. Both players, moreover, maintain long and angry conversations with the air. As if they were lost vagabonds, or as if an imaginary coach had to listen to all the complaints or give them some explanation.

I'm not staying for the next semifinal. I'm as interested in what happens to Serbia as I am in what happens to France or Spain, which doesn't mean I'm not interested (and very much so) in what happens in my city. Especially, I'm interested in the dynamics of the Upper and that kind of small monarchy, of fake nobility, that configures the always contradictory Barcelona bourgeoisie: an atmosphere of unmistakable monarchical republic that has a working-class and shopkeeper color, even if it dresses in silk. That's why I leave the Barcelona Lawn-Tennis Club, again, grateful for the continuity of this Trophy. At least it has made me feel less alone: in this match, as in the Palau de Pedralbes, only some of those present have been able to display their flag.