C'era solo... C'era solo Andrè Agassi. Ebbene si, devo ammetterlo: all'inizio c'era solo lui, il Kid di Las Vegas! The equation was very simple: = Andre Agassi tennis. His photos were meticulously cut out of match-ball. There was his shirt punk black-yellow-purple jealously folded and kept in the drawer of my room next to the jersey number 5 of Maggica. There was only his rock & roll tennis, fast, and those of his shots early that took your breath away both his opponents as for me and my cousin who watched on television kidnapped at Roland Garros. There was that his quick whirl the racket that I tried in vain to imitate in my super-challenges in the backyard against the wall or friends. Of course there was also Superbrat McEnroe, Edberg & Chang were (and the unforgettable final roll '89 ... first tennis match that I was nailed to the chair with his eyes fixed on Rai 3), there were flights to London on the grass Bum-Bum, Lendl was torn and his eyebrows ... there were all these great players, but for me the tennis was Andrew! It was my final answer, I would have switched to any tele-quiz. But ... I was wrong.
On 10 September 1990 during the U.S. Open final Pete Sampras discovered. I escaped from Agassi doc (or so I thought), the lavish praise of the magical trio Tommasi-Clerici-Scanagatta for the 'other' in the pre-match. Clear case of mistaken imagined. But ... I was wrong for the second time. I still remember
Pistol-Pete. He was thin, much like Andre, dangling, seemed smaller than his age, a high school for whatever strange spell thrown in the middle of a Grand Slam final. Her hair blacks, short, nothing to do with the blond mane rebel Kid. He knew he was classically beautiful, like her shirt almost completely white. Not it took me a lot, it was enough the first floor of Koper on the tele-dark eyes of the 'other' to understand that was not there by chance: it was a predestined, a warrior, a champion like him that Mr. Tacchini had drawn on the mesh. There was no need to get to 6-4 in the first set, nor to wait for "the victory with a score of top-down" as described by Rino Tommasi in commentary ... Agassi not was gone. Tabula rasa. Tennis, my tennis, had finally lost the bright colors and Andre had metabolized indelibly gestures "white" by Pete Sampras. The straight arrow Pete had quickly become the law! The volleys in tennis might just be the kind that accompanied his gentle caress the ball a few inches more 'in the network. And then there was the service ... the ultimate weapon is still desperate to which its (the player) and my (the fan) days in hopes of winning more 'black and anemia. Finally there was the reverse ... the cross and the delight of his / my courts: if the reverse was centered, and you understood immediately, then there was not anybody to ... Superman even with the racket could stop him. In those days of "perfection" was impossible after seeing him on TV do not go downstairs to play in the yard: her tennis was beautiful contagious. E 'was born so my passion for tennis Sampras, suddenly in the late summer evening Pietrino is (and still is) becomes the court, as Senna was, for me, F1, Van Basten as soccer or Popov IL swimming ... I was certainly the victim of a spell, difficult to explain, other long 12 years, and un'infintà record 14 Grand Slam victories and perhaps not even remember them all. Others will come to Pete Sampras, I came a (perhaps) stronger named Federer, will also perfect the tennis player (with service Ivanisevic, volleys of the Mac, the reverse of Edberg and whatnot) but I will I ', make no mistake, always under the impression that this kid so, dangling on center court at Flushing 17 years ago, could still beat them all. And I just close my eyes to be sure of this. This is the real magic of Pete Sampras. Welcome to the Hall of Fame, Pete!
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