Prodigy, Champion, Content

How young is too young?

In three days from now, your Netflix home screen will start flashing a giant poster card for My Way - a three-part docuseries tailing Carlos Alcaraz through the 2024 tennis season. The trailer, released last week, ushers us into his home in El Palmar, into drawing rooms and childhood bedrooms, past sneaker collections and into family lunch tables. Speaking to GQ Spain for their cover issue, Alcaraz offers, “It perfectly reflects who I am and the people who accompany me on this journey. I think everyone who sees it will feel like they know me a little better, especially the personal side.”

Alcaraz is still 21, a double-Wimbledon champion with bones that have barely finished growing. That he should already have a self-series feels somewhat premature, a drumroll played a beat too early.

A mini-series, if we’re being bookish about it, is essentially a novella. Creating one where you’ve held the editor’s sharpie amounts to writing a memoir, if not quite an autobiography. The Oxford dictionary has two definitions for the word “memoir”: “a historical account or biography written from personal knowledge,” and “an essay on a learned subject.”

Such publications typically arrive after a couple of knee surgeries, after enough bottles of wisdom can be distilled from those countless nights of adrenalin and cigarette buds. How is someone barely old enough for a glass of single malt already writing one? The boy is on his first lap.

But that is admittedly a rigid and archaic perspective of memoirs and autobiographies, one that would’ve made sense when the internet was still called the world wide web. Keeping aside the cognitive dissonance from watching a baby give a TED talk about philosophy, it actually makes a lot of sense for the world’s most incandescent tennis player to choose a platform guaranteeing maximum visibility.

Alcaraz is 21. He was born after the iPod. He inhabits a reality where the internet isn’t something you visit but something you breathe, the atmosphere in which a part of life is lived.

When books go for print, authors and publishers are gripped by the anxiety of, “Will anyone read this?” Alcaraz’s generation of celebrities don’t have to worry about reception. He could share a casual sunset photo from some coastal retreat and within moments have his comment section buzzing with heart and fire emojis. He has 6.3 million followers on Instagram, nearly a million on Twitter, and thousands of fan accounts on each platform breathlessly laying bricks for his digital altar.

Honestly, there hasn’t been a more made-for-the-internet tennis player in recent memory. Every point in an Alcaraz match feels like a clip from a highlights package, as if he was lab-engineered for YouTube and Instagram. Watchability plays a part in how athletes of his generation are judged. Sure, you can win these Grand Slams, but can you make me quote-tweet your clip with “Dis brother is cooold 🥶”? On that metric, there is Alcaraz, then there is every kilowatt of light emitted by the sun, and then there is the rest of the field.

On the internet, you don’t need grey hair or a fat CV to be given studio-quality gear to beam your thoughts to the world; you just need to be famous. If you’re successful, even better. Alcaraz is famous and successful. It is quite likely that My Way was the culmination of a persistent courtship, at least ten weekends of meetings with Netflix and Apple TV and everything in between just to get him on camera.

Besides, with late or post-career autobiographies, one surrenders their story to their career. Robbie Savage once wore the Manchester United red in a title-winning season, but today, he cannot publish a book titled, “Swimming In Stardust.” Too much has happened in between.

Alcaraz is quick to everything - returns, drop shots, championships, streaks. He has been equally swift in recognising his fame’s kinetic potential, the doors it unlocks, the attention he commands while still writing his legend. Tennis players operate within short shelf lives. Alcaraz need not wait, especially in this economy of self-projection.

In July 2024, two days after Carlos Alcaraz won his second consecutive Wimbledon singles title, Kylian Mbappé stood at the centre of the Santiago Bernabéu, unveiled as Real Madrid's newest galactico. A New York Times article from that day opens with a line from Je M’appelle Kylian - a comic book published by Mbappé’s team - and mentions how this child from suburban Paris had his public persona handcrafted by his family from the moment his footballing gifts became apparent. The next paragraph locks you in, revealing something essential about Mbappe’s relationship with his fame.

Speaking to The New York Times, Jean-Baptiste Guegan, co-author of the biography Revolution Mbappe, says, “Kylian Mbappé has understood that it’s not enough to succeed on the pitch. His story began before the pitch. It begins with a mastery of his own channels and media, through partners and sponsors he has chosen, which correspond to his values and are based on an idea that what is rare is valuable.”

In 2022, Mbappé set up his own Los Angeles-based production company, Zebra Valley, to produce media content in sports, music, technology and suchlike. Since then, he has been a frequent traveller to the USA - even midweek, between football games - sometimes sitting courtside watching Steph Curry, other times attending gala dinners in slick corduroy jackets.

Mbappé is running on a track laid nearly thirty years back by another Real Madrid galactico, David Beckham. Remember that guy? The man who would attend Milan Fashion Week, touch down at Heathrow the following evening, board another flight to Manchester, and then curl home a breathtaking free-kick to deliver England’s most storied club a derby victory. He was let go from Manchester United because his manager, Sir Alex Ferguson - more father figure than boss, actually - couldn’t reconcile athletic pursuit with multiple interests. Ferguson wanted his players to uphold football as their only purpose in life.

It was one thing to see Brazilian and Spanish superstars getting out of limousines wearing tacky suits and bright earrings. An English footballer was supposed to be part of the working class, meant to wear mud-spattered shirts as his statement piece. Instead, their brightest talent in a decade draped himself in purple leather and dated a Spice Girl. And he did so without ever apologising for his tastes.

Sir Alex Ferguson’s autobiography has passages swelling with pride at Beckham’s career and exemplary work ethic. Gary Neville - as thoroughbred a football archetype as one could imagine into being - wrote something to the effect of, “Beckham had the talent of a global superstar with the work ethic of a miner.” But those realisations came a bit too late.

This is probably a good time to talk about this other thing. Let’s call it the One Route Theory™.

Sports has long clung to the belief that greatness requires complete surrender. Your craft must consume you entirely, must digest your other interests. There exists, the priests insist, just one path to excellence - a narrow trail winding through the valley of 5 a.m. wake-ups, protein-measured meals, and a finishing set of 100 push ups just when you feel that your shoulders are about to pop out of their sockets. Cameras and film crews, friendships with movie stars, affairs with supermodels are all distractions that will lead you astray.

My Way has interviews with Roger Federer, Rafael Nadal, and Alcaraz’s coach, former World Number 1, Juan Carlos Ferrero. All believers - to different degrees, of course - in the One Route Theory. In his interview, Nadal says, “To accomplish what Novak (Djokovic), Roger or myself have done, you need to feel that the sacrifices are worth it and that they pay off.” That clip is poignant because thus far, Alcaraz has been seen as a Nadal-regen. Spanish, a ferocious playing style, natural inclination for clay courts. The parallels were impossible to ignore.

Alcaraz’s most endearing quality is his authenticity. His tennis is an intoxicating blend of courage, athleticism, and energy. In a sport that pushes for precision and economy, he has wired himself as an entertainer, willing to risk a point for the thrill of playing an extravagant shot. And yet, nothing feels forced. His tennis exuberance comes across as a natural extension of his persona. The beaming smile on his face after full-stretch cross-court winners carries over to his interviews, and to moments when he turns from rival to friend and admirer of everyone else on tour.

Perhaps the latest evidence of his authenticity is that while he reveres Nadal as tennis’ high priest and aspires to someday sit on that table, he doesn’t crave the same monastic existence. He cherishes time with friends and family, occasionally escaping on holiday. Tennis occupies a vast territory in his life, but not its entirety.

It is easy to get into a right versus wrong argument about this. A theory that has stood as a pillar between Roger Bannister and Roger Federer must have solid foundations. These guys reached the top of their mountains and set up camp.

And we desperately want Alcaraz to touch the stars. His talent is so precocious, his energy so infectious, that partisan loyalties dissolve when discussing him. That’s why a protective unease, that reflexive “Don’t go there, bud.” In our minds, the world of Netflix and New York lies beyond the electric fence marked with a metal signboard with “Danger” written on it in bold white font. When GQ asked if one could simultaneously enjoy life and pursue greatness, Alcaraz replied with: “Probably not. We’ll see.”

The moment Alcaraz whipped that winning forehand against Novak Djokovic to win his first Wimbledon title, he had broad-jumped from the future to the present. Regardless of his age, this wasn’t potential anymore as much as realisation of divine gifts. Two more Grand Slam titles later, he has climbed to a rarefied atmosphere where he will be measured by the barometer once used for Roger, Rafa, and Novak. It’s unfair, perhaps, but that’s how it goes for those made of rare clay. The definition and contours of success, his success, has now been imposed on him by his audience. And anything coming in between is a problem.

With this documentary, the Carlos Alcaraz Content Machine has whirred fully to life. He will soon discover - if he hasn’t already - that the content economy doesn’t understand satiation. Those painting his public image will try to yank larger slices of his attention with each passing event; those protecting it will find themselves surrounded from all directions, like a couple of wounded deers between a pack of hyenas. Privacy will become a myth, breathing space a rumour. Marvel will want him to voiceover a new character, Ted Lasso will invite him for a talk at AFC Richmond, and there may even be a guest appearance in the next season of Drive to Survive.

Alcaraz deserves these bright lights. The crossed-fingers hope is that his public entity is as conducive to flash as the tennis player is. If he can navigate both, if he can fly as Beckham once did, he might become the coolest thing to happen to tennis and sport in a while. At times, we will be disoriented by how this path challenges our conditioned beliefs about greatness and athletic devotion, but his journey will ultimately reveal that the summit can be reached by multiple routes.

Early in that GQ interview, when pressed about the purpose of the documentary, Alcaraz says, “Elite athletes are little known, that’s what I was saying before. That’s the reality. They can get to know us on a tennis court, when we compete, or in front of a microphone, when we do an interview. But they don’t see us when the cameras are off: in the locker room, at home, with friends, in our free time... I thought it was interesting to show this side of the story over the course of a full season, with good moments and bad.”

Some sports autobiographies can be shallow and tasteless. I remember pre-ordering Sachin Tendulkar’s first autobiography, Playing It My Way. It probably took me less than 20 pages to completely tune out. I laboured through the rest of the book not for merit but because I wanted to give him and his ghostwriter a chance to tell me one good story. Curtly Ambrose’s book is a 273-page chest-beating exercise. Some others bungee jump on the underdog thread, written as if this literal wunderkind from a major city was always wronged and never quite given the credit for their successes.

Michael Phelps’ Beneath The Surface and Andre Agassi’s Open are my two models for readable, warm autobiographies. These books grant the reader access to champions’ interior lives, adding dimensions that emerge only from wanting to tell an authentic story.

The seventeenth chapter of Beneath The Surface is titled “Five Dogs?” Phelps begins with the 2003 World Championships in Barcelona, recounting how he bargained with his mother for a dog should he break a world record. He ended up breaking five, and as he surfaced from the pool after his final race, he saw his mother and sister in the stands holding a placard with “Five Dogs?” written on it.

Similarly, Sakshi Malik’s autobiography, written with Jon Selvaraj, is outstanding in its insight and candour. Abhinav Bindra, ditto.

I hope Alcaraz’s first serve in the storytelling court plays off his authenticity. And that it answers the essential question - “What is Carlos Alcaraz like as a person?” - in the most Carlos Alcaraz way possible.