Plenty of times during Sunday’s spellbinding nearly-five-hour Wimbledon men’s final, the cameras found Carlos Alcaraz’s coach, Juan Carlos Ferrero. What they did not find was a broad register of emotion. His eyes wrapped in shades, Ferrero usually sat still as a gargoyle. When his protégé played well—or, more critically, made the right decision, regardless of the point’s outcome—Ferrero would gently nod. And, then, when Alcaraz faltered, Ferrero would ... gently nod.
This was by design. But also a function of both constitution and geography. As a former No. 1 player, Ferrero was—and is—known for his tennis achievements; not for antics or attire or spicy quotes. As a coach, he is a study in measured calm.
It is an expression of the region of southeast Spain that both he and Alcaraz call home. If Madrid is New York and Barcelona is L.A., their shared motherland, south of Valencia, is, say, Arkansas. That is, it’s a grounded, unpretentious precinct that doesn’t rate much with tourists, and doesn’t have much use for look-at-me.
