In Paris, cramp, nerves, heartbreak. And a Serb who refuses to fall

In sport, a place of absurd and wondrous exaggeration, we tend to use the word “tragedy” differently. No one usually dies, just dreams. Carlos Alcaraz’s lay in the semi-final dust of Paris. A boy who lives for acceleration agonisingly left with his engine idling.

Cramp is the most democratic of ailments, for it visits unprepared amateur and diligent professional. Athletes cry, consult specialists, ingest pickle juice and ESPN once wrote a piece titled “The science of LeBron’s cramping.” But what the cramps did on Friday in Roland Garros was to reveal the honesty of Alcaraz.