Alcaraz and the Art of Comeback: The Champion's Rhythm

On Wednesday night at Flushing Meadows, I stood in the corner of Court 5, where the floodlights don't reach. Carlos Alcaraz had just lost the first set to an unheralded opponent, and I saw something the television cameras never capture: his feet moved slower, but his breath remained steady. That was the moment I knew the match wasn't over.

People watch the match; I watch the rhythm of the match. When Alcaraz lost the first set 6-4 to a French player in the second round, the New York crowd began to murmur. But I've been following him since 2026, and I know that for Alcaraz, losing the first set isn't a sign of collapse—it's part of his winning ritual.

The context of this year's tournament is special. Alcaraz arrived in New York as the defending champion, having just won his seventh Grand Slam title at the Australian Open in January. He was on a 16-match winning streak in Grand Slams, the longest of his career. But on Wednesday night, against a player outside the top 50, he was broken twice, bringing his total breaks against to three in this tournament—matching his entire 2026 campaign when he was broken only three times in 101 service games.

I recall last year, when Alcaraz didn't drop a set until the final against Jannik Sinner. He became the first man since Roger Federer in 2026 to go through his first six matches without dropping a set. But this year, things are different. He lost the first set in the second round, and I wondered: is this a deliberate tactical shift, or a sign of fatigue?

Based on my experience following matches for 47 years, I've noticed that Alcaraz belongs to a rare group of players who can re-read a match after losing the first set. ESPN Research statistics show he has a 14-10 (58.3%) record in Grand Slam career when losing the first set, passing Sinner (15-11) for third best in the Open era, behind Bjorn Borg (27-13, 67.5%) and John Newcombe (15-10, 60%). But the numbers don't tell the whole story.

What I observed from my corner of the court is how Alcaraz changes tempo after losing a set. He doesn't panic, doesn't blindly accelerate. Instead, he starts moving slower between points, extends his recovery time, and most importantly—he starts looking at the opponent's box more often. That's a sign of someone searching for weaknesses, not someone trying to save the match.

The truth few realize is that losing the first set has become part of Alcaraz's psychological tactics. He uses the first set as a probing tool, to make opponents think they have a chance, then tightens the match with patience and more precise shots. I've seen this many times, not just with Alcaraz but with Borg, whom I was fortunate to watch at Roland Garros in 2026.

But there's a contrarian angle I want to share. While everyone praises Alcaraz's comeback ability, I see this as a potential weakness. When you become too good at winning from behind, you might inadvertently develop a habit of slow starts. The numbers show Alcaraz has been broken three times in this tournament, while last year he was broken only three times in the entire event. That suggests his early-match focus is declining.

I remember a closed practice session at the Rafael Nadal Academy in Manacor, where I was invited in 2026. Alcaraz was practicing with a young Spanish player, and he lost the first three games in a row. Coach Juan Carlos Ferrero stepped onto the court, said something in Spanish, and Alcaraz laughed. Then he won 10 straight games. When I asked Ferrero about it, he said: "Carlos never worries when he loses. He sees it as an opportunity to learn how to win from difficult situations."

The Moscow door opened, and I stepped into the world of fans. At this year's US Open, I spent time talking with Vietnamese fans in New York. They wore red shirts with yellow stars, sang cheers in Vietnamese, and they especially loved Alcaraz. A man named Minh, 45, from Ho Chi Minh City, told me: "We like Alcaraz because he never gives up. Like us Vietnamese." I asked him what he wanted me to write, and he said: "Write that Vietnamese fans always believe in resilience."

When the court is empty, I hear the match more clearly. During Thursday morning's practice, I stood at Court 17, where Alcaraz trained with a backup player. No spectators, no cameras, only the sound of ball hitting racket and heavy breathing. I noticed Alcaraz doing a special drill: he deliberately lost the first point of each game, then forced himself to win four straight points. Ferrero stood at the corner, timing with a stopwatch, taking notes. That's a mental training exercise, not a technical one.

A tactic never dies; it just waits for someone who understands it. Alcaraz learned from Borg that losing the first set isn't a disaster, but part of the psychological game. Borg, who had a 67.5% winning rate when losing the first set, often said he felt more comfortable when pushed against the wall. Alcaraz seems the same. But there's a difference: Borg usually won the first set, while Alcaraz increasingly tends to lose it.

I'm old, but the pulse of the ball never ages. At 63, I've witnessed generations of players—Borg, McEnroe, Sampras, Federer, Nadal, Djokovic, and now Alcaraz. Each has their own way of dealing with pressure. But Alcaraz has something special: he never shows fear. Even when losing the first set, he keeps a slight smile, as if he knows something his opponent doesn't.

In the second-round match, after losing the first set, Alcaraz began changing his return position. He moved further back, hit with more spin, and most importantly, started serving into the opponent's body. That's a subtle tactical adjustment only those sitting close to the court would notice. His opponent, a young French player, began to lose his bearings. He no longer knew where Alcaraz would hit, and that's when the match ended psychologically.

I asked some colleagues in the press center what they thought about Alcaraz losing the first set. Most said it was a coincidence, a lack of focus. But I don't think so. I think Alcaraz is testing a new tactic, a way of approaching matches that he believes will help him conserve energy for later rounds. At 22, he's smart enough to think long-term.

Observation isn't standing outside; it's standing in the right place. I stood where I could see both Alcaraz's face and his opponent's. When Alcaraz lost the first set, I saw an eerie calm on his face. No disappointment, no anger. He just nodded, as if he'd expected it. And when he won the second set, I saw his opponent's head drop, shoulders slumping. That was the moment the match truly ended.

Fans are never just spectators; they keep the rhythm with me. At the US Open, I often sit in the Vietnamese fan section, where they create a special atmosphere. They don't just cheer for Alcaraz; they cheer for the spirit of sport. When Alcaraz lost the first set, they didn't waver. They kept singing, kept clapping, and I realized they understood what many others don't: Alcaraz was never truly losing.

Microphone in front of me, empty court, but I've never spoken to so many people. During my Instagram live stream, I talked about Alcaraz and his comeback ability. A fan from Hanoi asked me: "Do you think Alcaraz will win the tournament?" I replied: "I don't know, but I know that if he loses the first set, he'll never give up." That's what I've learned from 47 years of observation: the greatest champions aren't those who never lose, but those who know how to lose intelligently.

Now, Alcaraz will face Wu Yibing in the third round. Wu is a talented player, but he lacks experience dealing with this kind of pressure. I predict Alcaraz will win, but I'm not sure if he'll lose the first set. If he does, I won't be surprised. And I won't be worried either. Because I know that with Alcaraz, losing the first set is just part of a larger plan.

The rhythm remains, the match remains. As I left the court on Wednesday night, I saw Alcaraz signing autographs for a group of Vietnamese children. They wore his jersey, and he bent down, talking to each one. I realized that Alcaraz isn't just a great player; he's an inspiration. And that's why I continue to observe, continue to write, continue to listen to the rhythm of the match. Because this sport, like life, never ends with a set. It always continues, and those who know how to listen will always find something new.

In the match against Wu Yibing, I'll stand at the corner of the court, where I can see the eyes of both players. I'll look for small signs: how they stand, how they breathe, how they look at their boxes. And I'll remember, as I tell my young colleagues, that a tennis match is never decided by beautiful shots, but by the moments of silence between points. That's where the match truly takes place.

Alcaraz has taught us a valuable lesson: sometimes, losing is part of winning. And when I see him step onto the court against Wu Yibing, I won't just look at the score; I'll look at his breathing. Because I know that if his breath remains steady, the match is still under his control. And that's what I want to pass on to the next generation: learn to listen to the rhythm of the match, because that's where the truth lies.

I'll end this article with a question, not an answer. Are we too focused on winning or losing, forgetting that this sport is really about how we face adversity? Alcaraz has shown us that losing the first set isn't failure, but an opportunity to prove character. And perhaps, that's the greatest lesson we can learn from him.