Playing in the Dirt
the beauty of attrition.
Yesterday gave the sporting world a treat in the form of an epic French Open final between Jannik Sinner and Carlos Alcaraz.
It’s the modern incarnation of yesteryear’s Roger Federer v. Rafael Nadal, and the match had all the hallmarks of an instant classic: saved match points, over 5 hours of nonstop play, tiebreakers, lead changes, and shotmaking from another planet.
The type of sporting theatre that even a person with no experience or interest in the game could appreciate, much like the Stanley Cup Finals or Saturday’s Belmont Stakes.
While I’ve grown to love the game of tennis in adulthood, the point of this writeup is not to recap or assess the match, but rather what was to be gleaned from watching such a spectacle and applying it to life.
Let’s dig in.
The French Open (or as the rest of the world calls it, Roland Garros) is contested on red clay.
Unlike the bright and summery hard courts of the Australian Open or the picturesque, speedy grass of Wimbledon, the French clay is a rough and unforgiving surface that is as punishing as it is intriguing.
While it may look soft, sort of like the infield from Yankee Stadium was transported overseas, it’s anything but. Comprised of crushed brick, shale, and limestone, the red clay is a gritty surface that will take the skin right off of whatever part of your body makes contact with it, should you slip on its gravely surface.
If that’s not enough, it’s also the slowest of tennis’ three surfaces. The ball bounces higher and the bite into the clay slows up the ball considerably. There’s also the unpredictable nature of the ball changing direction of off clumps of dirt on the court.
What would be a sizzling winner bouncing off the back fence at the U.S. Open’s Arthur Ashe stadium or Wimbledon’s Centre Court becomes “just another rally ball” in Paris.
It’s slow, it’s slippery, it’s hot, it’s grinding.
The atmosphere at the French Open matches the perils of its surface.
While the Australian Open is adorned with bright blue courts, a cheery (yet raucous) crowd and a lax dress code (the more Easter colors in your on-court fit, the better), the French Open is played on a massive dirt expanse that offers no respite from the Parisian sun.
Are there notables in the stands? Surely, but this isn’t David Beckham in the Royal Box at SW19 or the now influencer-adjacent status of New York’s U.S. Open.
The French crowd whistles, they boo, they get on the players quick. The judgement from the stands is as harsh and unforgiving as the surface the players are doing battle on.
Which leads me to the following conclusion: the real star of this weekend’s tennis?
Attrition.
Look, I’m all for raw talent and silky smooth, effortless victory.
It’s poetic to watch Steph Curry launch a ball from 35 feet and immediately start strutting back towards his defensive end because he knows it’s going in.
The same can be said for when Roger Federer would glide across the grass at the All England Lawn Tennis Club, or watching Connor McDavid blast through the neutral zone like he’s got powerups in a video game.
Problem is, that’s not so relatable.
Watching two players spend a quarter of a day on Earth slogging through the clay, playing seemingly endless rallies, and fighting off cramps and exhaustion is inspiration on a whole ‘nother level.
Are Sinner and Alcaraz (as well as women’s champion Coco Gauff and runner-up Aryna Sabalenka) insanely talented?
Of course they are. No one is disputing that.
However, the arena and conditions they were competing in rewarded attrition over all else, and that was on full display this weekend.
I’ve often said to friends, old teammates, and colleagues that victory through attrition is the most noble way to win.
Maybe that’s my Churchill-esque quote should I ever make it into the history books (hopefully for a good reason).
Aren’t we all, as Americans, in a season of attrition ourselves?
At the time of this writing, the exhausting news cycle continues to burgeon with conflict and unrest.
Los Angeles is burning like it’s 1992 all over again, Donald Trump and Elon Musk had a public “bestie” fallout that would make your average teenage girl clique blush, and we continue to endure global unrest, inflation, market fluctuations, and overall uncertainty.
Not to mention that we are still trying to get life to feel like it’s “back to normal”, even five years on.
If the rip-roaring economy and cushy life of the 2017 to early-2020 run was the American public swatting stylish forehands up the line in Melbourne or sexy backhand volleys in London, then where we’re at now is certainly more akin to returning a pulverizing forehand late in an prolonged rally on the French mud.
We’re tired, covered in dirt, and wanted to quit 10 shots ago, but we’ve got no choice but to plow forward.
The good news? Plowing forward and banging your head against the wall is the most gratifying way to get what you want in the end.
We can all apply this to our own lives.
Grinding Through the Numbers
Everybody has something. I’m a firm believer in that.
Anecdotally (and as an example), I’m what the Tik Tok world would refer to as a yapper.
In my real estate career (and my scholastic career before that), presentations and meetings are easy street. Always have been.
There’s always the oft-asked question after I give a boardroom pitch or a showy walkthrough: How’d you do that?
There’s never really an answer. I just do it. Comes naturally.
None of us have it all, and let me tell you guys about the time my business partner and I were trying to win a listing on a property owned by some private equity guys. I was the point man, it was going well, all up until they hit us with this on the outro:
“Hey, we like you guys. Just model out the numbers and projections and if it shakes out, we’ll go with you.”
Shit.
Assign me a presentation in front of a hundred people tomorrow, and the excitement will give me trouble sleeping like it’s Christmas Eve and I’m five years old.
But spreadsheets? Intense numbers?
I clam up like the family dog in the car on the way to the vet.
Making money is the name of the game, so what choice did I have?
I stayed up all night running those numbers, traversing the trenches of Microsoft Excel, quadruple checking my own work. Running comps, making sure I didn’t make the dumbest mathematical error known to man or leave an obvious hole somewhere. (That might’ve been a “fall asleep in the gamer chair at the PC in the home office” night, if my memory is correct)
If playing to the room and pitching was my flashy overhead volley on a cool Queens night, heavy-duty numbers were trying to return dive-bombing Zverev backhands on the crushed brick.
I was exhausted and frankly sort of worried.
What ended up happening?
We got it.
You already know what I felt when the deal closed earlier this year: an ethereal, almost trance-like elation, because this round wasn’t reliant upon talent or raw ability.
Not in the least.
There was no “ease of process”.
It was murky, it was rough….and it was more gratifying than most W’s that had preceded it.
In a sense, that’s where we’re all at collectively, as mentioned above.
Every day is a new story.
We’re no longer in an “lol stonks only go up” economy.
We’re still reeling from the pressure cooker that was the onset of the 2020’s.
Our dollar devalues daily, our national cohesion seemingly right along with it.
Looking outward, the global landscape seems to not be very far behind.
The only way out seems to be through.
There’s a reason Carlos Alcaraz collapsed to his back after match point instead of hitting some sort of touchdown dance or UFC knockout celebration.
The body had given what it needed to, and all he could do was succumb to the magnitude of his accomplishment in the moment.
Surely, that will be the same for those of us that power through the current climate and make it through cleanly to the other side.
When the WWIII doomsday-poasting and equity market swings and the “he said, she said” political environment and accompanied social division all calm down, we’ll have time to bask in the relief of a job well done, our backs lying against the metaphorical clay battleground that is our national sociopolitical and economic environment.
Until then- as it is adorned on the facade of the French Open’s main court, Phillippe-Chatrier:
“Victory Belongs to the Most Tenacious”
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It’s good to be back in touch- and on that note, a quick mention that I’ve been continuing on with Tik Tok Live pretty consistently.
We’ve got a good crew going, it’s been growing steadily, and we get together most nights around 9:15 EST and talk about life for an hour or so.
You can find it here.
Also, got the following into the four figs now, does this mean I need to start shilling you guys mud masks and protein shake stirrers and whatever else?
Who knows.
Talk again soon.
Love,
John Abbate
9.6.2025