I never really understood tennis.
I only know that mornings are cold, the stands are hard, and there is always a lot of waiting.

My son Luca was 15, and I worked night shifts.
When I came home at six in the morning, he was already leaving with his tennis bag on his shoulder.
We crossed paths at the door.
A quick “hi.”
Two different worlds in the same hallway.

I was afraid.
Afraid he would build illusions.
Afraid he would get hurt.
Afraid that one day he would ask me, “Why didn’t you stop me?”

When he lost, he didn’t talk.
I drove in silence.
He stared out the window.
I wanted to say a thousand things, but fathers never know which one is the right one.

So I did the only thing I knew how to do:
stay.

Stay in the stands even when it rained.
Stay in the car waiting late at night.
Stay silent after losses, because defeat was already loud enough.

One day he asked me:
“Dad, if I quit… would you feel relieved?”

It took me too long to answer.
Then I told the truth, for the first time:
“No. Because that’s the only place where I see you truly alive.”

I don’t know if he will become a champion.
I know that every morning he gets up and goes to fight.
And I, who spent my life working not to dream,
learned from him that believing is scary — but not believing hurts even more.

When I watch him play, I don’t think about rankings.
I think about one thing only:
that one day, when he is grown,
he can say,
“My father was there.”

And for me,
that is already a victory.