How well it’s going this round. He plays fluid, casual tennis. Shots distributed with will and passion, no flat rackets. For the first time he feels at ease here too. The end of the Seventies is giving him new awareness. Adriano Panatta feels more matureshining star of national tennis. He knows that now it’s important to win here too, on the red clay of Monte Carlowhere he usually only came to party in the clubs. He looks in the mirror and chases away that thought with his hands. Girls, nothing more. The Panatta man has a mission to accomplish. Ban evenings and excesses. To hell with staying late. Now he has to win here too. Point.
So here it is reach the semifinalsthanks to a week conducted with the balsamic cadences of an authentic ascetic. He ate well, he didn’t guzzle alcohol, he didn’t set foot outside the hotel room except to train, he went to bed early and enjoyed the wonderful power of restful sleep.
Now will have to clash with Guillermo Vilaswho is one of the strongest on the planet, but after all he too sits with his legs crossed in the small circle. He’s playing well and feels he can beat him. He already sees himself projected into the final. As he gains confidence from these thoughts, but the phone rings. From the other end of the cable comes a shrill voice: “I’m Paolo, Paolo Villaggio. Me and Ugo (Tognazzi) We’re coming to see you tonight.”
“Oh God”, Panatta reacts immediately, foreseeing what is about to happen. “Yes guys, okay. But I have to go to bed early, I have the semi-final tomorrow.” They don’t have any problems: “Don’t worry, we’ll be there by eight, let’s eat and go to sleep”. Here, in Hadrian’s acceptance, the seed of the next defeat insinuates itself.
Because – he himself recalled this on Radio 2 – Villaggio and Tognazzi arrive at half past eleven in the evening. “No guys, it’s too late now.” Nothing, Villaggio in particular doesn’t hear us and convinces him to go out to pick them up. So they go to dinner, forming a group of about ten people. The anecdotes are wasted, the wine flows, and so do the hands. The revelry is served. Panatta looks at his watch, worried, every quarter of an hour. He always says he has to get up and go, but then he stays glued to his chair.
It’s one in the morning. Suddenly Tognazzi disappeared. Villaggio asks Panatta where he is: “And what do I know?”. Paolo begs Adriano to go and look for him, because you know Ugo, he must have gotten into some trouble. He then leaves the Panatta restaurant, proceeding in desperation towards the gardens facing the Casino, in galloping anxiety about the hour that has come. At a certain point, a gasp comes from a bush. “Adriano! Help me, I’m dying.”
Tognazzi is on his back, his hands clasped on his stomach. He stuffed himself and downed hectoliters of wine. Terrible indigestion. Adriano can’t take it anymore: “Why don’t you just die, so I can go to bed?”. But he certainly understands that he cannot be cynical to this point. He lifts him, puts the weight on one shoulder and drags him to the restaurant, where Villaggio harshly scolds him: “Ugo, you don’t do it like that”.
It is now a quarter past two in the morning which precedes the meeting with Vilas. Finally he manages to get them into the car to take them to the hotel. “Where are you staying?”. Strange looks. “We don’t know.” All very vague, like every outing with those two. “What do you mean you don’t know which hotel is yours?” “Try here, Villaggio replies”.
They get off at the Hotel de Paris, but they were wrong. Same scene at the Hermitage: another fiasco. On the third attempt Villaggio gets it right. Panatta can finally go to bed. It’s three in the morning.
The next day he appears staggering, his eyes wrinkled, on the red clay of Monte Carlo. AND Vilas gives him a terrible beating.
From the stands, nearby, Villaggio and Tognazzi encourage him: “Come on Adriano, come on! What are you doing?”. He comes closer and spits at him. “I could have won more in my career – he later declared – but evenings like this happened to me often.”