Dear Daniil,
I trust this letter finds you well, especially now that United Airlines has located your racquet gs and Greg Allensworth is off the hook. I wish you every success in Miami!
How quickly my tone turns grave.
Because as you may recall, Daniil, you won a total of one (1) grand slam match in 2025. Put differently, you had three first-round exits and one second-round exit. Your best result was at the Australian Open, where you were ejected after playing ten sets (eight hours) of tennis. First, you won a five-set tussle with the Thai wildcard ranked 418, Kasidit Samrej; then, you lost to your future doubles partner, Learner Tien, over five evermore turbo sets. 2025 wasn’t your year professionally, though it did start with meeting your second child in January. Baby Victoria and your results probably aren’t unrelated. Whatever the reason, this was a slump.
A slump is defined as “a sudden severe or prolonged fall in the price, value, or amount of something.” In certain circles, a slump is a synonym for being down bad. In 2025, you, our gangly wood chopper, were down bad, in a slump, and so much more. Side-effects included the obvious (your ranking), the unfair (Benjamin Bonzi’s scenic route to victory), and the reptilian (you showed us your tongue a lot).
As these losses stretched on like white girls queueing for matcha, so too did your signature on-court dickery. In 2025, your emotions puppeteered you. You gave us the 6-minute tantrum—full of joy and artistry—leaving known bullies like Nick Kyrgios and surly McEnroe to eat your dust. Have you considered a post-tennis career as a conductor? The way you had that crowd working for you could be HANDILY monetized. Virtue notwithstanding, you are a rare player whose feral behavior—say, a homophobic gesture toward the umpire, or calling hindrance three strokes too late—is pardoned by many.
In part, we can credit your way with words. Your phrasing is often flawed, and therefore swag. From, “Please default me, it would be better for everybody,” to “I know what is hardcourt, I’m a specialist,” to the iconic, nonpareil brilliance of “Man you better shut your fuck up okay,” for you, Daniil, we sometimes messily separate the art (your wickedness) from the artist (you). You’ve got that dog in you. We’ve got that Jerry Springer in us.
Once the dust settles and you leave the court, you share with us a different type of art. Yours are some of the most realistic and clear-eyed press conferences we have. Sure, you dismiss lazy questions and our lmaoing persists, but most of your output is more generous and incisive (and far less cocky) than one might expect. When a journalist mistakenly called you “Jannik” after your Indian Wells loss, your reaction was… sweet? Yes. Sweet is the only word for it.
Now, I won’t dance around this next part.
You were a champion in Brisbane, upended Alcaraz at Indian Wells last weekend, and very nearly did the same to Sinner. Given your precipitous climb from last year’s nadir, people are saying you’re “so back.” But, respectfully, are you?
Firstly, it doesn’t seem like something you’d say. Surely you’d sooner declare something like, “I’ve stopped acting like a small cat for good.”
Secondly, and critically: you don’t seem to agree with it philosophically, this notion of being “so back”. You’ve had plenty of chances to—what with all these ceaseless questions about what these wins “mean” and how “your current level” compares to your 2021 level. Instead, you’ve conceded that, yes, your tennis does feel akin to your brilliance of yesteryear—with the caveat: “even back in those years, it could disappear for a tournament.” You continued, “For all sorts of reasons—there can be many—and it can just come back as suddenly, almost accidentally.”
What I hear, Daniil, is a resistance to rhyme and a suffocation of reason. Could it be that you are spiritual? Because damn, your words sound awfully like letting go and letting G*d. We normals nodded along emphatically. Meddy, he’s just like us! I am intimately familiar with playing excellently one day; all the while knowing that excellence is a harbinger of reprehensible tennis to come the next time I step onto the court.
Finally, a topic more boring than wall-staring is the one that positions Sincaraz as a lonely married couple starved for competition. Will they, themselves, just take turns snatching the top position from the other, until Carlos’ 14 year-old brother, Jaime, takes over or one of them dies? Will it be Fonseca? It won’t be Zverev whose forehand, like mine, devolves to a lumbering pace when the going gets tough. But what say you, Daniil?
“They are so good; they are so much better than us [everyone else on tour],” you tell us frankly. Elsewhere, you say there’s “probably no-one right now to challenge them on a consistent basis—but one match? They can always lose.” As neither an optimist nor a pessimist, and collector of truths, I will be satisfied with these insights until something better materializes.
With deep respect and admiration,
Melissa Kenny