*Originally published in Japanese in Forbes JAPAN on October 3, 2026.
English translation by the author.
The instant Ben Shelton’s return of Alexander Zverev’s serve sailed past the baseline, the stadium rose to its feet.
Zverev himself, for a moment, didn’t seem to register what had happened. He even made a motion to play on, turning toward Shelton — until his coaches, from the bench, had to signal that he’d just won.
It happened during the men’s singles final of the US Open in New York, on September 13 (local time). Clips of it spread instantly across social media, branded “the clumsiest winning moment in tennis history.” The internet laughed at what looked like a non-event. I saw the opposite. In those few seconds before his arms finally shot skyward, I think everything about that day was contained.
When he was called up for the trophy presentation, the host told him:
“Sascha” — as those close to Zverev call him — “it’s taken you a while to get to this moment, and to this microphone. Now, it’s yours.”
That one line, it turns out, previewed the whole theme of the speech to come. The winner is always the last to feel the weight of what’s happened; the people watching from outside feel it first. That gap in timing is what makes this particular case so interesting.
When someone truly arrives at a milestone, their sense of reality tends to lag — and the words don’t come easily. Zverev’s speech, in fact, kept stalling: “I want to thank— no, sorry— I can’t really talk right now.” It wasn’t a polished oration. It was the unfinished quality of someone visibly searching for the next word, live, that made the speech remarkable.
For Zverev, this was no ordinary win. He’d lost the 2020 US Open final to Dominic Thiem after being two sets up; the 2024 French Open final to Carlos Alcaraz; the 2025 Australian Open final to Jannik Sinner. Three runner-up finishes sat on his shoulders before he finally broke through — first at this year’s French Open, now here. “We didn’t win a Grand Slam for thirty years” (a nod to the long drought German men’s tennis had gone through) “and now we’ve won two in three months.” That wasn’t false modesty. It was a reference to everything accumulated over those years.
A Few Gestures, Aimed at the Trophy
In the few minutes between the win being confirmed and the podium, Zverev moved through several distinct gestures, each with a different register.
Taking the trophy from Jimmy Connors — the former world No. 1 and legend of the game — he raised it overhead with both hands and leaned back, face turned to the sky. He rotated slowly, a full 360 degrees, so every seat in the stadium could see it. Fireworks had begun behind him. He kissed the trophy, and held the kiss.
Every one of these was a gesture aimed outward, at the crowd — an open, extroverted expression of joy, meant to brand the win onto tens of thousands of pairs of eyes.
But what came right after was something else entirely. He lowered the trophy, slowly, down to his chest, and simply looked at it. Then, with the expression of someone cradling a beloved stuffed animal, he wrapped both arms around it and gently rocked, as if soothing it.
To hold something — whatever the object — is, by its nature, an inward gesture. When you close your arms around something and draw it to your chest, you’re also closing them around your own chest, your own core. It’s an act of tenderness toward the object, and at the same time, an act of steadying yourself, of turning toward your own interior.
Holding the trophy, Zverev may also have been holding himself. The outward performance of joy had run its course; what followed was a moment meant for no one but him. It read like someone using his own arms to finally confirm a reality his mind hadn’t yet caught up to. Joy performed for an audience, and reassurance sought for himself — both were quietly present in those same seconds.
Absorbing the Headwind, and Drawing It In
Looked at through a business or leadership lens, what’s most worth noting in this speech isn’t the display of joy itself. It’s how he absorbed the resistance aimed at him — and, without pushing back, gently drew it over to his side.
That resistance wasn’t confined to the court. Right after the ceremony, ESPN closed its broadcast with a remark from tennis legend John McEnroe.
Even with Zverev having just won, McEnroe directed a comment at Alcaraz and Sinner — the tournament’s presumed favorites, both sidelined by injury or early losses — to the effect of “get healthy and come back soon.” Many viewers, and other commentators, read it as implying the “real” top two hadn’t returned yet, and McEnroe drew sharp criticism for it. It was a moment when, right as he should have been the one being celebrated, that spotlight was quietly pulled away from him.
It was into that atmosphere that Zverev delivered his remarks. He gave his opponent — Shelton, the hometown American star — unreserved praise, readily naming him as the future of the sport.
And toward the crowd, he openly admitted that the room hadn’t been on his side — without losing his composure, he absorbed that mood and gently drew it back toward himself.
Watch the footage again: he was still wearing the same pale pink Adidas shirt from the final, with deep maroon shorts and matching socks — neither stark white nor black, but a soft tone that set off his own skin, hair, and eye color.
Pink is said to carry a calming psychological effect, easing muscle tension and quietly lowering the viewer’s own guard as well. In a hostile arena, with most of the crowd behind Shelton and even the broadcast devoting airtime to absent favorites, that pale pink likely helped him convey his joy gently and at his own pace, without overstimulating the room. The same posture showed through not only in his words, but in the very color he chose to wear.
What’s more, Zverev understands that he isn’t a hero everyone loves unconditionally — that he’s faced scrutiny and criticism more than once. And yet what he chose to share that day wasn’t self-promotion or self-defense, but the effort it took to get there, and gratitude for the people who’d carried him. Choosing humility and composure over display gave his words real weight.
It’s a structure worthy of a textbook crisis-response speech: rather than denying or ignoring the resistance and criticism, absorb it first — and only then, through effort and grace, shift the mood in the room.
In business terms, it’s precisely what’s asked of a leader facing adversity or criticism: to speak from the podium with sincerity, to elevate others rather than oneself — which is, in the end, how a brand’s standing and trust get rebuilt.
The discussion continues in Part Two.
This article is part of Insights by Niena Etsuko Hino, a collection of selected English articles and translations exploring branding, executive presence, and cross-cultural business strategy.