Roland Garros 2026 Report Card: Who Earned a Passing Grade and Who Earned the Diaper

Some tournaments are best told from the final. Not this one. This Roland Garros is best told from the margins, from the fifth sets, from the wheelchairs rolling onto court to carry off a man who, two days later, would be reborn. It was a strange, lopsided tournament, where the favorites evaporated and the outsiders found the tennis of their lives. A perfect tournament for a report card: because here, the grades tell you more than the rankings ever could.

No diplomacy, no soft touches. Whoever earned it gets a ten. Whoever bottled it gets the diaper. Here are the newsroom's grades, one by one.

The heroes: the ones who made us dream

Matteo Arnaldi — "the Juggler" — grade 10

The highest grade of the tournament goes to a player who didn't lift a single trophy. And that's just fine, because tennis isn't only arithmetic. Arnaldi walked onto the court and never walked back off: nearly eighteen hours of play — seventeen hours and forty-two minutes, to be precise, more than anyone else in the era of timed matches to reach a Slam quarterfinal — spread across a draw that seemed designed on purpose to break him. Sets lost and chased back down, matches turned around, break points saved with the face of a man who has no intention of apologizing to anyone. He held up an entire tennis nation through sheer force of battle. Then, on the doorstep of the final, his body presented the bill: a virus forced him to retire in the semifinal. A cruel ending, the kind you never forget. But anyone who watched him over these two weeks knows one thing: the Juggler lost nothing. He simply ran out of the strength to keep amazing us. Ten, no debate.

Flavio Cobolli — "the Juggler" — grade 10

The other juggler, the other ten. Because this was the Roland Garros of the Italians who play their cards face up and win anyway. Cobolli arrived in Paris without the favorite's label and built himself a new one, round after round, with the stubbornness of a man who refuses to accept that the match ends before it's supposed to. He played brave tennis, tennis of early timing, of legs and of heart, the kind that piles pressure on you because it never stops believing. He smashed through his ceiling and found himself in the final, in front of a packed Chatrier, with the chance to write a page of history. He didn't make it, and we'll explain why later. But the road that took him there is worth every tenth of that grade. Two Italians in the semifinals, one in the final: this tournament, let's remember it, was also and above all theirs.

Jakub Mensik — "IceMan" — grade 9-

There's one moment of this Roland Garros that would be worth the price of admission on its own: Mensik leaving the court in a wheelchair after an epic battle against Navone in the second round. In a wheelchair, yes. It looked like the end. It looked like his tournament was bound to flicker out in the next match, that his body wouldn't survive another round. And instead the exact opposite happened. From that moment on the Czech found the best tennis of his career, played like a man with nothing left to lose, and racked up wins as if they were formalities, saving break points over and over with the coolness that earns him his nickname. First Slam semifinal of his career, built starting from the lowest possible point. IceMan because, in the moments that matter, he's the one keeping the ice in his veins. Chapeau, truly.

Matteo Berrettini — "King Of Tie Break" — grade 9

We all dreamed with The Hammer in Paris, and for once the red clay didn't turn its back on him. Berrettini played his tournament the way you play a series of duels to the last breath: scraps, comebacks, and above all tie-breaks, racked up in bunches round after round. A number that by itself tells you what kind of Roland Garros he went through — never an easy match, never a comfortable margin. The masterpiece is that decisive tie-break closed out 15-13 after saving two match points against Comesaña, the kind that gets you off the couch and pacing around the room. The king of the tie-break claimed his kingdom exactly where no one expected, before a physical problem stopped him at the best possible moment. A full nine.

Moïse Kouamé — "the Revelation" — grade 8.5

Seventeen years old, just turned, in the draw thanks to a wild card, and already a résumé to envy. Kouamé beat a Slam champion in Cilic, got past a genuine clay-courter in Vallejo, and then went toe to toe with Tabilo, never once looking like he was there by accident. This isn't the raw tennis of a prodigy still figuring out where to put his feet: it's already structured play, already personality. The kid will reach the top, and when he gets there we'll remember this Roland Garros as the place where we saw him for the first time. Eight and a half to a revelation who, soon enough, will have nothing left of the revelation about him.

The verdict: the MVP and the diaper

Alexander Zverev — "MVP" — grade 9-

And then there's him, the man who lifted the cup in the end. Let's say it honestly, because no one gets a discount here: in the final, Zverev played like Zverev. Those tense moments when the legs stiffen up, the serve starts to betray him, the eyes searching for a handhold that never comes — we know them by heart, they're part of the character. The difference, this time, is that on the other side of the net there was neither Sinner nor Alcaraz. There was Flavio, there was a Cobolli coming off a stunning tournament, and that margin was enough. Sascha didn't have to be perfect: he only had to be enough, and for once he was. No diaper for him this time. A beautiful, sweaty, well-deserved MVP. MVP! MVP!

Frances Tiafoe — "Diaper Award" — grade 6

And now to the award nobody wants to win. Tiafoe reaches the round of sixteen up two sets to one, leads 4-1, 40-15 in the fourth, has the match in his pocket, qualification a step away, the crowd on his side. And right there, exactly there, his throat closes up. He lets our own Arnaldi reel him back in, in a collapse that's more mental than technical, the kind that leaves a smell on the court. A six, because the talent is there and you saw it in the first three sets. But it's a six with a stink to it, because closing out a match like that is the bare minimum for a player of his level. Diaper Award assigned, and good and stinky.

Daniil Medvedev — "the Phantom of Centre Court" — grade 2

In Rome he had played beautifully. Truly beautifully, to the point that half of FantaTennis had bet on him for Paris, convinced they'd found the bargain of the season. And instead the Medvedev of Rome stayed in Rome. In Paris the phantom of Monte Carlo showed up again, the hollowed-out one, the disconnected one, fighting himself before he ever fought his opponent. He goes out immediately, against Walton, in one of those matches where you can't tell whether the problem is the forehand, the head, or the desire. A two that's almost an indictment: not for the loss itself, but for the chance thrown away and for all the betrayed FantaCoaches. The phantom of Centre Court roamed Paris without ever once materializing.

What remains

What remains is a tournament that rewarded courage over the odds. What remains is Zverev with the cup and the Italians with the feeling of having touched something great. What remains is Mensik, who rolls in on a wheelchair and walks out in the semifinals, which is exactly the kind of story that makes this sport worth following.

Ten to the jugglers. MVP to Sascha. The diaper to Tiafoe. A two to the phantom. The report cards, in the end, always tell the same story: who had the courage to stay on court until the very last, and who bottled it a moment before the finish line.