In three tightly woven and emotionally resonant episodes, Carlos Alcaraz: My Way invites us behind the thunderous forehands and superhuman, circus shot-making exploits that have become synonymous to the young Spaniard, to a far more intimate terrain: the quiet—and sometimes tumultuous—inner life of a young man grappling with the expectations of greatness at the ripe age of twenty one.
From its opening frames, the Netflix docuseries makes no effort to dilute the weight of the narrative. This is not merely a chronicle of tennis triumphs; it is the story of a prodigy learning to navigate the narrow passage between performance and purpose, between the adulation of millions and the solitude of self-reflection. In its essence, My Way is not about Alcaraz’s current triumphs—it’s about rationalizing a path to create a legacy.
At the core of the series lies Alcaraz’s dazzling 2024 campaign, in which he claimed titles at both Roland-Garros and Wimbledon—two of the sport’s most prestigious grounds. Yet, the euphoria of those victories is tempered by the heartache of the Olympic Games in Paris, where dreams of glory alongside childhood idol Rafael Nadal ended prematurely, and a singular loss to Novak Djokovic in the gold medal match where Alcaraz bore the weight of his nation on this shoulders and mind.
Beyond Paris in Cincinnati, Alcaraz would have an out of character, racket smashing meltdown, and would also be ousted in the second round of the US Open, exposing the bare emotional toll of a season defined by the constant pressure to maintain and exceed already high expectations.
What emerges is a young man not simply chasing trophies, but searching for equilibrium. Through candid conversations and off-court glimpses, Alcaraz reveals a profound yearning for normalcy—nights in Ibiza with his friends, meals at home with family, moments of stillness free from crowds and media/sponsorship obligations. These scenes, steeped in warmth and humanity, present a counterpoint to the relentless grind of professional tennis. And with that, the series opens a deeper inquiry: can the steep price of excellence and a player’s emotional well-being truly coexist in the sport?
One particularly thought-provoking, consistent thread explores the tension between commitment and personal freedom. Alcaraz questions whether a life bound to the court must, by definition, sacrifice spontaneity, peace, or even joy. The phrase “slave to the sport” recurs with disquieting regularity. Though its phrasing—particularly given its colonial undertones—is worth interrogating, the sentiment echoes a familiar refrain among elite athletes: does the price of greatness come at the expense of one’s true happiness?
My Way excels in its willingness to sit with such questions, rather than resolve them. It gives space for Alcaraz’s doubts to breathe, his vulnerabilities to be seen. In doing so, it subverts the traditional sports documentary arc; it is not a coronation, but a meditation. Alcaraz is not simply asking how to become the next Federer, Nadal, or Djokovic. And in a world that often equates titles with transcendence, Alcaraz is seeking a pathway to greatness in a way that looks different than that of his predecessors.
Despite 18 career titles, including four Grand Slams, six Masters 1000s, and a lucrative portfolio featuring Nike, Babolat, Rolex, BMW, and Louis Vuitton, Alcaraz exudes a striking self-awareness. The wealth, the trophies, the adoration—they are acknowledged but not self-defining. Although he never really says it, there is an unspoken contemplation in his recognition that he knows he could walk away whenever it doesn’t feel good and still have achieved more than most ever dream of in the sport.
But he won’t. Not any time soon.
Rather than a retreat, My Way signals the need for constant recalibration. And considering Alcaraz’s attempts to find balance with his success and with those around him with their own visions for his future, the series makes a strong case as to why the players (and/or associations) should have qualified and objective sports therapists at their disposal.
The title, which at first feels overly grandiose—more Sinatra cliché than organic—gains gravity by the closing credits. This is not a tale of ego. It is a statement of agency. Alcaraz is crafting a career guided not solely by records, but by his own resonance. As he declares near the end: “I’ll choose happiness over massive success, because happiness is success.”
In an age of spectacle and obsession with legacy and celebrity, such a statement lands like a mic drop. Not for its novelty, but for its clarity. Alcaraz, who’s likely yet to even reach the height of his powers, already seeking presence over projection, fulfillment over fanfare.
Carlos Alcaraz: My Way does not offer answers to the sport’s most frequent debates—whether he’ll match Djokovic’s 24 Slams or emerge as the definitive GOAT. What it offers is something potentially far more radical: the possibility that Alcaraz’s true measure of success lies in remaining true to himself and his happiness with the process of pursuing greatness in the sport.
