Turning 30 is a moment of reckoning. An intangible rite of passage. Across cultural spheres, sports included, it bears the weight of maturity: a form of self-understanding that, when properly cultivated, yields an increasingly complete portrait of the individual. The athlete. Identity in its entirety.

For Berrettini, marking this milestone at the club where it all began means letting many dimensions collide, remarkable dimensions that define a player who’s never wanted to be pigeonholed. The parallels that emerge suggest a process that is anything but automatic: the evolution of the self and pursuit of wisdom.

Roots and present, life and career, expression and thought. In a journey that moves backward while projecting forward, one thing becomes clear: if it’s impossible for a racket master and driving force in the Italian tennis renaissance to remove the ball fully from mind, it is equally true that, when framed by Rome’s timeless light, the intensity of ‘The Hammer’ takes on shades far deeper and broader than aces and forehands.

“I believe that stopping every now and then and saying, ‘I need to be myself; more myself than what others want me to be’ is an act of courage,” Berrettini says, surrounded by the places that molded him. Perhaps that’s where his real milestone resides: not just a player but a whole man. A synthesis of the two. 

It is a milestone we explored and portrayed alongside BOSS, presented in the aftermath of the magnetic and invigorating weeks of Roland Garros, where Berrettini’s idea of courage found its purest expression on the Parisian clay.

You’ve often said you feel like you were born in a tennis club: that the game runs, quite literally, in your blood. This shoot takes place at the Circolo Magistrati Corte dei Conti, where it all began. What do you feel when you think about the place where your family, and then your dream, first took hold?

“I have to admit I haven’t been back to the club in a while, but I’m deeply attached to it. I have beautiful memories here. I grew up in this environment, doing everything: tennis, obviously, but also basketball, swimming, and five-a-side football. It was the one constant gathering place for me, my brother, and our friends. It’s a safe environment, where our parents could leave us for entire days. Going back was something special. There are so many people there who care about me. Visiting is a real treat, but it’s a lot to process. Whenever I’m in Rome, I try to carve out time for my family and take in that old atmosphere. But in terms of memories the first thing that comes to mind is something funny: it’s the day I told my mother I didn’t want to play tennis anymore and was going to switch to judo. There was this multipurpose court with artificial turf where us kids would play tennis with oversized foam balls. I remember it was windy, and my mom’s expression when I told her. Then, in that same place, I started again – thanks to my brother, who said, ‘Come back, it’s fun.’ That place, which wasn’t even a real tennis court, was the center of everything. Award ceremonies, meetings, shared moments. Right next to it was this small wooden hut we simply called ‘the hut’. And not far away there was a water fountain. Even that, to this day, is the heart of the club for me.”

You often joke about your Roman roots, calling yourself a ‘caciarone’. Loud, warm, and over the top. After spending more than half your life traveling the world and taking in all kinds of experiences, what part of that ‘Roman-ness’ still lives inside you: in the way you think, live, even play?

“You can’t eradicate being Roman: it stays with you always. It’s a cultural imprint that never leaves you. It’s funny, because when I’m abroad, people tell me I don’t seem that Roman. But the moment I get home, I switch back to a certain way of speaking: shortening words, rediscovering not just the language but the entire breadth of where I come from. I think it’s a common process for all Romans: returning, whenever possible, to that ‘Romanità’ which is so full of lightness, irony, and a kind of playful cheek. That’s why I love Roman cinema: I’m also lucky to be close friends with Carlo Verdone. I think these traits help me in everyday life. My life is pretty intense and governed by routine. But that sense of being Roman, the ability to step away from excessive seriousness, makes it lighter. More livable.”

Your family has always talked about your eye for detail — even as a kid, you couldn’t get enough of building things and Legos. How has that analytical mind shaped you, as an athlete and as a person? And how do you keep it from working against you?

“It’s true. As a kid, I always liked being on my own, having my own space. Legos were the perfect moment for that: I’d shut myself in my own world and build. I still enjoy doing it today: I have plenty of sets around the house. When I was little, I was drawn to the idea of doing everything myself, having full control over what I was doing. I think choosing tennis came from that: when I fully committed to the racket, I did it because I was fascinated by the idea of being the master of my own destiny. Whether I win or lose, it all depends on me. I’ve always loved team sports, definitely. I just never liked the idea of sharing a certain kind of responsibility. As I grew older, I realized my analytical tendency wasn’t always the perfect match for tennis. It’s a sport that requires a significant degree of instinct. Thinking too much, getting stuck in your own thoughts, can be limiting. At the same time, I believe if you learn to use it well, the mind can play an essential role. It gets to be tactical weapon, a resource in tough situations that helps you find the solutions you need. So, I see this inclination of mine as an ongoing act of discovery. It’s a struggle, but I’m always moving toward balance.”

Writing has been part of your life since childhood. What inspires you when you pick up a pen? And how do the two versions of you — ‘The Hammer’ on court, and the one alone with the page — speak to each other?

“Writing is something that’s been with me for a long time. I write less than I did a few years ago, but it’s still an outlet, especially in more difficult moments. I’ve always thought, and I read somewhere that people tend to produce deeper things when they’re going through hardship. When something isn’t working, when a relationship ends… You find your best form of inspiration. When you’re happy, it’s harder to dig. That applies mostly to artists, and don’t get me wrong, I don’t consider myself an artist. That being said, it’s happened to me a lot: I’ve written to process particularly tough moments. These days I mostly write on planes. There’s no Wi-Fi, no distractions: I can be alone with my thoughts. Then I compare them with some of the older things I wrote to understand where I started and where I’ve come to. Writing is something I genuinely need. I’ve realized that when I feel the urge, I write a lot and effortlessly. When I try to force it, it doesn’t work. I think that shows how real that need is.”

You mentioned that you don’t consider yourself an artist. But do you ever think of, or experience, tennis as an art form?

“I’d like to be considered an artist, or even just think of myself that way… But honestly, I don’t see it like that. What I do see is a parallel in one specific aspect of tennis: every player has their own style. Everyone starts from similar fundamentals, but each individual develops a specific technique, a way of striking the ball, serving, moving, behaving, reacting. Beyond rankings or results, those things create a strong connection with the audience. In that specific sense, I think tennis is close to art. Yeah, art is something that entertains. But above all, art is something that makes you feel. Tennis and sports can generate exactly the same effect. When I watch certain events, like the Olympics or great moments in sports, I feel something powerful. I think that shared feeling is what connects art and sports.”

“It takes courage to make choices that bring us closer to our own rhythm.” What does that mean for you today — practically, in the life you’re actually living?”?

“I don’t want to sound like a philosopher, but I think it’s happening everywhere: we live in a world that moves faster than we do. A close friend of mine, a mental coach, Stefano Massari, used to tell me that my soul would sometimes take longer than my body to get somewhere. In a way, I think that’s still true. From my experience, there’s always something more to win, something more to prove. There’s always something more that prevents you from being truly fulfilled. After a win, you immediately have to think about the next match or tournament. There’s no real moment where you can stop and truly enjoy what you’ve achieved. I mean, think about the Wimbledon final; right after that moment, I should have played the Olympics, but I couldn’t because of my injury. My career feels like a constant chase. And it’s not just about me: I see it as a broader dynamic in society, in my friends’ lives, and the people around me. That’s why I think that stopping, every now and then, and saying, ‘Wait. I need to be myself; more myself than what others want me to be,’ is an act of courage. We live in a world where everyone wants to be their best, and there’s an obsessive search for perfection. If you do something and don’t show it, it’s like it doesn’t exist. Instead, if we choose to stop, listen to ourselves, and take time for ourselves… I think that’s the right choice. And the only way to live in rhythm with who you are.”

Within this system of awareness, self-analysis, and emotional growth, where does competitiveness fit in? You’ve always said that being competitive was foundational to who you are, both as an athlete and as a person. What kind of drive defines Matteo Berrettini today?

“Competitiveness, for me, is built in. I remember playing PlayStation with my brother: we’d shout like crazy until my dad told us to calm down. For us, every match felt like a final. That drive has always been inside me. I feel it in everything I do and in any sport I play. I always want to test myself. In tennis, it’s a fundamental quality: I would never have reached this level without it. But in life, it can create complications. Sometimes you simply have to accept that things won’t go the way you want. In the past, I struggled with that. I found it hard to accept certain situations, especially injuries. Over time, I realized everything had a reason: when I got hurt, it was because my mind kept pushing without listening to my body. Sooner or later, you reach a breaking point. Learning from those experiences isn’t easy, especially for a mind rooted in competitiveness. In the end, it all comes down to balance. And in my relationship with tennis, that’s probably the most difficult challenge.”

Over time, you’ve projected a clear image of yourself: natural, elegant, layered, thoughtful, and above all, authentic. How has your relationship with BOSS fit into this public definition of who you are? And what has that connection added, both in terms of expression and personal evolution?


“My relationship with BOSS is an especially meaningful chapter in my life because it began when I started to genuinely care about how I feel in what I wear. Before, I followed trends or just wore jeans and a T-shirt. Then I realized that expressing myself through clothing mattered to me. Shortly after, I connected with BOSS. With them, a stimulating dialogue began right away. From the start, we shared ideas about how I would step on the court, about collections designed for different tournaments, and about materials, design, colors, and what works on a given surface. I’ve also found myself in very particular settings, like fashion shows and red carpets: experiences not everyone gets to have. This connection makes me proud because it’s mutual. BOSS chose to partner with me not just for my results, but for who I am: for what I represent as a person, not only as a player. I think it’s very meaningful when a brand embraces you fully, exactly as you are.” 

Following up on that, what does the claim ‘BeYourOwnBOSS’ mean to you today? How do you embody it?

“It means exactly what we’ve been talking about: being yourself. To me, having a clear understanding of who you are is the essence of that phrase. It doesn’t mean thinking only about yourself. You can believe you’re in control of your path and that you have the charisma to do something meaningful: in my case, through tennis. But I like to think that ‘BeYourOwnBOSS’ is what I’m building, not just on the court, but also thanks to the people around me: my team and the people who work with me every day. More generally, tennis is about more than just hitting a ball against an opponent. It’s a much bigger experience. One of the most meaningful moments for me was when a kid told me he wore his cap backwards because he saw me do it. Such moments go beyond merely winning or losing. Of course, ultimately, you are the one stepping onto the court. You must create the right conditions to make good decisions. You need the courage to sacrifice something for your well-being and career. That’s never guaranteed. I see this message in a broader sense, which is why it feels truly personal to me.”

Your passions are diverse: basketball, manga, comedy… What kept you from falling into the potentially alienating identity of ‘Berrettini, the tennis player and nothing else’?

“I wasn’t born a tennis player; I became one later in life. Until I was 20—which is quite late—I didn’t believe I could reach this level. I saw myself at university, maybe at an American college, playing for a few years before seeing what might happen. The pivotal moment came during a long knee injury: seven months, right around my 20th birthday. During that period, my mental coach pointed out that tennis was important but also stressed that I was fortunate to have many interests outside the sport. He pushed me to keep exploring these interests. He introduced me to new worlds: Sergio Leone, Tarantino, and many other things I might not have discovered on my own at 20. Not everything resonated, but I felt that each new thing brought a different perspective. During my break and subsequent rise in tennis, I realized I perform better when I nourish other parts of myself. I’ve needed to remain cautious—and still do—because the bubble I live in tends to pull me back toward the ball, training, and tournaments. However, I recognize there’s so much more out there. These parallel passions enrich me both as a person and as an athlete.”

At 30, what does wisdom mean to you: a concept that has come up often in your recent reflections and in your future goals, both in tennis and in life?

“When I manage to step away from the role of tennis player and just be Matteo, I see things more clearly. The risk is being shaped entirely by a profession that demands you be present, deeply present, 365 days a year. When a friend, my brother, or my parents ask me for advice, I’m able to organize my thoughts and be helpful. For me, wisdom lies in being able to do the same for yourself. And that’s the hardest part. In some ways, it’s the most fascinating aspect of the human mind. When things are still, you know exactly what’s right for you. But life, especially a tennis player’s life, rarely offers real stillness. Emotions are always in motion, and it’s difficult to step outside your own emotional flow. The real challenge, as we said before, is to stop and say, ‘I know this situation; I’ve felt this fear before,’ without being overwhelmed by it. Of course, it’s easier said than done. Over the past few years, I’ve worked a lot on myself, and I think I’ve improved. That said, I don’t know if I’ve become wise. I think it’s difficult to truly feel that way even at 60 or 70, let alone at 30.”

One legacy you often speak about with affection is Roger Federer’s. Before retiring, he told you and a few others: “You have no idea how lucky you are to be able to keep going.” Now that you’ve reached full maturity in your career, with plenty of tennis still ahead, what mindset do you want to bring to that ‘luck’?

“That moment with Roger was incredibly powerful: deeply moving. We were all emotional. I had tears in my eyes, and he was crying on my shoulder. I turned and saw Rafa and Novak in the same state. What struck me most was that, in such a personal moment like his retirement, he still wanted to think about us. He wanted to share something. He told us: ‘Enjoy all of this, because it goes by fast.’ He also said that if he could, he would have played another 20 years on Tour. It was his way of reminding us that no one is bigger than the sport itself. Legends like him and Rafa are missed on the court, but tennis moves forward. Since that moment, I’ve tried to carry that lesson with me: to enjoy what I do more. It’s worth playing tennis if you feel good. If something isn’t right, it’s better to stop, take a break, and reset. Because if you’re not well, you’re not really enjoying it. In my own way, that’s what I’m trying to pursue.”