Day eight: Novak Djokovic and the power of greatness

No one was quite sure how to react. Support harder? Switch allegiance? Start mourning already? 

Alex de Minaur, the Australian 11th seed best known to British audiences as Katie Boulter’s floppy-haired fiancé, was making the greatest men’s player ever look average.

This was not simply a case of being outplayed – Djokovic contributed heartily. Two double faults in the first game of the match; two more in his third service game. He found the net with alarming regularity, making 16 unforced errors in less than 30 minutes. 

It was Djokovic's first time losing a set 6-1 at Wimbledon. After going two breaks behind one suspected he might be trying to conserve his energy – but even that was concerning enough. He has never been one to cede opponents an atom’s width, let alone an entire set. 

This is Djokovic’s 79th Grand Slam, trailing only Roger Federer and Feliciano López, who both competed in 81.

Federer watching on from the Royal Box like Father Time himself did nothing to allay the sense that life and reality might finally be catching up with the 38-year-old. Djokovic huffed and puffed between points, hands on his haunches and eyes to his god.

It was clear from the off that De Minaur had the better of his elder over rallies of any meaningful length. 

After failing to chase down a drop shot early on, Djokovic collapsed flat on his back and took an age to re-emerge. He looked exhausted. Not the short-term fatigue inherent to these events, but generational, irreversible exhaustion. He ran like Centre Court was covered in treacle. But also like his legs were made of treacle, and everything, forever, might now feel like negotiating treacle.

He broke De Minaur in the first game of the second set, before being broken back in a near 19-minute game of agonisingly long exchanges. This was not helping the treacle. There was no posturing with the crowd, no mind games, no obvious plan. Only treacle. 

And then something happened which negates most of what we understand about physical fitness. The more he played, the quicker Djokovic became. The better he became.

After another pair of breaks, he cupped his ears and roared. He won a second set he had little right to 6-4, and then won a third he thoroughly deserved. 

Even as De Minaur broke him early in the fourth, that familiar inexorability had started taking root. This is how greatness operates, how it gets you, loops its tendrils into your mind and hands and racket.

Djokovic won just 46% of his second-serve points. Even 69% on first serve was thoroughly sub-par. But the longer the match went on, the more errors De Minaur made, and the fewer Djokovic did. Great players talk about finish lines extending a hand to pull you over, and Djokovic understands as well as any how to find that hand in the dark.

At 38, he thrives on lentils, white fish and universe-melting ambition. He’s a week younger than Andy Murray, who squeaks when he walks and would struggle to beat the Venus de Milo over 100m. He has, without exception, won everything there is to win in men’s tennis. This is genius in its purest sporting form. 

Here, Djokovic is somehow both a favourite and a dark horse. Maybe better than ever, they say. Fine wines, etc. The prevailing suspicion is this is his best chance to finally win the 25th Grand Slam, to defenestrate Margaret Court from relevance (something he’s far from alone in hoping to achieve). The US Open men’s final is two months away, on Jannik Sinner’s favourite surface. Djokovic doesn’t carry the same weight of history there. He will be two months closer to 40. Everything will get harder from here. 

Or at least, it should. Djokovic has already proven time is only linear if you choose to view it that way. Over the weekend, he was filmed talking to Marin Čilić, the 36-year-old Croat who dispatched Jack Draper last Thursday. “Aren’t we young?” joked Čilić. “It’s all a matter of perspective,” Djokovic replied.