Dispatches from the present
Just before this year’s Wimbledon final, as Novak Djokovic and Carlos Alcaraz waited with their bags in a corridor, a tournament official came up to explain the order in which they would walk out onto Centre Court. According to a Wimbledon custom, the higher-ranked player—in this case, Djokovic—should enter second. Yet Alcaraz deferentially motioned to his elder to go first, out of respect. The players laughed about not knowing the rules, but the moment—so trivial and brief—could be understood as a rearranging of the tennis universe. Djokovic, at 37 with a recovering knee, ceded his rightful entrance to the 21-year-old phenomenon, who would go on to rout him in a straight-set victory.
Djokovic had gone into Wimbledon this year without a title to his name, or even a championship appearance. At the French Open, he tore his meniscus, but against all expectations he returned 25 days after his surgery to play in the first round in London. He played every match with a gray sleeve binding his right knee, a reminder in the all-white tournament of his incredible recovery but also his mortality. Despite Alcaraz being christened “the new king of Centre Court,” it was Djokovic’s struggle to overcome his injury that dictated the narrative of the competition. In the early rounds, Djokovic tested his movement. But, as always, he willed himself into the final as if by fate, silencing his opponents and the raucous crowds.
After the spectators departed the lawns of southwest London, many wondered: Where would Djokovic go from here? The match did more than raise questions about the future of Djokovic’s career: it reaffirmed fans’ long-standing ambivalence about his status within the sport he has dominated for two decades. What is it that we want from our aging sports heroes? We deify them as their careers fade and enter history. As cracks begin to show in their impenetrable talent, we begin to love them for their humanity. Yet for Djokovic, tennis’s greatest champion and antihero, the twilight embrace has yet to arrive.
Before the final, a commentator on ESPN noted that Djokovic has always “been a villain” of the sport. After his fourth-round victory over Holger Rune in this year’s Wimbledon, Djokovic reprimanded the audience for (allegedly) booing him and stormed out of a BBC interview after the journalist asked three separate questions about the crowd’s response. Before the final, one journalist noted that Djokovic “could break the heart” of Alcaraz in the final and asked, “Do you relish that prospect?” Even Roger Federer recently admitted he “didn’t give Novak the respect he deserved.” That description came in the reflective tone of a late career appraisal; yet Djokovic continues to play, and he continues to battle for the respect he deserves.
I cannot stop thinking about this: how Djokovic, who has secured nearly every important men’s record, raced to return to competition, battling through surgery, recovery, pain and the denigration of crowds. Why would a man disparaged as a villain, as a feaster of broken hearts, continue to fight when he’s already won everything there is to win? How much suffering is the all-time champion willing to endure when he has already secured immortality? As Djokovic continued to sacrifice his body for an eighth trophy at Wimbledon—to equal Federer’s most beloved record—Federer was lining his wrist with bracelets at a Taylor Swift concert, and Rafael Nadal began his farewell tour.
Does Djokovic continue because he still thinks he can succeed, or simply because he cannot imagine life without sport? Because he looks at Alcaraz and believes that, after surpassing all players of the past, he must lift his records out of the reach of future generations? It was once conceivable that you might retire in the middle of your prime, but in the era of the GOAT, the demands of our sporting legends have changed—they play until they’re broken, or else languish as color commentators, or embarrass themselves in TV commercials.
Seeing Djokovic struggle against Alcaraz on Sunday I realized we watch tennis not just because of the beauty, the spectacle, the tactics and technique, but also because it reminds us of the human condition and the steady, unrelenting passage of time. Every court’s a stage, and a rehearsal for maturation and death. This is true of all sports: only a few hours later, in Miami, Lionel Messi—the same age as Djokovic—would limp off the field in the Copa América final with a swollen ankle, sobbing on the sidelines because he could no longer battle for his much younger team, which managed to triumph without him.
Five years ago, Djokovic saved two match points to overcome Federer in the Wimbledon final, the last of the Swiss maestro’s career. At the time Alcaraz was sixteen, not yet on the tour. In two or three years Djokovic will be retired and it will be Alcaraz asserting himself over yet another generation of players. We do not know their names; their parents and trainers have not yet released them to the arenas of grown-up disappointments and glory. We will not discover what they’re made of until they test themselves on Centre Court, but we still might find ourselves watching the older champions breathlessly. There is something spectacular and heartbreaking about watching the greats fade: we enjoy the spectacle of their extended resistance of time, even as they waste their bodies and winning percentages to win even more. Even more what?
Tom Brady climbed out of the ruins of his marriage to play one final season, the first in his career with a losing record. Venus Williams, 44 years old, has not won more than two matches in a tournament since 2019. They ascribe their endurance to their love of the game, and we applaud them as they crumble and fight. For Djokovic, the fight continues—not only against himself, but against the masses, the disappointments and the jeers. And when he returns to Wimbledon next year for yet another championship match, seeking to will his past and his dreams into existence, he will also be playing to overcome his image as a perpetual villain. Maybe, next time, we will see in him what we recognize in all the other aging greats: the drama of the end, one human being struggling, sacrificing everything, to overcome the certainty of his own decay.