For one of the best athletes he has ever experienced, Novak Djokovic really has a terrible time. In January, she couldn’t have chosen a worse time to pack her snowshoes, log on to Instagram and fly to Australia. Before the Australian Open, Melbourne was a crazy, deserted city, affected by Covid and angry.
At the time, it was difficult to secure fresh produce, painkillers, dog croquettes, and rapid antigen testing. The prime minister was useless. A six-year-old girl was stabbed and killed. A massive fight broke out in a supermarket, with a shopkeeper hit in the head with a casserole. The city wasn’t in the mood for smart superstars who didn’t want to reveal their vaccination status.
Djokovic had history. A year earlier, she had written an open letter to the people of Australia, which should have been the subject of a 14-day quarantine itself. Some of his younger siblings were hiding in hotels slapping hands in the fridges, catching rodents and going crazy. Djokovic’s call for preferential treatment fell on deaf ears.
But he really pushed his luck this January. Djokovic’s cup led the news for more than a week. His followers were encamped outside his quarantine hotel, singing folk songs from the Balkans. The live broadcast of his visa call was affected by long dropouts, pornography and spam. Local newspapers published columns of comedians, immigration lawyers and experts on Serbian nationalism. They reflected on which actor would play him in a mini-series. The prime minister, always keen on border control issues, made the man tough.
In the end, history wore us down. It was like seeing one of Djokovic’s five posers, not exactly nice, but you couldn’t look the other way. There were many contortions, many screams, a restart. Novak dealt with the saga, Jonathan Liew wrote in these pages, “with an unwavering and messianic belief in his own supremacy. He challenged his deportation as if it were a crucial breaking point, as if it were his last position against the ‘total oblivion’.
Djokovic hid without anything. Tennis crowds and the Australian press have never welcomed him. Roger and Rafa were irrefutable, and acts difficult to follow. Novak desperately sought a similar status. He tried to play the court jester, and the tennis people sank. In 2012 he won one of the most extraordinary sporting competitions ever seen in this country. But the more he tried to attract them, the farther they went.
The Australian crowds felt their siege mentality, their painful need. They applauded reluctantly. They were never really overtly hostile: tennis crowds are often too polite and ruined for that. But there was a hombistic resentment at Djokovic’s parties. People applauded slowly, if not. They would turn to their partner and make a face. He sensed it and hurt him. It also stimulated him. He was always at his best when the crowd was blatantly against him, when the animal inside was unleashing itself.
It’s a shame, and possibly unfair. Unlike most tennis players, Djokovic has a really interesting story to tell. He grew up with NATO bombs raining down on him. He has always been a kind loser, a humble winner and an attentive interviewee. And despite his thoughts on vaccination, nutrition and geopolitics, he is an amazing tennis player.
I have never seen an athlete with a more innate understanding of risk and reward than Novak Djokovic. With apologies to Viv Richards, I’ve never seen an athlete with more authoritative body language. I’ve never seen anyone better let go of a poor half hour, let loose, restart, find a way. Brian Phillips, who has written about him better than anyone, refers to his “almost supernatural perseverance.” Sometimes it’s almost unsettling to watch. It is certainly exhausting. God knows what it’s like from the other side of the net.
Nick Kyrgios is about to find out. It’s hard to think of two more different men. It’s hard to think of two more different athletes. One is a master of his craft; the other a virtual display player. One is consumed to be the greatest of all time; the other often seems bored with his job. One covets our love and admiration desperately; the whole person of the other is based on not giving something what no one thinks.
In his day, a Wimbledon final with an Australian would stop the country. The prime minister savored the camera. Suddenly, the drunken eye water cooling holes were enthusiastic about the service volley. The winners received nominations for Australia of the Year. This time there is none of that. Herald Sun headline “Kirgios man-boy embodies the worst excesses of his generation” pretty much sums up the prevailing sentiment in Australia right now.
But the image of Djokovic walking around Australia and escaping is hard to forget and forgive. We are left with what tennis crowds fear most: no one to cheer on. We were left with a welcome absence of cheerleaders, cops in tracksuit suits and “oi oi oi”. We are left with what has been most overlooked and most interesting of these two men: their tennis.