Before it became his signature moment to date, Novak Djokovic was motivated by a slight.
He had just made the greatest shot of his career, maybe of any
career: Down two match points to Roger Federer in the 2011 U.S. Open
semifinals, he made the wicked, desperate cross-court forehand return
that saved, for the moment, the greatest season of the Open era. The
shot was terrific, but the match was still over, certainly, with Federer
holding another match point.
As a final acknowledgment, Djokovic turned to the crowd at Arthur
Ashe Stadium, hugely partisan toward the great Federer, waving both
hands high, as if to say You want more, don't you? And everyone did. But Djokovic was also saying You
should want more of me, too. Look at what I'm doing. I'm having the
greatest season in history and NO ONE here is on my side?
We all know what happened next. Djokovic broke Federer's spirit in
that moment, right there. Federer was up 5-3, 40-15 in the fifth set,
another potential final matchup with Rafael Nadal waiting.
Federer never won another game. After that game, he never even reached
another match point. Djokovic won the next four games, then steamrolled
Nadal in four anticlimactic sets the following day for his third major
of the year. The legend of the iron-willed Djokovic as the toughest out
in sports was written that weekend, and it continues to this day. The original slight, the abundance of respect for Djokovic but a
curious absence of universal love from the tennis world, has never quite
been massaged, has never quite healed. At some point, it was inevitable
that despite his six majors, dominance over the rankings and recent
destruction of Nadal in the Monte Carlo final (a place where Nadal had
won eight straight titles), the wound would be reopened.
It happened in Madrid, where Djokovic was being stunned by Grigor Dimitrov,
the young Bulgarian who seems to have patterned his every step on a
tennis court after Federer. Dimitrov pulled off the three-set upset. But
it wasn't the loss that seemed to annoy Djokovic nearly as much as it
was the crowd, who seemed to be pulling for the upset over the game's
best, suggesting once more that he hasn't completely bridged the
affection gap he confronted after saving that first match point against
Federer 20 months ago in New York.
After Djokovic won the second set tiebreak, he went to his chair,
incited the crowd with some hand-waving, and then shouted to them in
Serbian. Numerous blogs and media outlets reported Djokovic's words as
obscenities. Tension had built, crystallized by the fact that Djokovic is rarely,
if ever, the crowd favorite, and having the crowd pull for Dimitrov
seemed too much. The fans at La Caja Magica reacted negatively to
Djokovic taking a medical timeout in the second set, commencing a
series of whistles and boos and, to Djokovic's great annoyance, lustful
cheers after each of his miscues. For the tennis crowd that loves rivalry, the 21-year-old Dimitrov
blew up the bracket, his win denying a delicious Nadal-Djokovic rematch
from Monte Carlo, but the crowd didn't care. Just like in New York, the
issue wasn't underdog versus favorite, but anyone versus Djokovic. For
all his fun and playfulness and talent and erudition, it seems that
upstart or favorite, Djokovic is the villain.
Novak Djokovic is the greatest tennis player going right now --
winner of five of the past nine majors, three straight Australian Opens,
finalist in eight of the past 10 majors. He is the No. 1 player in the
world. He plays with a ferocious indomitability on the court and owns a
definitive, likable charisma off it. He is approachable and funny,
evidenced by his comedy at Kids Day at the U.S. Open last year and his
impersonations. But the roaring love of the tennis world is largely
reserved for the two men who have carried the sport the past decade and
into history: Federer and Nadal.
Of course, the two own the tennis imagination for good reason.
Federer is the greatest player the game has seen, and Nadal is his
greatest rival, overshadowed by Federer only in titles but not
head-to-head. Together, they have accomplished more than any pair of
men. Only Evert-Navratilova compares.
The Federer-Nadal camps are rabid, both entrenched, both passionate,
both seeing Djokovic for part of what he is: the scary gate-crasher of
one of the greatest rivalries in the history of all sports, the guy who
keeps the major count down because he can beat them both. Federer-Nadal
is as good as Ali-Frazier, ManUtd-Liverpool, Madrid-Barca, Lakers-Celtics, RedSox-Yankees, Cowboys-49ers. It is the
matchup that makes fans watch the tournament draw, figure out the
possibilities for the fourth round and the quarters and the semis,
hoping for the dream final. It is the equivalent of the football
schedule being released in the spring and circling a game that is nine
months away.
Federer and Nadal will be, for many parents, the entry point or
continuation of their love of the sport, the way the old guard talks
about Mantle and Mays, Williams and DiMaggio.
None of which has much to do with Djokovic personally, but the
individual nature of tennis creates, fairly or unfairly, a hero-villain
dynamic. There are contemporary players, like Andy Murray or Tomas Berdych, who lack the leading man public persona and on-court game, and others, like Andy Roddick,
who carry a certain brusqueness that marketers are paid to transform
into charm, but Djokovic possesses a genuine winner's flair.
Earlier in his career, Djokovic was temperamental; his on-court rage
at his play and erratic serve did not play well against the regal and
elegant Federer or swashbuckling charisma of Nadal. During his 2011
season, however, Djokovic seemed to carve out a space for himself both
with his relentless, unbreakable play and the recognition that it would
be he and Nadal fighting for supremacy of the sport. He carried himself
like a champion. He put his personality, his intelligence and
multilingualism on display. His commercials are funny. But in the space of the public imagination, nothing much can replace
the hold Federer and Nadal have on this generation of tennis.
Djokovic is in many ways Ivan Lendl, the great talent who upended
Jimmy Connors-John McEnroe and McEnroe-Bjorn Borg, the player who played
his way into the starlight. Lendl was respected, never loved. Lendl
took over for Connors against McEnroe the way Djokovic has for Federer
in many ways. A Djokovic-Nadal final is box-office, top-shelf athletic
entertainment.
Unlike Lendl, Djokovic does not come off to the public as cold and
distant. He is Eastern European, but the Serb luckily is not saddled
with the Cold War and its nationalistic trappings. Nor does he possess
something gauche or unprofessional as there seems to be on the women's
side with Victoria Azarenka, the reigning Australian Open champ who hasn't quite been forgiven for her various odd fits of gamesmanship on the court.
At least only for now, Djokovic remains something of the outsider,
despite his gifts. Djokovic is a worthy and great champion, and has a
rabid fan base. He plays with a furious and admirable desire to succeed,
to belong -- no different than that of Federer and Nadal. He is,
however, simply unlucky to follow the star show of two icons. Perhaps it
is a slight that fuels him even as it wounds him, and over time, if he
continues to dominate the game, the crowd tenor toward him will change.
Nostalgia will take over and he will gain from its sentimentality in a
way Lendl never did. Lendl on some occasions would mention to audiences
that just once it would be nice if the crowd wanted him to win.
It should also be remembered that for much of the first two decades
as a pro, Connors was never showered with universal affection, not until
his surprise 1991 U.S. Open run that changed how the public would view
him. In the meantime, as he dominates but can't seem to win more than
half of the crowd, Djokovic is faced with an interesting adventure in
self-discipline: absorb the disappointment that winning the crowd is out
of his control, or continue to lose his cool and embody the villain
label he seems desperate to avoid.