No longer the polite and begrudging ripple of applause. No longer the soft shuffle of designer shoes towards the exits. This time the sound of triumph would be resounding and unqualified: from the plush seats where Zlatan Ibrahimović and Tom Brady were on their feet, to the windswept upper tiers where the cascade of Serbian flags caught the evening Parisian light. Roland Garros, and by extension the lineage of men’s tennis, is now the house of Novak Djokovic.
He wore a royal red training top emblazoned with the number 23. He gave his victory speech in flawless French. And in the moments before he was called forward to accept the trophy, Djokovic was to be found reclining in his chair, eyes closed, a broad and cryptic smile on his face. He took his time, spoke for as long as he chose, because in your house you can do whatever you want.
