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.
For years this was the house of Rafael Nadal, and spiritually perhaps it still is. Nadal was not here to witness his all-time men’s grand slam title record being taken from him. But he will have been watching, bleakly aware that if it did not happen now it would happen in London, or New York, and there was nothing he or the gallant Casper Ruud could do about it.
The GOAT thing. Must we? Can we not? Perhaps the only remotely novel insight anyone can add to this insufferable pub debate is that men’s tennis has an opportunity to move beyond this wildly boring exercise in counting things and arguing about them. We get it: you have a favourite player and you like him very much. But can we now put a moratorium on this until Carlos Alcaraz gets to at least 15?
Ruud, who collapsed so spectacularly against Nadal 12 months ago, was at least a wiser and more resilient presence here. He arrived with big dreams and an even bigger topspin forehand: looping through the sticky air, kicking viciously off the clay, a stroke that generates – rev for rev – heavier spin than any other in tennis. The plan was to lift Djokovic out of his hitting zone, forcing him to hit from around his ears. It was his only plan. But it was a pretty good one.
And as Djokovic served at 5-6 in the first set, the picture seemed to be blurring a little. Djokovic looked uncomfortable. He had played three drop shots and two overheads, and flubbed the lot. At which point he did what he often does in the crucial moments: he confected a row with the umpire, Damien Dumusois, over his pace of play, followed it with the best game of his match and for the next hour slowly dismantled this final piece by piece.
No other athlete on earth can simply will himself into a devastating fury like this. Whatever it takes – a contentious line call, the crowd, an injury that exists entirely in his head – Djokovic can turn on his piqued berserker mode as if flicking a switch. The tempo raises. He grunts a little louder. Those incredible yogi legs splay wider, shrinking the court before your eyes. And how useful that these tantrums seem to coincide with the key moments. Djokovic played 55 tie-break points at this year’s tournament. He won 42 of them, and made no unforced errors.
And for the rest of the match Ruud looked like what he was: straight man, dancing partner, human canvas. Djokovic rolled out his box of tricks: the second-serve ace, the impossible rescue winner, an entire game of moonball forehands just to take the piss. In the VIP box, Kylian Mbappé scrolled idly through his phone. A Mexican wave went round. The Serbians slowly raised the volume.
You can always spot the Djokovic fans at a grand slam tournament. There is a definite type at these events. Bored-looking blond men in designer shades. Crudité-thin women who for some reason refuse to use their jacket sleeves. Against this backdrop of clinking champagne glasses and easy unearned wealth, the boisterous Team Nole crews stand out like a breadstick in a Martini. What must it be like to glimpse this walled garden party from the outside, particularly when you started life with as little as Djokovic did? If you build yourself a glass palace, don’t be surprised if people want to break the windows.
Roger Federer is gone now. Nadal is on his way out. Alcaraz is making a hell of a noise, but is still basically scaling the walls with a molotov cocktail, still trying to storm the palace rather than occupy it. Djokovic had to go through this same process, and it probably took him longer than anyone. But here he is: top of the heap, a triple champion at every grand slam tournament, his records safe for a generation and Nadal’s public singing his name.
This is Djokovic’s world now. You can shout whatever you like before a point and all you will get is a shush from the people around you. You can essentially advocate wiping Kosovo off the map and face no consequence. On the internet and in the corridors of power, the doctrine of self-actualisation – the idea that the world exists simply to fulfil your chosen destiny – is no longer sociopathy but orthodoxy. No wonder Djokovic was smiling in his chair. He is no longer the unruly trespasser, but the man who owns the deeds and the keys.
