Over to you then, Carlos. Across almost five hours of mind-bendingly fine grass court play, seasoned with cussedness, crowd-snark and some wonderfully fine champion will, the future of men’s tennis became the present too. It felt fitting that the end note of a beautifully high grade men’s Wimbledon final was also unexpectedly tender.
As Carlos Alcaraz crumpled on to his back on the Centre Court turf, Novak Djokovic walked across and hugged him, looking, for the first time since the first set four hours ago, back when the world was still young, like the only real grown up court. Ten years in the making, Djokovic had at least finally given the Centre Court what it wanted. Specifically, a defeat. But what a defeat this was, or rather what a victory for Alcaraz, who was simply sublime here.
