Preamble
Afternoon all and welcome to Wimbledon 2023 – day 14!
Obviously we all say this every year, but what a fortnight it’s been … and what a fortnight it still is. Because what we’re about to see has the potential to be one of the great matches.
Though excessive hyperbole is my job – to the extent I’m even using the tautology “excessive hyperbole” – please be certain, these are not words I use lightly. But contextually and actually, Carlos Alcaraz [1] v Novak Djokovic [2] is as compelling, thrilling and downright spectacular a match-up as exists in sport right now, and it’s ours, all ours.
Let’s begin with the context. Though Alcaraz is just 20, he’s very clearly a generational talent, a bouncing bundle of joy and aggression with a forehand like a sonic boom and a drop shot to marry your daughter. A month ago, he was a novice on grass, but since then has won Queens and rinsed his way to this final, perceptibly improving with every match. He’s also already won his debut biggun, at last year’s US Open … except missing from the field was Djokovic, prohibited from entering America because of his anti-vaxx stance. So today is his chance to expunge that asterisk from in the minds of all those who know just how ridiculous his opponent is – or, in other words, everyone.
Djokovic, meanwhile, is seeking his fifth consecutive Wimbledon – that’d give him a share of the men’s record, with Roger Federer, Martina Navratilova holding the women’s with six – his eighth in total, which would again give him a share of Federer’s leading mark and put him one behind Navratilova. And, already out alone as the, er, most winningest man in majors history, a triumph today would put him beyond Serena Williams and level with Margaret Court on 24 titles. Oh, and he’s also on for a calendar year Grand Slam; it’s a lot.
Which is to say that men’s tennis has, over the last couple of years, become a sometime benevolent dictatorship, Djokovic the ageing autocrat taking ever greater pleasure in squashing youthful exuberance and optimism. Triumph and happiness are for him alone.
Generally speaking, dominant champions are good for sport, raising the levels of those around them and drawing the eyeballs of those keen to see if, finally, they can be bested. The problem here is that Djokovic is 36, and by annihilating the competition now, he is also compromising anything we might see in the distant post-him future. How can we get excited about a new big noise when they’re orders of magnitude quieter than the previous one? Other hand, though, there’s nothing sport, and individual sport in particular, loves more than a rivalry, and if Alcaraz can give us that, a surprise golden age is already upon us.
So, if that’s the contextual, what of the actual? Well, when these two met in the Roland-Garros semi-final, we were treated to some of the most devastatingly fascinating tennis imaginable, a battle of skill and will, of instinct and intellect, of fibre and charisma.
Djokovic, a biological freak hewn from elasticated iron with a sadistic computer for a brain, is the most mentally impregnable sportsman of our time. His defensive flexibility is hilarious, his offensive precision revolting, and somehow, in the autumn of his career, he’s sneakily become one of the greatest servers we’ve ever seen.
Yet, after two sets of their sensationally wondrous French Open semi, Alcaraz was in the ascendancy, his terrifying power and shocking touch giving Djokovic all he could handle. Except shortly after that, the stress of forcing himself to that level caused his body to break down, he cramped up, and was beaten down.
That seems unlikely to happen today. Temperatures in London are cooler, rallies on grass are shorter, and if there’s one thing we’ve learnt about the world number one, it’s that he learns – and quickly. If anyone can hit through Djokovic, Alcaraz can; but if anyone can repel Alcaraz’s hitting, Djokovic can. This could be epochal.
Play: 2pm BST