At gate 5 of the All England Lawn Tennis Club, the usher looks at my badge and says:
-Spanish, huh?
Seat.
The man adds:
– Alcaraz, huh?
I nod too.
And the man adds again:
-But before the Sinner-Djokovic is played. And I hope Sinner wins.
-Does everyone here want that? I ask him.
-Not all. But yes most.
We don’t talk much more because the day is miserable and it’s raining and we have to hurry up and look out at the Center Court, a stage covered again by the retractable roof. This time they don’t wear so many hats, hats or sunglasses. It’s cool in London. Are we at the gates of autumn?
Sitting at my desk, overlooking the temple of tennis, I wonder what’s up with Djokovic.
Has the public tired of the Serbian?
Does his tone make you uncomfortable, his arrogance on the court (nothing to do with his prodigious honesty when he talks to the press), his protests to the judge when things go wrong, his tendency to go to the locker room to pause the tempos?
Perhaps it is his cannibalism, his talent to win and win and win again, the factor that irritates the London parish: in a jiffy, barely forty minutes, the Serbian has appropriated the first set against Sinner and from there he accelerates towards his 34th consecutive victory at Wimbledon (his last defeat in the British countryside dates back to 2017), already on the cusp of eight titles in London (he would have as many as Roger Federer) and 24 major titles (he would have as many as Margaret Court).
By then, family scenes take place on Center Court. Djokovic devours his rival and the exercise softens the parishioners, who opt for Sinner as they had previously done for Rublev, Hurkacz or Wawrinka, other victims of the Serb.
This is the human soul: it leans towards the weak.
Djokovic (36), power hammer, last Mohican of the autumn Big Three, hits the sole of his shoe to shake off the blades of grass and insists on the backhand of Sinner (21 years old, today eighth in the world), an outstanding student of the generation of Alcaraz, Rune and Korda: he does not let the Italian find the powerful forehand, the best of his weapons, and that is why Sinner is gradually decomposing.
Sinner seems resigned, overcome by circumstances, as he tries things but nothing comes of it.
He manages to waste four breaking balls, that’s called stage fright or perhaps fear of heights, and his first serve doesn’t hurt Djokovic, a wonderful receiver, what footwork he has, and the second is a gift for the Serbian.
(Until now, Sinner’s first serve has been lethal 40% of the time; against Djokovic, the percentage drops dramatically to 22%).
In the middle of the game, Sinner has accumulated 16 unforced errors, double that of Djokovic, and his game has already gone awry and he is two steps behind the Serb, only a miracle will turn the score around.
And the miracle does not come.
There we see Sinner, conversing with his box, wondering:
But how do I get out of this?
And with the tailwind, Djokovic advances and does not fail, he continues looking for Sinner’s backhand, the strategy works, why change it? and the Italian redhead, and by extension the Wimbledon parish, bows his head, he does so even after losing another two breaking points, two points that would have given him the third set.
(And at that moment, after saving the situation, Djokovic confronts the parish, pretends to cry for her, because Wimbledon’s animosity fails to crack him).
-The marker does not say what happened. It has been much more even than it seems -Djokovic says into the microphone.
True: Djokovic has only won ten more points than Sinner (106-96), but he has been better in the decisive moments, today too, and it all ended quickly, in three sets, even ahead of schedule.
When I leave, I’ll ask the usher at door 5 what he thinks of all this.
