Novak Djokovic finishes, with a big word, surrendered to the evidence. The Cathedral, for the second time, surrendered to the feet of Alcaraz, who shows his teeth, climbs the stands and hands out hugs to everyone: 6-2, 6-2 and 7-6 (4), in 2h 26m. “I tried to extend the match, but his tennis is incredible. Carlos has completely deserved it…”, says the Belgrade native, resigned, run over by an adversary whose destiny (it seems that yes) is to mark an era. The Murcian already counts four majors —the same as Manolo Santana and Arantxa Sánchez Vicario—, two at Wimbledon —the same as Rafael Nadal— and, sighs among the attendees, those that may be to come. It smells of a more than considerable number. Four finals, four trophies. For the moment, he receives this last one from the hands of the Princess of Wales and remembers: “I have already done my job, let’s see what happens later with football.” Nole was elegant in defeat, a month earlier in hospital to repair his meniscus, and the general feeling was that what we saw was perhaps just the tip of the iceberg: Alcaraz, golden letters. And racket in hand, he says…
Everything has changed, my friend Novak. There is a new sheriff in the garden. It happened a year ago – so no coincidences or one-off events – and here he is again, Carlitos, giving off notes of happiness in every hit of the racket, the Murcian comes to tell the veteran, who after only a couple of games is already looking at his strings in search of answers that, he suspects, he may not find. Simply, the ball sparkles and overwhelms him. It eats him up, it swallows him up. He uses the tool of a shield, but it is impossible to stop such an onslaught. It is difficult to remember a Djokovic so overwhelmed, repelling as best he can and assuming something tremendously complicated to assume, because the Cathedral is witnessing on this July 14 – poor me, poor Nole – a historic, transcendental moment: that of a phenomenon that has definitively lost control of his sport.
Alcaraz promised and delivered. From the first ball, he went for the Serbian, who gave up the serve as soon as it started and was already with his tongue hanging out, from side to side, slapping around everywhere to try to catch his breath and hold back the rain of blows. The storm was impressive. The intentions were very clear: a forehand pass next to the post, going up to the net, incessant pressure on the return. No half-heartedness: my friend Novak, I’m coming for you. Manage as best you can. The offensive is radical. That introductory discussion stretches for 14 minutes and, from there, there is only one direction, with only one destination and a very clear one at that. The Spaniard’s game is too fast, too exuberant, too overwhelming; the marshal wants to slow down and catch his breath, but speed prevails and he resists as best he can, at forced marches, pushed to the limit on each point. He finds no respite. The first set has already flown by.
And it will surely not improve for him. “The legs,” Ferrero commented the day before, highlighting those 16 years of difference between one and the other that in a long-distance debate can be equally decisive. So this time Djokovic does not have much of an escape, that trapdoor that he almost always ends up finding, but to bow his head and accept. Alcaraz, the new owner of the garden. After two weeks of rain and more rain, open roof, pleasant temperature and light breeze; the ideal setting for the exquisite technique of the Balkan to express itself, but not even then. There are moments of relative bewilderment, of silence. They try to revive him, because he has started. But nothing at all. The boy responds to his display of elasticity with cylinders in his stride and a vertical split just as plastic. Worthy of study, those bodies. But he misses two clamorous volleys, another double fault; another breaksecond set on the scoreboard.
Incredible but true: Djokovic, in a blur. In London. Seven titles and 97 wins, more than in any other venue. Remember that.
Roulettes and Romario
His undeniable historical dimension –his record recognises him as the best male competitor of all time– cannot resist the meteoric evolution of Alcaraz, who continues to have fun and demonstrate his skills down there. They are two different energies, an incandescent youth. The old boss seems to have been left empty, powerless in the face of such a torrential downpour, and his successor pushes and pushes, as if he were in a hurry (which he is) to go and watch football at night. Romario promised Cruyff: ‘I’ll score two goals, you’ll substitute me at half-time and I’ll go to the Rio carnival’. And the El Palmar native looks towards his bench, already two sets up, as if telling his men: calm down, there will be time for everything. Cool the champagne. And he continues on and on, shooting deep and dominating, practically without opening the door –in three chances to break, the Serbian remains—and extremely firm.
He makes roulettes in the air with his racket, catches all the balls and even finds the ring of the ribbon. The shot arcs over the slender figure after the light touch and the little faith that Djokovic could have, he is exhausted. This is what there is. And it is revealing. He holds on to the third, but there is nothing he can do; praiseworthy effort, operating room and knee brace in between. He is 37 years old and still has the will to win, to fight. Another clear error at the net and his pride is wounded, and the English centre, that crowd that loves him at times and at others turns its back on him, Sir Roger, always in the shadows, feels sorry for himself. That is not usually a good sign. He has rarely been seen so at the mercy, so exposed to the whip. His domination is total.
“No-vak! No-vak! No-vak!” But the one who raises his fist and smiles and rises higher and higher is Alcaraz, the iconic image of an afternoon of excellence and another turning point, sealed with a pinch of suspense —the Spaniard served to win, a passing catch and an untimely cry from the evicted woman— and a sincere hug of recognition. Jannik Sinner’s triumph in Melbourne could be interpreted as a serious indication, but the future deepens the idea. Everything has changed. Djokovic will still be there, for sure, but what happened later in Paris and now in London reinforces the message: new times, a new page. And a main actor: Alcaraz writing history.
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