JOHN DAVENPORT: Djokovic vs time at the Wimbledon men’s final

Tennis is different from other sports. It is different because (apart from doubles) it is an entirely individual sport. Golf is likewise an individual sport, but it is not a physically grueling individual sport. We can tell this because golf is a sport that world-class athletes can, and do, play while smoking cigars and weighing 20kg-30kg above their dream goal weight.  

The combination of being an individual sport and a physically punishing one, mean that every few years tennis provides a unique spectacle: the display of an athlete who has dominated the sport having their age and physical decline pitilessly exposed in front of a crowd.  

All athletes age. But in football or cricket or baseball this process can be concealed. The ageing striker starts to come on as an impact player in the final 20 minutes. The pitcher or bowler who is slightly past their sell-by date is used in shorter spells while younger ones do the donkey work better suited to youthful knees and supple Achilles tendons. Careers last. Age arrives subtly. 

But not in tennis. In tennis there is no changing room, dug-out or locker-room in which to hide for short spells from the all-seeing Tolken-esque eye of time. The players go out onto the court by themselves and stay there, brutally exposed, until the match is finished.  

During the final of Wimbledon, this now-familiar ritual was enacted again as Novak Djokovic played the younger Carlos Alcaraz. What was expected to be a closely battled encounter was wizarded into a one-sided crucifixion by the formerly dominant Djokovic’s lurch forward in time.  

Basement-torture cruel when shown on TV. Again and again we saw the ball fly past Djokovic — head down, groaning in the background. At times he was mumbling, making strange gestures that seem confused. Vacant, staring into nothing. Vicious Stalingrad determination required to just hold serve. Wildly unable to even think of breaking that of his opponent.  

The tragedy was operatic in depth. At one point even Alcaraz’s mother was cheering Djokovic as he heroically, and eventually, won a point. When he served well the crowd cheered like a wet, drunken lottery winner who will now have a bed for the night. But that did not last.

Djokovic was blank faced as point after point was lost. His wife biting her lip, his daughter playing, oblivious to the Wagnerian agony, the Twilight of the Gods below.  

His service shattered once again, Djokovic almost rushed back onto the court to face his tormentor’s serve. A Sunak rushing to destruction, desperate for it all for be over.  

There is a split-second renaissance as he unexpectedly wins a point. Snapping and snarling like the younger Djokovic of only a week ago. Then the retreat into the blank bunker inside his head to hide from the destruction above ground. He challenges an umpire’s call to be reviewed, but as he does so walks towards his chair, knowing deep down the ball was out.  

The only time Alcaraz is out-played, clearly on the back foot, is when he has three championship points. Three opportunities to win the match. He loses them all, his only opponent his own nervousness. He seems oddly reluctant to finish off his opponent. Hesitant to enter the new post-Novak world. Until he does.  

Roman emperors had a servant whose job it was to stand next to them during post-campaign victory parades, and murmur into their ear “momento mori” – a reminder meaning “you too are mortal”. In some way these games towards the end of a great tennis player’s career seem to convey this message to us. Reminding us that nothing lasts, glory is temporary, that all things must end. That this is the way of things — unavoidable and perhaps not to be feared.  

The seemingly ageless Tom Cruise was in the crowd for the match. Perhaps Novak was the one murmuring in the ear of this Top Gun, never-impossible emperor the same words Roman emperors were obliged to hear as crowds cheered them and they were showered in rose petals.

• Davenport is chief creative officer for Vice Media & Virtue Advertising London & Dubai, a part-time psychology student and an occasional war correspondent.