It was a Sunday afternoon. The sun was shining. It was Paris.
It was the end of the first week of Olympic competitions, of what had felt like a week of celebrations, with another one yet ahead.
It was the two best players in the world, Novak Djokovic and Carlos Alcaraz, on the rich red clay of Court Philippe Chatrier, in front of a crowd that would not, could not be held back by the etiquette and traditions of tennis.
Djokovic, in Serbia’s brilliant red and white, Alcaraz in Spain’s magnificent rust-red and gold. At Wimbledon, players wear white. Wimbledon is about tennis. At every other tournament, players wear expressions of themselves, it’s about them. This was different, and both players knew it.
Djokovic, age 37, with more Grand Slam titles than anyone in tennis history, still on the outer edges of his best. Alcaraz, age 21, with four, already on the inner edges of what he might be. Neither with an Olympic gold medal.
Both of them at their best. Grand Slam events, played in a best three-of-five set format, lasting two weeks, all the best players in the world there, to get through to the end is a slog. Here, two-out-of-three sets, over one week, with fewer of the best mid-level players to defeat on their way, both of the players never fresher.
Both of them needing each other. Like the Yankees need the Red Sox, like Ali needed Frazier. Both needing an opponent who forces them to find something in themselves they don’t know is there, that wasn’t there. Who might humiliate them. Who might also make them be what they’ve never been before and might never otherwise be. Alcaraz needing Djokovic to push him and push him and push him some more, to be more than just moments of youthful brilliance and promise, which against everyone else, he can get away with and win. But champions like Djokovic are tough, disciplined, they fight to the end. And if the end refuses to come, if one shot doesn’t do it, they keep the ball in play until they find another shot, and another, until it does. More than resilience, it’s the pride and need and fear of champions. And no one keeps the ball in play better than Djokovic. No one ever has. Alcaraz needing to show, and show again and again, he can do the same.
And Djokovic needing Alcaraz to feel young again. His great rivals, Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal, gone. Done in by age or injury, or both. His apparent new rivals have come, shone brightly, at times beat him, then faded. They’re good players, they don’t keep the ball in play. They’re not champions. Alcaraz is a champion, he is the “next one”, and Djokovic knows it. He has for him a respect that runs deeper, that is evident. Alcaraz too is young. He might get distracted, grow complacent, become self-absorbed and fade, but Djokovic knows he won’t. Alcaraz has got it. He has all the shots, and has the need to be great. Djokovic will need to beat him. In front of Alcaraz too, the spectre of his countryman Nadal. For all of his career, when Alcaraz faces other players across the net, Nadal will be there too. As Michael Jordan, many years into retirement, made LeBron James better, to be as great as he needed to be, the legend of Nadal, and Spanish fans who will never allow him to let up. Djokovic will need to beat the best of him.
For Djokovic, another Grand Slam, another record are no longer enough to drive him. He needs Alcaraz to push him past age, to play better than any thirty-seven year has ever played, to get him excited at the possibility, to force him to earn that feeling, to make him feel that for one more time it’s worth it.
Both players, every fan knows what is at stake.
Djokovic’s wife, Jelena, and two kids are in the stands. They’ve been there before. They look different this time. Even the kids seem to know, “Daddy needs us today.”
For two hours and fifty minutes it went on. It was as it was supposed to be. The way it never is. Oohs and ahhs and wows, followed by more, then more. On every next point, it seemed. When there couldn’t be any more. It mattered who won. To the players. To the fans. It always does. But years from now, for the players, for the fans, first in their minds will be the match itself. Djokovic-Alcaraz, Alcaraz-Djokovic, in Paris, the Olympics, 2024. Remember?
They will play each other again. Maybe at the U.S. Open a month from now, at other Grand Slams. Alcaraz knew it was the last best time, the two of them together. At age 37, Djokovic knew it was the last best time in his career. They played this way. The fans watched this way.
It was perfect.