Novak Djokovic cried on Arthur Ashe Stadium on Sunday night. And that was the image that stayed. Not Mariano Navone celebrating. The scoreboard does not show 6-7 (5), 7-5, 6-4, 2-6, 1-6. Not even the grotesque brutality of watching the 24-time Grand Slam champion get sick on the court, convulsing and struggling to move through the final two sets.
Djokovic was crying.
Because perhaps for the first time in a career built on making his body do things it’s not meant to do, he looked like a man He finally realized that his body was no longer entirely his own.
For years, Djokovic’s greatest weapon wasn’t a forehand, a return shot or fluid defense. It was his extraordinary belief in his physical limits, or rather in his ability to continue to push those limits. It could hurt. He can limp. It can look complete. Then he will somehow find other equipment.
On Sunday, there was no equipment left. It was like watching an old Premier Padmini that had spent decades making people stop and admire it suddenly coughing and stuttering at a traffic light. This was once the machine that made everyone wow. The engine wasn’t supposed to look like this.
And Djokovic probably knew that.
Mariano Navone, ranked 49 in the world and who played the longest Grand Slam match in his career, defeated Djokovic in four hours and 36 minutes. This was Djokovic’s longest opening round match ever at a Grand Slam and ended his streak of 77 consecutive first-round wins at a Grand Slam. 77. This is a streak that stretches back nearly two decades. The match ended against a player who had never won a five-set match before.
If you’ve watched Djokovic long enough, you know the script. He progresses, almost starts to get bored, and then something goes wrong. Legs become heavy. The transmission loses a little snap. Holding his back. He crouches at the baseline. He looks at his box. And then, usually, he fixes it.
This is the Djokovic horror movie we’ve seen for years. Even when he bends, even when Jelena in the stands has that look that tells you she knows exactly how much pain he’s in, a foolish little part of you keeps waiting to develop. The opponent senses an opportunity, doubts creep in, and then Djokovic does something both deeply disturbing and absolutely brilliant. Wins the point. Then another. Then the group. And in the end, somehow, he wins the match.
Sunday was different.
The body betrays
He lost the first set after leading 4-1. This is the first time this has happened to him in the opening round at Flushing Meadows since 2006. He was sick on the field. It was crowded. He seized his shoulder. He somehow fought back to lead two groups to one, because of course he did. Giving up quietly was never part of Novak Djokovic’s contract.
The authority then simply refused to negotiate further.
“The back and shoulder gave in at the end, and I couldn’t close them,” Djokovic said afterward. A man who spent two decades treating pain as a nuisance was finally forced to admit that pain could win.
“His body simply gave up,” Andy Roddick said frankly on his podcast.
He also had little patience for people demanding that Djokovic retire immediately.
“Shut up. He can make that decision.”
fair enough. Not everyone with a keyboard can decide when the 24-time Grand Slam champion will finish. This belongs to Djokovic. But Father Time didn’t care much about feelings.
The last survivor
And this is where Djokovic’s story becomes so perfect. He spent years beating Federer and Nadal when they were supposed to be the system. He was the next younger guy, the next generation who would eventually take over. Then he did.
He beat Federer. He beat Nadal. He became the guy everyone had to get over.
And then something wonderful happened. The next generation has arrived. And Djokovic won’t move. For years, players who were supposed to inherit men’s tennis faced the same problem: It was still there.
Alexander Zverev. Daniil Medvedev. Stefanos Tsitsipas. Dominic Thiem. Matteo Berrettini. Felix Auger-Aliassime. They came with bigger serves, younger legs, new ambitions and increasingly loud declarations about the future. They have beaten Djokovic occasionally. They did not replace him.
Think about it. The man who was beating Federer and Nadal was still beating, or at least beating, the generation that grew up watching him do it.
Then came Jannik Sinner and Carlos Alcaraz. They were different, and the challenge was different. They started dividing the sport among themselves. The younger generation has finally found two men capable of turning Djokovic’s decline from a theoretical idea into a sporting reality.
Even at 38, Djokovic was still the third best player in the world.
He reached the final of the Australian Open this year. He beat Sinner on the way there. He spent more than five hours with Auger-Aliassime at Wimbledon. It continues to appear at the business end of the tournaments, refusing to become a work of nostalgia.
This is what makes tackling Sunday so difficult. It’s not as if Djokovic is suddenly unable to play tennis. The hero is still there. The problem is that the body, if Sunday evening is anything to go by, may no longer guarantee that the champion will be there when it needs him.
Maybe, just maybe
This is a terrifying distinction for a player like Djokovic. Federer eventually got his farewell. Nadal got it. Their bodies made the decision easier to understand, even if it wasn’t easier to accept. Djokovic always seemed determined to choose his own ending.
Maybe he still would. Maybe Djokovic will show up somewhere else and do what he’s done so many times before: win a ridiculous five-set match, make everyone feel foolish for doubting him, and push the finish a little further.
But this is no longer something we can take for granted. For the first time, Father Time had a break point. Djokovic was unable to save her.
The great irony is that Djokovic has spent most of his career refusing to let time decide when it will end. On Sunday, for once, she had a say.
But then again, this is Novak Djokovic we’re talking about.
Perhaps a 25th major championship still awaits him next year. This might seem silly after what we just saw. But this is not our fault. Djokovic has spent his career making us believe in the impossible, in miracles that seemed meaningless to happen, and somehow kept happening anyway. So maybe we’ll be allowed another foolish idea. Maybe 25 is next year.
– It ends
