Good Hands: Djokovic, Murray, and Tennis’ Present and Future
The day before he lost to Andy Murray in the best US Open Men’s Final in some time, Novak Djokovic showed tennis what it feared. In a resumed match with David Ferrer, Djokovic played the coldest, most ruthless brand of tennis you’re likely to find in a Grand Slam semifinal. Afforded opportunity by the game but unimaginative Ferrer, Djokovic clung to the baseline and hit one screaming groundstroke after another, peppering Ferrer’s baseline. The strategy was clear; Djokovic felt sure that Ferrer would miss before he did, that Ferrer’s well-regarded defense would crumble before his own. While the play lacked artfulness, it impressed.
Ferrer – no slouch despite assuming the role of stepping stone with greater clarity with each point – knocked shot after brave shot over the net, but Djokovic measured and reached them. He played as if he knew how the match would end. More than that, he played as if that knowledge was founded not in confidence but in logic, as if some physics declared that the ball’s only avenue of exit from the court was Ferrer’s baseline. As the match wore on, the circumstances that normally govern the players’ fates mattered less and less. Djokovic missed many of his first serves, but dropped the ball lightly into play with his second serves and, within a shot or two, controlled the points, sending Ferrer scurrying. When Ferrer served, Djokovic leaned on his renowned ability to return and established his will in increments, gaining some portion of authority with the return, some greater portion with his second shot, until by his third shot the point resembled all the rest, his racket sweeping in a wide arc, Ferrer waiting like the target of a firing squad.
Despite the world rankings, which favor Roger Federer, and the extra weight the recently occurred holds and throws behind Murray’s ascent, Djokovic sits at the center of tennis. Federer’s slip-ups come with greater frequency these days, and when he succeeds, as he did at this year’s Wimbledon, those successes are more reclamations than advances. His US Open ended with a loss to Tomas Berdych in which his famous forehand could not find its mark and his backhand ran into the net. Federer’s rival and antonym, Rafael Nadal, did not appear in Queens this year, missing the tournament with the latest in a string of injuries, this one a balky knee. Murray’s first Grand Slam title – itself a tremendous feat in this era – does not admit him to the highest ranks. Djokovic, in good health and armed with his stable game, presses on. He has won four of the past eight Grand Slams; no other player has won more than two. He has reached the semifinals in each of the last ten Grand Slams. His career’s trajectory is as linear as his play. But tennis thrives on the linear. In the greatest matches, the logician meets the seer, the bruiser the butterfly. So even before winning his first career Grand Slam, Andy Murray saved the day.
Murray entered the final against Djokovic having conquered Berdych in a wild match two days prior, heavy winds sending shots well wide of their targets and, at one point, ripping Murray’s cap from his head, forcing a replay of a point. Berdych, a power player with a 21st century game – big serve and potent groundstrokes, occasional approaches to the net – found the conditions almost impossible to negotiate, but Murray, softhanded and wily, treated the match like an experiment, enlisting the wind to give his groundstrokes extra strength or his drop shots sharper bite. When the final arrived, we had seen each player in his element, Djokovic knocking down a wall, Murray solving a puzzle.
The match delivered on the diverse semifinals’ promises. First, statistics: the match lasted four hours, 54 minutes, tying the longest-lasting final in the tournament’s history. The first set tiebreak lasted a record 22 minutes. One rally lasted 55 shots. At the end of it, Murray prevailed 7-6 (10), 7-5, 2-6, 3-6, 6-2.
The match’s true gift, though, is not contained in the numbers; indeed, the once-exciting news that the tiebreak had set a mark was irrelevant by the time Murray had built his lead, Djokovic had dissolved it, and the two dragged each other across the court in the deciding fifth set. This final was a testament to the foil, each player enlivened by his opponent. Djokovic and Murray, perhaps the two best defensive players in the game, especially in Nadal’s absence, tracked each impressive shot with desperation, building long and intricate rallies.
Djokovic, true to form, aimed to survive and outlast; Murray looked for ways out, interrupting the strings of bashes with sudden bids for winners, drop shots, or other assorted trickery. Even the players’ modes of movement provided contrast. Murray displays a classical quickness, an economy of motion and awareness of space; he moves as if he has graph paper under his feet. Djokovic is a running mess. As he gets from spot to spot, each of his big-jointed limbs makes itself known, strewn this way and that, taking full advantage of the fact that ours is a three-dimensional universe. When he reaches and smacks a forehand, his legs form a wide, crooked, and sliding arch, his left hand reaches as if balance is acquired by physically grabbing a chunk of the air, and his right arm seems steam-powered. Tied by the speeding ball, these two rapid machines turned and pushed each other, fighting less for points than for the right to direct the proceedings. When Murray had his way, points were riddles. When Djokovic had his, they were exams.
At the end of it, Djokovic wore down. He began nursing some vague ailment in his leg, he moved less quickly, and his shots lost their sharpness. Murray’s victory was given its historical context, the only two characters missing from the most important line of his biography – “76,” the number of years since a British man last won a Grand Slam – filled in. To turn right to history, though, is to undervalue what transpired. In the absence of Federer and Nadal, Murray and Djokovic played the type of tennis we have become accustomed to during this golden era, physical and cerebral, genius and tough, the two players right in each other’s way. Murray’s ascent means less to history than it does to the future; two greats may be descending, but balanced, combative, and joyous matches remain.