Tipping point
So often, best efforts at evaluating Novak Djokovic are blocked by the eternal mystery of relating to pain. Recall: a neuron’s loudest scream may only be heard by the brain to which its wedded. There’s many a tough situation where we understand others to be in certain, serious pain, yet we’re light years from inhabiting their actual experience. To a viewer, a horrific broken leg provokes wincing and recoiling, but its real sensations can’t penetrate further than the imagination. We’re hardened, too, by knowledge that responses to pain are relative. We each had classmates, growing up, who exaggerated injuries to shirk Phys Ed. Also, classmates who felt themselves to be genuinely maimed by the same minor afflictions. Pain’s truth is kept secret, however much the sufferer wishes to describe it. In professional sport, it becomes a secret placed under guard, so that an opponent mightn’t know actual limitations. All of which is quite obvious, but all of which explains why tennis’ great champion gets frequently lumped beside the common fudger.
Novak is the last of men’s tennis’ feted ‘Big Three’. He is the youngest, most durable, most consistent. He may also be widely acknowledged as the ‘greatest’, if not for some degree of public acclaim being withheld due to mysterious malfunctions along the way. So many of Djokovic’s famous matches, his great victories, have contained an injury sub-plot. The Australian Open is his happiest hunting ground, and it’s folklore that on separate occasions a hamstring injury and an abdominal strain couldn’t prevent him winning seven consecutive matches, lifting the trophy. Truly, Djokovic’s reputation may have been hurt by unbelievable powers of recovery and endurance. The average tennis fan can hardly fathom going for a suburban jog carrying either aforementioned niggle, thus reach a conclusion Novak’s injury clouds are never properly threatening. But perhaps it’s Muggles projecting their own capabilities upon someone superhuman.
In the recent quarter final, where Djokovic prevailed against inter-generational rival Carlos Alcaraz, the injury aspect coloured the storyline again. To be fair, TV coverage had definite slow-motion footage of a hyperextended left leg. And among the peanut gallery, who was ‘physio’ enough to say whether a thigh-muscle tear could be excluded from the consequences? Also, definite fast-motion footage of Djokovic changing his game-style, swinging more furiously, racing to victory in a contest where he’d surely been marked for defeat. Despite these submissions, a prevailing sense of Alcaraz taking some bait, cowing to the wounded, as other stars have along the way.
In the semi-final with Alexander Zverev, Novak looked immediately out of sorts as a consequence of the afternoon timeslot. Harsh, but his white cap seemed a bit ‘middle-aged tourist’. Previous struggles with the Melbourne heat are well-known; his success usually allows him plying his trade by night. But the long rallies of a marathon opening set were enough to convince viewers that whatever he’d acquired from the previous match had improved. The learned commentators gave him a positive bill of health too, declaring he was scampering freely. Lounge-room spectators – reticent to pay $400 for a real-life vantage – felt permitted to let their attention wane, drifting towards siestas near the close of a marathon first set. Djokovic’s netted forehand valley on the decisive set point could therefore have been a figment. No great cause for alarm; an epic still looked on the cards.
But after a distracted camera shot of the progress Rolex clock (showing eighty minutes or so), it was friends Djokovic and Zverev inexplicably embracing at the net. Game over. A Muggle’s first thought: Novak’s uncharacteristic missed volley’s provoked an instinctive, embarrassed surrender, a wish to hide in the locker room. Once the TV viewer confirmed it wasn’t the substance of an afternoon dream, they likely mouthed, “What the hell?” The commentators who’d earlier lulled us into complacency were only slightly more eloquent at describing the sudden turn. In the arena, the knee-jerk reaction of the crowd was to boo. It emanated from spectators’ bank accounts – vaults as invisible and closely-guarded as the tissues and neurons of Novak’s thigh. Because Novak’s cited injury many times before and nevertheless won, the crowd diagnosed him as taking the piss. Whatever was compelling him out of their expensive sightline must have been similarly concocted, they thought. The ‘cry wolf’ dynamic.
The crowd’s reaction was booed, in turn, by Zverev in a post-set interview and by Channel 9 panellists. Their points were fair, but also seemed a bit laboured or innocent. Those jangled hip-pocket nerves at least got small acknowledgement. Were an actor to retire and bring Hamilton to its knees after just the opening act, there’d assumedly be a degree of refund. Whilst there’s promising momentum towards denting the prevalence of gambling advertising in sport, perhaps it is good for alluding attendance itself is a gamble. When we try getting closer than free-to-air screens, we’re often punting upon bearing witness to a classic, and push away the odds we’ll get a fizzer of the order of Friday afternoon instead. All the power to Djokovic for reminding thousands of this risk, for not himself risking further injury by continuing, for not submitting to the longer humiliation of official defeat, as the likes of recently departed St Rafael would have preferred.
And by his exit, Novak managed to exact some revenge on his off-court opponent for this tournament: the host broadcaster whose veteran journalist was accused of disrespect towards Serbian fans. Whilst that situation was overplayed, it’s difficult to deny modicums of anti-Serbian sentiment may influence some folks’ appraisal of Djokovic, as well. Post-match, there was hidden pain occurring within the chambers of television sets, as Channel 9 producers’ subsequent attempts to pad out the daily coverage with doubles fell short. The next resort had to be a replayed episode of Todd Woodbridge’s ‘Tipping Point’. Thus, for Novak so quickly reaching his own, it became an excruciating afternoon for couch potatoes.