Few anticipated the result of Friday’s semifinal between Rafael Nadal and Novak Djokovic at Roland Garros, but the fear was always there. Many words have been written about Novak Djokovic, of his place amongst the stars, and whether his legend has outgrown or will eventually outgrow the supernovas that are Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal and what they mean to tennis. Among those pieces, the most common topic surrounding Novak Djokovic, outside of his masterful game, is a simple question: why don’t fans love him? He is kind, tenacious, gracious in defeat and in victory, and does things like hand his racquet to young fans after winning finals matches.

He owns a corner of the tennis world, with fans as dedicated to both cherishing, establishing, and defending his dominance, as Novak himself is on court. He and his fans are one in the same: unrelenting. But why is it that in the most intense of matches, in the most crucial of moments, the crowd always cheers for his opponent? Whether it is a first round night match in New York city or the final in Rome – he is jeered more often than praised, and he has always been left to face the test of isolation, to build momentum without motivation from fans, by himself.

It has only made him more powerful.  But his power is the very reason why admiration has eluded him.  

Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal alike are the adoration of the sport, at least on the men’s side.  But love for them has grown for their failures as much as their successes, for their mistrials and mishits, through injuries and setbacks, as much as trophies lifted and exhilarating points won.  For those two superstars, they have been defined more by their humanity than anything else, although they are praised for being anything but. 

Federer plays the game as a composer pens a song.  To watch him is to see something that is both beyond tennis and what tennis is, or should be, in its purest form.  Never has a racquet in a hand created something more beautiful.  And his contrast with Nadal, long noted and celebrated, is both his antithesis and perfect compliment.  The Spaniard brings unrelenting hustle, grind, spirit and tenacity to every point, on practice court and centre court alike.  He is known as a warrior – a true spartan.  Even with his back against mountainous walls, when all hope is lost, he fights with greater courage than ever.  The magic of Federer and the bravery of Nadal are their initial draw.  It’s why our collective gaze shifts toward them.  But that is not why we stay.

Roger Federer, for as perfect as he is, fails often. He has let matches and titles slip away. He shows nerves in the biggest moments. He is known equally for his wizardry in the clutch as he is for his painstakingly human errors. Losing a Wimbledon final after being up 40-15, serving for the championship. Netting a forehand short ball late in the fifth set as night beckons, his opponent sliding victoriously into the dirt. Failing to arrive in a semifinal in New York in 2014 despite an otherwise clear path to another US Open title. No lead is safe with Federer, no matter who it belongs to. And that is why we, the fans, cheer him on, because we don’t know, because the same nerves that may take the heart of Federer are alive in us. And we wish to face them together.

Rafael Nadal, for as unrelenting as he is, has frequently been reminded of his own humanity.  He has missed, to this point, five majors due to injury.  And as of yet still has not committed to playing Wimbledon in 2021.  He was unable to defend his Wimbledon crown in 2009, precluded from seeing through some of his best hard-court form in the 2012 season, and struggled on and off throughout the following years to establish a consistent presence at all four majors.  But never has a tennis player been more dedicated to his fitness, and it’s likely the reason Rafa is so averse to shirts containing sleeves.  His effort is undying, despite the ever weakening of his body.  He is a Yeatsian tribute to all of us who stand in defiance of their own mortality, and he has taken pains to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.  And we’ve born witness to every step that weighs upon his knees, and every shot that tears upon his wrist.  And that is why we, the fans, urge him on.  Because for every moment alone in the rehabilitation room where Rafael Nadal worked tirelessly to silence, he is worthy in our eyes of deafening applause.  We see Roger as who we dream to be in our sleep.  We see Rafa as who we strive to be when we wake up.

The temperature in Rafa’s blood raises in degree in the most heated of moments, as it does for all his fans willing him on in the crowd.  And while Federer will almost always remain stoic, his game often shows otherwise.  He plays and has always played for the love of the game, but the err in his racquet tells the tale: his legacy matters to him.  And yet, on the other side of the net, Djokovic looks cold and quiet.  That’s not to say Novak is a stranger to ferocity or that battle cries do not often accompany his struggle for victory.  But when the moment is heaviest, Djokovic is ice.  It is as if he draws strength and energy from the tenacity and nerve of his opponent.  He is a silencer.  He is an assassin.  He is a machine. 

We will never see a more precise player on break point, match point, championship point down.  Blistering forehands cross court on serves out wide from opponents in the desperate hope of closing him out.  He may forever be the only player to command more nerve from the player a point away from victory than whatever amount of nerve, if any, is percolating in himself.

I will forever wonder if, in the Wimbledon final in 2019 up 40-15 in the fifth, for a split second, Federer’s mind’s eye traveled in time back to New York, 2011, seeing that unreturnable forehand return all over again. “I tend to do that on match points,” Federer said at the time. And by that, he meant, fail. Closing out a match is the second hardest thing to do in tennis. The only task that proves more difficult is surviving the closeout. Novak makes the latter look devastatingly easy and the former, shortly after, seem inevitable. When he broke Stefanos Tsitsipas to start the third set of the final at Roland Garros on Sunday, he was two sets to love down, and not a mindful fan in the stands thought Tsitsipas would win the match. That feeling – that pit in your stomach that Djokovic creates, that his reign is impending, is unparalleled. He is simply too good to love. Too inevitable to root for. He takes away the role of the fan. It is just that apparent how much he doesn’t need us.

Novak Djokovic is more than worthy of his own story being told, and many of his fans would shrug to see an article holding him as the focal point spend more time talking about his adversaries than about him.  But it is far more than just his game that has been defined by Roger and Rafa – it’s who he has become as a star, and as a man.  And the three will be talked about forever.  And in every discussion, it will be near impossible to mention one without the other two.