Alcaraz is the man of the moment.

 Alcaraz is the man of the moment.

It almost felt like the end of an empire, a farewell to genius, the passing of the baton and a generation, the way it used to be but no longer is. You looked across Wimbledon's fair and green acres with those grotesque if unavoidable brown scuff marks on both Centre Court baselines and realised that something was in the air, an aura of transition, another exciting development in the evolution of the world's greatest grass court tournament. You had to be there to see it and experience it. Even if you were watching it from a distance you were essentially there in the middle of it all. This was a seminal moment, the opening page of a new era for the loyal Wimbledon fans and patrons who never fail to be enchanted by it all.

For it was yesterday that a young man by the name of Carlos Alvaraz won the men's singles Wimbledon Final in five of the most intoxicating sets SW19 had seen in quite a while. By the end of it all  Alcaraz deposed the old monarchy and Novak Djokovic slowly drifted away from the centre of all that fuss and publicity and took a back seat for once. The now former Wimbledon champion could hardly believe that finally somebody had penetrated his seemingly impregnable armour. No longer could the all conquering Serbian claim proprietorial rights on tennis's victory podium. The crown had been loosened and defeat for Djokovic became a painful reality. He must have known this day would come but was never sure when.

So the 36 year old tennis maestro found that a combination of ageing reflexes and perhaps that crucial edge of stamina had finally betrayed him. But now the party is over at least for now. The bearing is still athletic and agile but that last striving for greatness no longer seemed to be in evidence. That sheer bloody mindedness, the wholehearted willingness to reach new plateaus of achievement and, above all, the natural ability that has never deserted him, were always to the fore. But for the first time in ages, the Djokovic ruthlessness may have been lacking.

We all know about the ego and ferocious drive that has always lifted his game to the highest of levels but suddenly Djokovic looked flawed and vulnerable. There was a fragility and nervousness about the Serbian that only the most neutral observer would have noticed. Of course he was hungry and motivated but while Alcaraz was dragging him so brutally from one side of his baseline to the other there was a moment when the former Wimbledon champion had nothing else to offer in his once extensive repertoire. Even the impossible returns were just beyond the eight time Wimbledon champion. It all began to unravel for the swarthy, well tanned Serbian. The shots became desperate lunges and the power seemingly evaporated.

At roughly tea time Djokovic had reached a critical point in the match when everything Alcaraz had produced was burnished with perfect timing, glorious spontaneity and immaculate wristwork. The Spanish conquistador unfurled his cape and struck the ball with an astonishing clarity of thought and lethal conviction. We have now reached a point where people will begin to draw understandable comparisons to his fellow countryman Rafa Nadal who for a while dominated the Grand Slam circuit.

But the first set for Alcaraz turned into a disastrous horror show. Every passing return of serve and a rickety forehand combined to tie up the Spaniard in knots. The smooth fluency of the whipped forehand was almost invisible and the co-ordination had somehow disappeared into the far flung courts of 14 and 15. The feathery touch had gone beyond the blue yonder somewhere over the hills while both the forehand, backhand and those attractive sliced responses to Djokovic's wonderfully well organised game, were almost swallowed up by a Serbian onslaught. Djokovic won the first set 6-1 with almost effortless ease and Alcaraz was struggling with his own game on a frequent basis.

In the second set though Alcaraz re-established his foothold on the game with shots of liquid delicacy and laced with versatility. The first serve had now become a potent weapon and the brilliant returns were almost breathtakingly executed from nowhere. Now he mixed and matched a vast array of sumptuous drop shots and the occasional artillery of lobs that left Djokovic groping for air. Then he launched those venomous forehand winners that sizzled past the Serbian. Both tramlines became Alcaraz main focus of attack and the shots were spun, clipped and sliced with absolute precision. When Alcaraz swung his racket  with yet greater whip, the ball flew past Djokovic and the crowd sighed with pleasure. The Spaniard clinched the second set after an intriguing tie break 7-6.

Now the Spanish youngster began to assert himself as a positive force in the game and the third set turned into a stately procession. Alcaraz cruised his way almost nonchalantly into a two sets to one lead. The shots were being peppered from all angles, half volleys, audacious chips, cross court marvels that had no right to be reached. There was now a completeness and accomplishment about Alcaraz that had been left behind in the first set. The Number One seed took complete control of the third set and won a comfortable third set 6-1 as if Djokovic had merely been a figment of his imagination.

But once again Djokovic showed all those remarkable powers of resilience and survival that you might have expected from a once great champion. There was something indefinably brilliant about the Serbian's fighting spirit. It almost felt as if defeat was somehow alien to him and he stormed through the fourth set like a man who just didn't care about his age. For a while there was a youthful exuberance about his game that sustained him and then rewarded his efforts with the fourth set, chalking up a 6-3 pummelling.

In the deciding fifth set both players went hammer and tongs for each other, trading blistering end to end shots that could be heard in Southfields. The crack of a Wimbledon yellow ball is so evocative and  summery that you'd be forgiven for thinking that the game was being played  in some kind of fantasy tennis world where the game is just riveting. First Alcaraz forced the issue before Djokovic rallied heroically to stay in the match but you knew that a changing of the guard was about to take place. Forehand was met with backhand and then top spin double fisted return was heavy with deception. It was all very cunning, dramatic and utterly compelling. 

Alcaraz though had too much for the former Wimbledon champion and the greater variety of shots brought the youngster to the threshold of victory. Djokovic was visibly wilting and the conclusive, concussive forehand clump across the Serbian's chest was just too hot to handle. The shots were raining past Djokovic and down the line almost constantly. And then there was match point for Alcaraz which was promptly delivered like the ultimate body blow. The fifth set was much more tightly contested but the Spanish wonder boy came through 6-4 with flying colours. Wimbledon had anointed a new face and a new champion. Wimbledon could hardly have asked for anymore.