Djokovic beats Rublev at Wimbledon

 Djokovic beats Rublev at Wimbledon

This was surely tennis at its finest and purest. Wimbledon has become renowned for producing matches and legends of the highest quality and yesterday was no different to anything we'd seen before. This was tennis at its most beautiful, an aesthetically pleasing spectacle that turned into a spectacular. Even the most cynical and hard bitten would have to admit that the yearly summer bloom at SW19 has never looked so ornate or decorative.

Yesterday we saw four sets of pulsating, thrilling, delightful and astonishing tennis that somehow defied any superlative or description. Sometimes you had to blink in case you were just hallucinating. By the end of the match the crowd found themselves in a ferment of conflict. Do they support Novak Djokovic in his pursuit of even more monumental record breaking or do they heckle him for what appeared just a hint of arrogance and presumption in the Serbian powerhouse?

The Centre Court has often been the perfect gladiatorial amphitheatre, two giants of the game face to face with each other, rackets at their most tightly strung, a thousand glares and grimaces twisting their facial features. It is tennis at its most emotional and demonstrative, a life or death experience where every set point or game counts and matters immensely. Perhaps we should bottle these days in the sporting calendar and use it for general reference whenever we feel the sport is somehow lacking in some indefinable quality.

For Novak Djokovic this was a step closer to another of Wimbledon's august days in July on the occasion of a men's singles final and another title. The 36 year old Serbian could complete a fifth successive men's singles trophy which would emulate the remarkable feat achieved by the equally as extraordinary Swede Bjorn Borg. For it was he who elevated tennis to an art form and, from time to time, was seemingly unbeatable. But Djokovic is now in another Wimbledon semi final and even now it's hard to believe that our very own Andy Murray actually beat Djokovic in a men's Final exactly a decade ago.

There is a notable edge, an abrasive and aggressive side to  Djokovic that many of us have probably never seen at SW19. Maybe he's taken all of the consistent success at one of the most famous tennis tournaments for granted, believing himself to be utterly invincible. Maybe it has come far too easy for him in recent years but what can't be denied is that there are moments when the Serbian finds himself somewhat isolated, yearning for greater acceptance, reaching out for a higher volume of cheering and adulation.

The visible cupping of his ear in response to the ironic applause of the Wimbledon crowd perhaps exposes internal vulnerabilities in his character, a cry for love and approval. Then there are the fist clenches, the amusing grins on his face when he wins a point and the general dissatisfaction expressed when things aren't going his way. Borg used to disguise his displeasure with a gentle ruffle of the fringe of his hair, a blowing on the fingers and the customary twiddle with his racket.

Now though Djokovic is at the very height of his career and therefore immune from any kind of real setback. If John McEnroe were still involved in Grand Slam tournaments you feel sure that he would probably have strangled the umpires even though Hawkeye would have begged to differ. But Djokovic does things rather differently in as much that even the remotest hint of trouble can be dealt with by a stifled grunt or another bunched fist.

After four staggeringly flawless sets the Wimbledon champion finally saw off his Russian opponent and world class junior Andrey Rublev, thoughts turned to Djokovic's ruthlessness, his amazing powers of endurance, the stamina that just kept giving and a brand of tennis that bordered on the miraculous. With Roger Federer now retired and Rafael Nadal biding his time for another tournament, Djokovic was left with the onerous responsibility of providing his sport with the professionalism and virtuosity it has never really needed but welcomed all the same.

In the opening set though all the form books were thrown out of the window. The Wimbledon champion, probably taking his eye off the yellow ball for a while by Rublev's accomplished all round game, had briefly lost his way. There was a grit and dogged determination about Rublev that none of us would have seen coming. There were the powerful forehand returns to Djokovic's booming first serve, the quick witted exchanges at the net, the sliced backhands and dinked drop shots that left the Serbian groping for a plausible answer. Rublev edged the first set 6-4 but this only served to energise Djokovic, sending a surge of electricity through him like a bolt from the blue. It was the ultimate wake up call.

Then the second set dawned and the Wimbledon champion awoke smartly to his task as if an alarm clock had rung resoundingly in his ears. By now the match itself was just a tennis carnival, both players stretching each other from tramline to tramline with a memorable collection of delicate backhands and barnstorming forehands loaded with class, panache and variation. There were lunging volleyed returns that were literally taken with their rackets on the ground. This was sensational and thrilling tennis that never let up for a single moment and you doubted whether you'd seen anything better.

But Djokovic roared into contention with vigorous winning passing forehands that sizzled past Rublev like bullets from a gun. There were explosive sliced backhands heavily laced with top spin and for which the Russian had no answer. Djokovic was here, there and everywhere, throwing himself heroically at shots he had no right to win. The Serbian forehand now became an instrument of destruction, whipped across and past Rublev as if he was invisible. There were the rolled wristy returns that generated such force that Rublev must have thought everything was now completely beyond Djokovic. The Wimbledon champion cleaned up the second set authoritatively 6-1. Game on.

The third set by now was an inevitable second chapter of a book. You knew who'd committed the crime before the misdemeanour had even been committed. Djokovic ran through the third set like a dose of salts, brushing Rublev aside effortlessly and disdainfully rather like a man shrugging off a feather. We knew where this one was going. There was yet another repertoire of impossible returns of serve smashed past Rublev, more backhands of fabulous finesse, more forehands that looked as though Djokovic had just invented them. He was an irresistible force of nature, the complete article, briefly disturbed by a first set defeat but retrieved by years of experience at the topmost echelon of world tennis. Once again Djokovic dominated as if he were meant to do so. It was 6-4 to the Wimbledon champion and game almost over.

In the fourth set Djokovic looked as if the first set had been a phantom. The shots to both tramlines were heavy and lethal, stinging half volleys and volleys, passing shots that flew past his opponent. Suddenly there was a recognition that nobody could stop the Serbian. The express train was hurtling through the countryside at frightening speed and victory for Djokovic was literally minutes away. The backhand was now fully fired up with the intensity of a compulsive winner. The Wimbledon champion wrapped up a semi final appearance.

And so the Wimbledon champion acknowledged the applause of the Wimbledon faithful because that was part of his job description. You wave at the Centre Court crowd, smile benignly at a sea of faces and marvel at the grandeur of it all, Wimbledon's charm, its people, its easy going conviviality, the enduring respect for the game in every global corner and the Pimms, the quintessential Englishness of the fortnight. We've seen it all before but our admiration is unrelenting. Bring on the Wimbledon semi finalists.