Apparently, Novak Djokovic has not said his last word. Infinite and colossal, the giant defends his kingdom in one of the most epic matches of his career, or so he describes it. Jim Courier summarizes at the foot of the court: “Novak, incredible once again.” 4-6, 6-4, 6-3 and 6-4, in 3h 37m. He will be the one who will face Alexander Zverev (7-6(1), 7-6(0), 2-6 and 6-1 Tommy Paul) in the semifinals on Friday, located two steps away from his 25th major. “Respect and admiration for Carlos,” he dedicates to Alcaraz, who retreats to the eliminated locker room, again in the quarterfinals. The Murcian will not close the circle of the greats yet, because there is the denial again: Nole, lord of the hard court. Master of Australia. He celebrates by roaring: “I have won this with my two arms and my two legs; well, leg and a half…”.
The warning is true: the cold weather is entering Melbourne and the temperature is dropping. And around nine-thirty, the wind begins to filter into the plant and the girl in 408 begins to feel cold, so she pulls on her sweater, crosses her arms to protect herself and, immediately, as she goes with her Dear Djokovic, he squeezes his boy’s thigh every time the Serbian adjusts poorly and the ball touches the line. “Oops!” “We!” Let’s see if he warms up that way. The honk of a truck sounds and she laughs listening to the debate of squawking that the seagulls keep up on the deck, at the same level as what is happening below. On the cement, good dynamite. Two generators of emotion: a 37-year-old man who knows everything and a 21-year-old boy who squeezes him with every ball.
The theme takes place between two opposite speeds. The impetuosity and fascinating accelerations of one, who is in a hurry to break down the door and complete the big four cloverleaf, and the slowdown proposed by the veteran, knowing that in the short distance he probably has everything to lose. In front there is a machine gun. Bodies on the ground. Burst! Alcaraz attacks each ball as if there were no tomorrow and tries to impose that electric Tennis that comes up against the wisdom of the druid, who bounces and bounces the ball until the end of days to see if it tempers the offensive, buys some time and can lead the game where he wants; that is, to the labyrinth. Where most humans see simple spaces, he sees and interprets the unsuspected.
Spider the break from the outset, but the Murcian is not in the business of competing along those lines and refines his attack to reply. More laughter from the woman, incredulous at that supersonic parallel backhand that cuts the wind, and that thigh is getting redder each time, because Alcaraz comes like a brave bull and the Serbian is beginning to have a hard time containing him. It’s a Tyson versus Ali. Give him both. Each one in their own way, with their style, different plans; The Spaniard throws one blow after another, the hammer being very powerful, and the Belgrade man gasps as if his oxygen bottle had already run out and he was going to fall exhausted. The first set has not finished. They exchange blows, Djokovic suffers a second break and goes to the locker room to have his left thigh bandaged. “The medication has helped,” he will say later; “I started to move better, it didn’t bother me in the end.”
Tension, a lot of tension
It must have been that forced support on the network. From then on, a limp is noticeable in his gait. He’s not going for the balls. “Make him run!” “Attack him, attack him!” “A aceCarlitos!” And Alcaraz seals the first set, but starts the second again in tow. If you give Djokovic a phalanx, he takes your entire body. And the fifth game is hell for the Murcian, who gets angry with the judge and tries to move it forward by varying heights and alternating rhythms, pulling on top hats; There goes the drop too, because everything and more is needed to perform at the Balkan, whatever the setting or situation. He has never beaten him hard and the challenge is more than succulent, but the respect is maximum, those Olympic tears are left behind and the monster can wake up at any moment.
-They shelter the Serbian, the loyal ones: “No-le, i-de-mo!”. The seagulls, owners of the place, are still partying and the poor ball girl can’t hold back the vomit; This second round is dyed with the red, blue and white of the flags that abound in the stands. Melbourne, lap for all. The Serbs cheer today. And Djokovic did his thing, who knows something about this, cooling down the match and winning a set that shortly before looked very different. Damn it, Alcaraz comes to say, aware that he could have gotten into a monumental mess because every inch granted to the one in front is an injection of poison that expands through his veins. Nole, The Mambahe has equalized and reads like no one else: the kid hesitates, then go for it. Hey, Carlos, start thinking.
Tension and more tension. And in those, there is one who has everything to win. “Please, that’s it! That’s it!”, the Spaniard gets angry with someone wandering in the background. Earlier he received a warning for being late with the serve and the old jackal continues to spread traps all over the court, threatening with the break in the third moto and, perhaps, delivering a lethal bite. He was dead, yes. But here it is, of course. Alive and kicking. Djokovic acting as Djokovic. In terms of competing, there is no one like him, master of the Rubik’s cube; The matches go around and around until the opponent ends up losing consciousness. Alcaraz’s game gets dirty, and he barely saves his serve until the rope finally breaks: “I knew it!”
There is no turning back, he has already fallen into the shark’s mouth. The champion of 24 majors is becoming immense and teaches a master’s degree in strategic control. Andy Murray, a northern guy, applauds him from the side. This time Nole has not needed his characteristic fire, but rather the cold. The balance that has dominated his game is what has been missing from an oscillating and overly accelerated Alcaraz, paradoxically very uncomfortable since he won the first set. Sign a hit and call the public, demand the giant in the final stretch. But it’s already written. There is no re-engagement. At 00:57 in the morning, Djokovic wins, the same one who appeared here in 2005 with dyed blonde bangs. He will be 38 years old. Simply extraordinary.
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