Sunday evening in New York. It was the end of an extraordinarily long year for Novak Djokovic, one which began in Australia in a government-imposed lockdown he had tried to arrogantly circumvent.
The year had taken him to victories in Melbourne, in Paris and in Wimbledon. And at the moment of final vindication, as he appeared poised to win all four Grand Slam tournaments in a calendar year . . . Novak Djokovic had failed.
He was two sets down, with his opponent Daniil Medvedev about to serve for the championship, and he broke down in tears. His lower lip began to wobble as he made his way to his seat, and when he got there, he covered his head with his towel, but people could see he was wracked with tears.
It’s hard to overstate just how difficult it is to win all four Grand Slam tournaments in one year. It requires you to peak four times in nine months, and win against the toughest fields in your given sport, across three completely different surfaces.
Seeing him struggle with his technique, struggle with his game; seeing him lose, basically, was all the New York fans wanted to see
Djokovic has reached a level of dominance in his sport which suggests he might get another shot at it, but you wouldn’t be banking on it either.
So, having lost what might be his only chance at true sporting immortality, why did he say on Sunday night – “My heart is filled with joy and I’m the happiest man alive?” Because he had finally felt the love of the crowd.
Tennis fans have long reacted to Djokovic’s relentless excellence with a shrug. But seeing him struggle with his technique, struggle with his game; seeing him lose, basically, was all the New York fans wanted to see. This obviously touched him deeply.
To which I say – come off it, Novak.
Why are you investing so much in trying to impress a bunch of spoilt, boozed up, trust-fund babies?
Part of Djokovic’s appeal as a ‘heel’, to borrow a phrase from professional wrestling, is that he wants so desperately to be loved, and can’t understand it when he isn’t. ‘The happiest man alive’? Boos should be your oxygen, for God’s sake.
'No one likes us, we don't care' might as well be on the county crest
Which brings us, of course, to Tyrone. The day a Tyrone footballer describes getting the love and respect of his fellow Gaels in defeat as the happiest day of his life, is the day that will prompt the county to withdraw from the All-Ireland championship altogether.
There’s a refreshing honesty to that. They have the clear-sightedness to see it, and use it. ‘No one likes us, we don’t care’ might as well be on the county crest.
Anthony Daly has often talked about how his Clare team was loved first, then tolerated, and then told to get off the stage once they had won their two All-Irelands. That arc might start to sound vaguely familiar to the current Limerick hurlers.
But Tyrone never even bothered with the first two parts of that. Their honeymoon period at the top ended before they’d even won their first All-Ireland title, when they had the temerity to bundle Kerry out of the 2003 All-Ireland semi-final.
One of the great mis-remembered things about that semi-final was that beforehand it was billed as two of the best forward units in the country coming head to head. Tyrone had scored 1-21 in their quarter-final, Kerry had scored the same. We expected Tyrone to lose, but we also expected them to lose in the right way. Their 13-6 win was a shock on multiple levels.
Even if the well of public sympathy seemed to be running pretty dry for Mayo this week, they are still one of the great stories of Irish sport
Tragedy could and should have changed hearts and minds, and when that didn’t, even the luminous football of 2005 barely stood a chance. There was something too flinty, too hard-edged for anyone to get behind, it seemed. It was said that they had introduced sledging to the game, which is more likely than not a gross exaggeration, even if perhaps they brought new enthusiasm to its usage.
By the time 2008 came around, Tyrone were well past looking for the approval of the neutral. In 2018, even with Dublin going for a four-in-a-row, the game crying out for a new winner, there were plenty who’d rather the devil they knew. And so to this week, when they might well feel that Mayo losing the All-Ireland final was treated as a bigger story than them winning it.
Maybe that’s true. Even if the well of public sympathy seemed to be running pretty dry for Mayo this week, they are still one of the great stories of Irish sport – in the same way that the Boston Red Sox trying to end a barren run of 80 years without a World Series was a huge story in American sport. A fixation with a team that finds new ways to lose is nothing new or unique.
All Tyrone do is win. Consistently over-perform, consistently do the right thing to develop footballers, and consistently take their chances when they present themselves. This isn’t a popularity contest, and they know it better than anyone. Doughty, indecipherable, and, in the summer of 2021, dominant.
