Djokovic the Villain

Zhao Xingyu

“I can't stay No. 1 for fifty years, you know. We'll see what happens.”
– Roger Federer

The last rally of the 2008 Australian Open lasted only two shots. Djokovic was to serve; he was gracefully heron-like in contrast to how violent the ball was, which went faster than the average F1 race speed at over 110 mph. Tsonga, as expected, struggled in his return, but the ball which was just in at the baseline caught Djokovic off guard. The resulting shot was high, top-spinless, and Tsonga prepared himself for a furious winner, but in a rare display of unforced error he hit the ball in the ad (left) alley. It was out.

The crowd erupted; Djokovic fell to the ground, head in his hands, screaming. In the post-match interview, Djokovic told us that he thought the crowd preferred Tsonga to win, and the crowd laughed. Every time I ask the members at the Nanyang Technological University Tennis Club, partly in jest, as to why Djokovic is so apparently hated in the community, they will point to the Open as the start of Djokovic’s villainy. He crushed the underdog dreams of Tsonga; he ended the hopes of Federer who was in his prime.  He declared to the world that he was now here to vanquish everyone else; this was his first Grand Slam win. What Djokovic has done in the years since the Open has not really helped his reputation. He was quickly labelled the enfant terrible of tennis. He gets frustrated quickly, and in every major tournament he goes to he smashes a racquet or two. More recently, in the US Open, he was disqualified after he lashed out by hitting a ball out of play which ended up bashing a line judge in the throat[1]. Sometimes I think about what Djokovic does during my own play, when I get so consumed by an incandescent rage that I would lash out in similar ways. Curiously, when one gets angry during tennis, it is always directed towards yourself, never at others. I remember during a varsity tournament I screwed up the easiest shot in the world – the ball was lobbed, and all I needed to do was smash it down such that the rebound would be way too high for my opponent to return[2]. However, what I did next was so embarrassing I almost cried – I could see the ball soaring over the ten feet walls into oblivion. I wanted to quit the match right there and then, but the members of my team noticed this, and shouted from the stands for me to calm down and carry on. Even during practice rallies, I would sometimes curse under my breath and my doubles partner would pretend not to notice under his consternated smile.

One day, after a particularly bad club session, one of my court partners approached me. He was from China, and consequently spoke English with a thick accent. Up until then, I had not paid him much attention; I tended only to keep mental tabs on the better players than me. He sauntered over, sweat dripping down his stubble. In a half-mocking tone, he said, ‘Hey dude, I can’t help but notice that your form is wrong. You need to use your waist more.’ I was shocked, of course; I immediately wanted to tell him to ‘Screw off’. Instead, I laughed, and said, ‘So, will you help coach me then?’

He laughed too and said, ‘Sure, add me on WeChat.’ Of course, I never did add him, nor did I rally with him again. Still, I could not help but see him at the practice rallies, and over time I realised that what I thought was just a passing crude remark was something far more insidious. Every time I saw him, I wondered if he was actually right, that the technique that I’ve worked on for 16 years was flawed. I also began to suspect that he did this to get a mental edge, to get himself selected over me for upcoming competitions. I began to train much harder, playing tennis for up to four hours consecutively. In the end, I was selected and he was not; but now that I think about it, I felt that it was the beginning of a catabatic spiral for me, this feeling of always needing to be better and never forgiving yourself for the slightest of faults. To me, the stakes are higher now. And that means my outbursts are far more frequent, far more intense. I can never let myself off. I found myself heading down that path once again, a path as familiar as an old friend. I traversed it many times when I was a child.

Before learning tennis, I had no predilection towards any type of sport. I was spending my time playing video games, a habit which began when I broke my right arm and, finding myself unable to do any work, took an interest in the magical gadgets my father owned. I didn’t realise how lucky I was back then; my father owned computers when most households in Singapore did not own one, and he trusted a seven-year-old to play around with them. I have fond memories of the early titles I experienced; I loved commanding enemies in Age of Empires II, trying to defeat the difficult AI, and attempting to unravel the secrets of Warcraft: The Frozen Throne. Contrary to what my parents say about a video game addiction, I shunned sports for another, greater, reason. Every time I tried to join the neighbourhood children when they were playing football at the behest of my mother, it was always deeply unpleasant. I was the fat kid, and as every Singaporean knows, the fat kid will always be assigned to be the goalkeeper. I was spending my Saturday afternoons looking at the back of Manchester United football jerseys, dreaming about when I would get a chance to be the slim, fleet-footed striker, scoring the goal that would seal the game and savouring the ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ of the girls at the sidelines. Of course, it was always during this time where the opponent striker materialises, putting the tamest of shots into the net, prompting a fusillade of nasty insults directed at me and my family. I think the incident which affected me the most was the one time when I conceded a free kick. The ball was so fast I knew I would have broken bones if I blocked it; instead, I swerved to the side, letting it glide past. There was an immediate uproar, and I was almost dragged off the field. I was bawling but it did not matter – from that day on I was barred from ever joining them again.

My dad must have noticed my inordinate glumness after, and he first suggested that I play tennis with him. It was surprising because even when I wanted to, he never allowed me on the court. He was very honest about it – he would tell me that, ‘You are not good enough to play with me.’ I accepted his offer out of curiosity and quickly realised that tennis was a sport I greatly enjoyed and excelled at. Soon, I was the one who was dragging him at six in the morning and extending our rally sessions. During this time, he was also the one to send me for tennis classes. The coach was a real estate agent by the name of Keith, and for every class he was dressed in all white. He spoke in a mournful tone every time we failed to live up to expectations; if I could not complete my seven laps around the court, he told me, ‘Xingyu, how are you this weak and slow?’ Over time, I began to fear him. In three weeks, I was considered an ‘intermediate player’, and was playing with kids who were much taller and burlier than me. I also began perfecting my serve, and most matches would be called off earlier in my favour because I was acing every point. I decided that my serve was something that could never be taken away from me; I watched Roddick on repeat[3]. Keith noticed this, and he told me that, ‘Your serve is good, it’s better than some adults I know.’ It was the first time I had ever heard him say something positive; I think I cried then.

A year later I found myself in my first tournament, and of course I had hopes of winning; in fact, with my prowess I believed I had already won. It was a cold, windy day in Bishan, and the court I was playing on was the colour of springtime daffodils. My opponent I never knew the name of – all I could remember was that he had an expression like that of a frightened mouse. The first two sets I cruised through, but some way along the third set I double faulted[4]. In the time I took tennis seriously, this had never happened before. In an act of unbridled and uncontrollable rage, I smashed my neon yellow racquet and watched the strings splinter as if they were broken pasta. I was automatically disqualified, but it never had any lasting consequences. My parents treated it with indifference, and strangely Keith became even warmer towards me. During practices, he started to ignore the other three kids, almost exclusively coaching only me. After these practices ended, he would require me to stay back for an hour to practice my serve. Every time we were done, he would grab my shoulder and say, ‘Now, let’s hope you don’t double fault again.’

 There was this time during practice when I hit a serve so hard it rocketed out of the court before landing on a girl’s back who was sitting at the benches. She crumpled to the ground and started sobbing. Eight-year-old me felt the worst feeling imaginable and thought I might get arrested. Keith stood up, looking furious. Instead of walking towards me, he started screaming in her direction, ‘I told you not to stand so near to the courts!’ Then, he waved a hand for us to carry on. When I asked him about this after training and suggested that she might be seriously injured, he laughed and waved me away. ‘Remember this. Nothing can stand in the way of the game.’     

Still feeling bad about it, I decided to confide in my dad afterwards. Barely looking up from his Chinese drama, he told me that everything was fine and that accidents do happen. As an afterthought, he said, ‘Xingyu, you’d do well to watch your temper. You’re no longer a little kid anymore.’ With a casual flick of the wrist, he dismissed me.    

In my adolescence, many might say that I harboured the same anger. They might be right. I still rallied with him on the weekends then, him already 60 but still as fast as ever. His one-handed backhand would constantly make me think of switching my two-handed one over – any time he sensed the opportunity to (which were many) he would first open his stroke, like the blooming of a flower, then with a rotation of his hip send a ball impossible to return because from the net it created a twenty-degree angle. However, we did not exchange many words; after our matches, I would inevitably be in a foul mood due to yet another loss, and I would leave the court first, having my dad pick up the balls. This was also around the time when we started supporting different players. My dad always idolised Federer, and I have always joined him in cheering him on from behind a screen. We always anticipated the next ‘Federer Moment’, which would have us ecstatic and high-fiving each other[5]. But, one afternoon I received news that a young Serbian upstart was upsetting top players and reaching the finals, and sometimes even winning, several majors. Slowly, I became enamoured with him – I loved his power baseline game and his impeccable shot placements, but above all I loved his cockiness[6]. In my mind then, Djokovic had a right to his ego, and I enjoyed the on-court drama he created when he would receive violations for ‘racquet abuse’. The deciding rift between my dad and I happened when we watched the finals of the 2015 Wimbledon. I was supporting Djokovic, and my dad was feverishly hoping for Federer to topple the defending champion. When it became clear that Djokovic was going to win the final set 6-3, he groaned in frustration and moved to turn off the television. I told him that times change and that he needed to recognise Djokovic was the new king of tennis. He looked me in the eye and said, ‘You’re like him; you are no skill, all ego. Get out of my room.’                                   

I did not have much luck with competitions either during these cursed six years. I think back to the time in Junior College where things got extremely heated – after another tournament loss, my teammate approached me to give me some pointers on how to improve in the future, and I took that personally. I was screaming in the face of my teammate, and we had to be physically separated. From then on, I was given the sobriquet of ‘The Beast’, although not without a snigger.

A few months ago, I was given the title of ‘advanced player’ by the club after much hard training. I feel that over this time I have mellowed out considerably – I was lucky to meet new coaches in the club who were unfailingly supportive, and consequently my play improved. They were NTU students as well, just a year older than me, and much of practice was dedicated to making sure that I remained stolid under pressure through constant reminders to, ‘Focus, focus.’ I was so happy about the achievement that when I got home, I told my dad. Instead of showing any emotion, he beckoned me over and suggested that we play some tennis. We have not played together in years. After the match, which was played as if our lives depended on it, I asked him, ‘What do you think? Have I improved greatly?’ He replied in Chinese, ‘It just boggles my mind greatly how someone with such strange tennis posture can ever be considered an advanced player.’                                                    

All these years he had never told me. I, like a fool, had carried on believing that I was a great player, and in many ways my technique was beyond reproach. As much as I did not want to believe it, I could not doubt my dad’s judgement – he would always be my authority on tennis. It was the first time I considered quitting the sport altogether, and for many weeks I refused to touch tennis and was in a half-catatonic state, because much of my world just like that was extirpated in an instant.

On September 12th, when the sky above the Sports and Recreation Centre was violet with hues of diaphanous yellow, it all came back to me.                                                                                                   

It was just a friendly with a friend of mine, something I could not say no to, and while there we decided to play a proper match. ‘Just like the pros’, he laughed. It was match point in my favour and I felt the adrenaline eating me from the inside. The ensuing rally lasted 12 shots, ending with the crescendo of a sliced drop shot which just tipped over the net. As I saw him struggling and panting, futilely trying to reach the ball curling like touch-me-nots, I saw Djokovic again.                                                                                                                            

He was playing Nadal in the semifinals of the 2021 Roland-Garros. I saw him serve, heron-like, right through the middle, the ball clocking in at 129mph. The subsequent 12 shot rally died with Djokovic slicing the ball into a corner when Nadal was committed behind the baseline. I heard the crowd erupt and saw fists fly into the air. I heard Andrew Castle say, ‘Well that is just bloody brilliant isn’t it.’ I saw the faces of my family through the crowd, my father, my mother, my younger brother. I thought I even saw Keith’s sweat-soaked brow somewhere.    

Suddenly, I swear I could feel the warm French air on my forehead and the prickle of fabric as the ball boy hands me a towel. I could feel myself being led onto the podium and a microphone being shoved into my face. A distant voice said, ‘Hey man, are you OK?’ but I chose to hear the other one, which said, ‘So how does it feel that now you’ve won your 19th Grand Slam?’ But I couldn’t speak; all I knew was that I was on the floor, being kissed by the soft red clay. I was shaking, laughing, crying.