History does not record how Roger Federer or Rafael Nadal passed the 78 days during which Nato bombed Yugoslavia. Novak Djokovic, who turned 12 as he sheltered, has cause to remember his movements. Those who would begrudge this man his hard edges might consider where he got them.
At some point, perhaps New York next month, the Serb will become the greatest male tennis player ever. (Four more slams and the sex-qualifier will go.) At no point will he have been the most admired: not even second-most, not even of his era.
The mystery is why. His style is attritional, say purists, as though angels weep when Nadal plays. People who lived through Federer’s gold-monogram phase cite ego issues. Old fans of John McEnroe, that “character”, rue his temper. You are left snatching at theories as though he were first-serving them. The eternal hairline? Is it that annoying? The nationalism: how many in the lukewarm crowds even know of it?