And just like that, here we are, on the precipice of sporting immortality, Novak Djokovic, just one Wimbledon win away from joining Margaret Court as statistically, the greatest tennis player of all time.

Get excited, people – 24 Grand Slam titles – this could well be the moment – history in the making.

Yeah, yeah….nah.

It’s not that we don’t admire Novak – extraordinary athlete and all. With some of the manoeuvres he produces on court, he wouldn’t be out of place in Cirque de Soleil.

And mental fortitude? You’d swear somebody could hammer a nail into his forehead and he wouldn’t flinch. Even the pure longevity – Djokovic won his first Grand Slam in 2008, when current world No 1 Carlos Alcaraz was four years of age.

So no question, Novak has earned a place in our minds. I’m just not sure he’s ever earned a place in our hearts.

Certainly not like Federer. I saw Roger on social media during the week, hitting up with the Duchess of Cambridge – he still looks in pretty good nick. Couldn’t we drag Roger out of retirement? Just for a couple more years?

Professional tennis is in an interesting place in mid 2023 – at one level bursting at the seams with emerging superstars, at another level, devoid of names and personalities who ignite our over indulged senses.

Case in point, Casper Ruud, the rising Norwegian star who remarkably, at the age of 24 has already played in three Grand Slam finals, without anybody but the true tennis devotees having the faintest idea who he is. “Casper the Ghost” – allow me to be the 12,000th person to serve up the corny pun.

Post Ash Barty and Serena Williams, the women’s game is also noticeably dimension-deprived, the world top 50 over-run with a new breed of Eastern European “ova’s” and “enko’s”, who we’re still getting to know. That’s not their fault. Australia can be slow in transitioning from one sporting era to the next, our focus distracted by the abundance of lifestyle and leisure choices. In our privileged world, pro tennis for many is just another passing attraction.

All of the above perhaps explains why I’m a little luke warm about Wimbledon this year.

As a kid I used to stay up until all hours, sprawled out on the carpet in front of the fireplace, watching set after set in the company of my elderly grandmother, who as a leading Australian amateur, qualified for the main draw of the tournament in 1926.

I recall her being mildly confused by the arrival of “action replays” on television.

“Ooooh, there’s another ace. Two in a row”

“No Gran, that’s just…never mind.”

Such fond memories. The mercurial head-banded Bjorn Borg, the diving flame-haired teenage dynamo Boris Becker, Jimmy Connors’ searing double handed backhand, and of course the verbal volleys and inspector gadget hands of the “Super Brat” John McEnroe. What an era.

Perhaps 10 years later, I made it to the hallowed grounds myself, having queued for five hours along Church Road, the banter and camaraderie among fellow ticket hopefuls almost as entertaining as the tennis itself.

Peering up at the giant walls of ivy that entomb centre court, while supping on a seven quid punnet of strawberries and cream, the All England Lawn Tennis (and Croquet) Club was every bit as grand as I expected.

I was still in London in 1987, crammed into the Hansom Cab pub in Kensington, in between generous gulps of Carlsberg Lager cheering loudly for Pat Cash as he disposed of Ivan Lendl in the final, and then like a border collie over a mob of sheep, climbed up into the grandstand to greet his supporters.

Ah. those were the days.

Sorry, where were we? That’s right – Djokovic.

A tennis fanatic mate hastened to point out that Novak in 2023 is also on track to win the “Grand Slam of Grand Slams” – all four majors in the same calendar year, a feat last achieved by Rod Laver in 1969. No open-minded observer of excellence would deny the enormity of that. So there’s another reason for us to tune in.

Curiously, we’ve got this far “talking” tennis without any mention of Nick Kyrgios.
Remember him?

On account of niggling injuries, Nick hasn’t played for some nine months. The 28 year-old (where did those years go?) is still not sure he’s going to pull on the whites at Wimbledon, but let’s hope so. As much at times he’s hard to cheer for, he’s even harder not to watch. Like that overturned semi trailer on the highway, you feel compelled to slow down and take a passing peek.

Upon reflection, I think that’s the key to enjoying Wimbledon this year. Read up, slow down, and take a passing peek.

With a concentrated effort, we might even come to fully appreciate “The Joker” for whom and what he seems destined to become.

The greatest tennis player who’s ever set foot on court.