All-conquering Novak Djokovic moves into house that Rafael Nadal built

N o longer the polite and begrudging ripple of applause. No longer the soft shuffle of designer shoes towards the exits. This time the sound of triumph would be resounding and unqualified: from the plush seats where Zlatan Ibrahimović and Tom Brady were on their feet, to the windswept upper tiers where the cascade of Serbian flags caught the evening Parisian light. Roland Garros, and by extension the lineage of men’s tennis, is now the house of Novak Djokovic.

He wore a royal red training top emblazoned with the number 23. He gave his victory speech in flawless French. And in the moments before he was called forward to accept the trophy, Djokovic was to be found reclining in his chair, eyes closed, a broad and cryptic smile on his face. He took his time, spoke for as long as he chose, because in your house you can do whatever you want.

For years this was the house of Rafael Nadal, and spiritually perhaps it still is. Nadal was not here to witness his all-time men’s grand slam title record being taken from him. But he will have been watching, bleakly aware that if it did not happen now it would happen in London, or New York, and there was nothing he or the gallant Casper Ruud could do about it.

The GOAT thing. Must we? Can we not? Perhaps the only remotely novel insight anyone can add to this insufferable pub debate is that men’s tennis has an opportunity to move beyond this wildly boring exercise in counting things and arguing about them. We get it: you have a favourite player and you like him very much. But can we now put a moratorium on this until Carlos Alcaraz gets to at least 15?

Ruud, who collapsed so spectacularly against Nadal 12 months ago, was at least a wiser and more resilient presence here. He arrived with