Novak Djokovic was in the Men's Vogue Magazine and in GQ recently, I'm posting here the photos and the article from the Vogue magazine that is very long...
The first photo is from Vogue and the rest from GQ
Men's tennis has been frozen at the top for years. Coming into 2008, 13 of the last 14 Grand Slam tournaments had been won either by Roger Federer or Rafael Nadal. Federer, the most dominant player in the history of the game, had appeared in 10 straight Grand Slam finals. That's like the Yankees appearing in 10 straight World Series — but only if Major League Baseball had 128 teams and every game were an elimination round. Federer has been the world's number one player every week for more than four years; Nadal, who rules the red clay with his colossal left arm, has been the number two for almost three years. Each of these runs is unprecedented — and what's more, nobody else has really been within shouting distance.
Until now. If you haven't yet made his acquaintance, allow me to introduce Novak Djoković. The name first registered with me a couple of years ago, when I'd heard about him publicly declaring his intention to become the world's top player. In the age of Federer, this was rank lèse-majesté — some trash-talking Serbian teenager who obviously didn't understand his place in the universe. Then I saw Djoković play. He was still raw, probably 18, but his gifts were prodigious. He was fast, rangy, smart; an all-court player with deep, heavy groundstrokes and a silky, unreadable serve. He even had good court manners — that is, he didn't seem like a jerk.
Djoković's game then seemed to mature at an unnatural speed. He beat Nadal in Miami in early 2007, becoming the first teenager to win that tournament since Andre Agassi in 1990. He made the semifinals at the 2007 French, and did the same at Wimbledon, losing to Nadal each time. Then, in August, he stormed through a glittering field in Montreal, defeating, in consecutive matches, the number three, number two, and number one players in the world — Andy Roddick, Nadal, and Federer. Djoković himself was soon the new number three. He reached the finals at the U.S. Open, where he held seven set points against Federer, converted none, and lost. Notice had been served, though. There was a new pretender to the throne.
There was also a new court jester. Djoković, whose English is good, had been showing an unusual ease in the spotlight all year. He made Boris Becker blush crimson when, after a tournament in California, he casually told a packed stadium, "You know, when my mother was giving me the milk, I was watching Boris winning the Wimbledon, and now he is giving me the trophy." At the U.S. Open, seconds after a tough quarterfinal win, a dim-witted TV interviewer asked Djoković to do a couple of his imitations, already renowned in tour locker rooms, of his fellow players. He reluctantly obliged, first taking off Nadal — sprinting around the baseline, elaborately adjusting his socks, then trying, even more elaborately, to get his crotch properly organized inside imaginary tight clam-diggers. He then did his Maria Sharapova, and managed to catch every bounce and hair-tuck tic of her pre-service routine, all with his ass stuck out just so. It was pro-level mimicry. The video clips became must-sees on YouTube, and New York fell hard for the big-hitting, bristle-haired kid from Belgrade. Robert De Niro sat in Djoković's player's box for the Open finals. So did Sharapova.
Roger Federer, though, was not amused. Asked at a press conference about Djoković's imitations, he said, "He's walking on a tightrope, for sure." Reporters, meanwhile, pressed Djoković to do his Federer. "I really cannot do Roger," he protested. "He's the untouchable one. He is too perfect." But then a grainy locker-room video surfaced featuring Djoković, egged on by other players, performing a hilarious Andy Roddick and then a show-stopping Federer. He catches Federer's way of holding his upper body on court and tossing his hair between points. But the devastating bit was the groundstrokes follow-through, which was startlingly Federeresque — except exaggerated, parodied, and unsubtly feminized. The other players in the locker room laugh themselves sick as Djoković prances around, fine-tuning the follow-through and then finishing by applauding himself and an imaginary stadium with a self-satisfied smile that's eerily Roger.
I asked Djoković, when we sat down in December, about Federer's tightrope comment. He seemed unfamiliar with it. "I don't see any reason why he should walk on a tightrope."
"No. He thinks you are."
"Oh."
Federer, it should perhaps be noted, is a supremely cool character, both on the court and off. He doesn't seem to have sweat glands. He dissects opponents with a terrible precision, and has been known to wear a cream-colored blazer onto Centre Court at Wimbledon — certainly the only player in the modern era who could carry that off. Nadal, the young bull from Mallorca, is, in his pirate pants and sleeveless muscle shirts, Federer's stylistic opposite. He arrives for matches drenched in sweat, roars or groans with every shot, and overpowers opponents with hustle and superhuman topspin. And now comes Djoković — known also, since New York, as the Djoker. On the sweaty-passion scale, he falls somewhere between the two. He plays with fire and flair, his hedgehog hair standing on end, and the world's tennis fans — most of them, at least — swoon. What few see, however, is the weird and heavy burden he carries everywhere simply because of where he comes from.
The air in Belgrade, even on a sunny winter morning, has a pervasive chemical tang — a toxic mix of coal smoke, bus exhaust, and the raw effluents of heavy industry. The city has actually fallen on hard times since the bloody dismemberment of Yugoslavia, though its standard of living has been falling for 25 years. Belgrade's leaders and their armies fought and lost four wars in the 1990s, and the territory they rule, which now consists of Serbia alone, continues to shrink with the recently declared independence of Kosovo, a rebel southern province. Serbia is, in short, a humbled and broken country, its international reputation blackened by the atrocities of ethnic cleansing — and the Serbs, always fond of salvation narratives, are these days in need of a redeemer.
From all appearances, they have settled on Djoković. His hatchet face, his burning eyes seem to be on every front page, on every billboard. "He has done more for this country than any politician," my first Belgrade cabdriver told me. A visitor has to remind himself frequently that Djoković is just a tennis player — a tennis player who is now 20. When Djoković comes home from the tour, the prime minister meets him at the airport; thousands of people gather for frenzied celebrations outside City Hall. Tennis, never before a big sport in Serbia, is suddenly the country's consuming passion. It's not simply that Djoković — along with two other locals, Jelena Janković and Ana Ivanović, rising stars on the women's circuit — has lately shown people that tennis can be a road to fame and fortune. It's also, poignantly, that he presents to the outside world an infinitely more attractive face than the sinister gangsters and seedy war criminals whom most foreigners learned to associate with Serbs in recent years. At least that's what I think that cabbie meant.
It's hard to overstate the extent of Novakmania. When he and I meet, at the modest offices of his family's sports-marketing business out in the concrete-block sprawl of New Belgrade, he sits at a desk, lanky and loose-jointed, wearing jeans and a rumpled white collarless shirt. He extols the charms of the medieval city just across the river — the traditional Serbian restaurants, the great old neighborhoods, the nightclubs — known as splavovi — on barges in the Danube. Unfortunately, he admits, he can no longer walk through the streets of his hometown. "People recognize me and — I don't want to say bother me — but they just come up. It's not really relaxing. All eyes on you."
This is true even when he's halfway across the world. After Djoković beat Federer in Montreal, the awards emcee described him as a Croatian. Djoković gently corrected him — too gently, according to Serbian nationalists back home. Debates about his patriotism raged in the Belgrade papers. At other times, he has inflamed anti-nationalists by flashing the Serbian three-fingered victory salute after matches. To many Balkan people, this salute is deeply ominous. It was the signature gesture of the Serbian militias — Milošević's death squads — in Bosnia and Croatia and Kosovo. Djoković told me, defensively: "I'm not extremist. Three fingers is our symbol. It's like you have two fingers for peace. Three fingers is for us, for Serbia. That's what all the people throughout the history of this country did, when they are successful and when they want to show where they're from." (That is not quite true — the salute was popularized in the early 1990s by Vuk Drašković, a nationalist intellectual. But, to be fair, young Serbs like Djoković grew up with it, and most don't associate it with war.) At any rate, Djoković says he's not even interested in politics.
Still, there's no escaping such things in Serbia. The basic question facing the country today is whether to turn toward Europe in hopes of joining the E.U. or toward Putin's Russia, which wants Serbia in its orbit. This decision has historic implications, and Serbs are fiercely divided over it. Djoković comes down on the side of the E.U., which he thinks promises greater prosperity and a chance to leave the dark past behind. But the loss of Kosovo — and the E.U. has strongly backed its independence — is a very painful business for most Serbs, including Djoković. His father, Srdjan, comes from Kosovo, and as a result Novak considers it his true home. Joining Europe, moreover, means joining the enemy from the last Yugoslav war in 1999, when NATO bombers pounded Belgrade with thousands of airstrikes for 78 days. Young Djoković was there throughout the terror. "Very bad memories," he says. "It's something which I don't really like to talk about."
That year — 1999 — is, however, another inescapable subject. Lining a wall of the room where we talk are many trophies, but the one that Djoković jumps up to show me is an odd-looking gold-plated spire that he received after playing a local charity match. "Do you see this tower?" he asks. "It's called Avala Tower. This tower is a symbol for Belgrade. Whenever you come to the city from the south, you see this. It was the biggest radio and TV transmitter in our country, and NATO forces, they crushed it. Now they're planning to build a beautiful, even taller one, so we were playing a charity exhibition to raise money for the rebuilding." Djoković relates this story without rancor. War happens; it's horrific; he's just doing his bit for his town.
The Serbian Tennis Federation has no courts, no training facilities. So how did the country, with less than 10 million people and no strong tennis tradition, suddenly begin producing world-class players? Dušan Orlandić, the Federation's general manager, told me, "It's like we had a garage for a Yugo, which was the world's worst car, and then one day we get up and find parked in there a Ferrari, a Lamborghini, and a Formula One car." Janko Tipsarević, another young pro from Belgrade, reckons it may have been something in the depleted uranium of all those NATO bombs.
Djoković says he started playing tennis only because, when he was four years old, somebody built three courts across the road from his family's pizzeria in a ski village. Nobody else in his family played, but he would carry beers from the restaurant to the builders, and when the courts were finished they let him knock a ball around. "It was really like a destiny," he says. Jelena Genc?ić, the godmother of Yugoslav tennis, who is now in her seventies, took him on as a student. She found him unusually serious, and remembers him declaring, at the age of six or seven, on a local children's TV program, his determination to become the top tennis player in the world. (So that schtick started early.) When, at the age of 12, he ran out of useful competition in wartime Serbia, Genc?ić sent him to a top-flight tennis academy in Munich, where he flourished. Djoković's parents shared a cramped flat with three sons and borrowed privately to pay for more stints in Germany.
These days, with the winnings from their big gamble rolling in — Novak earned almost $4 million last year in prize money — those friends who helped the family have been repaid with interest. According to Genc?ić, though, the Djokovićes "can no longer answer their phones. So many people asking for money." They've created a charity focused on helping Serbian children in Kosovo, and while I was in town they held a giant fund-raiser for the children's wing of a hospital there, hiring Belgrade Arena, one of the largest indoor venues in Europe, for a mixed-doubles exhibition starring Djoković and the other Serbian pros. Family Sport, the Djokovićes' sports-marketing business, organized the event, and Novak's uncle Goran — a tall, friendly, ungainly guy with a permanently ringing cellphone — was in charge of logistics.
Family Sport's sole product, for now, is Novak, and the line of Novak paraphernalia being rolled out for the fund-raiser was impressive. There was your Novak key chain, your Novak CD case, water bottle, ballpoint pen, T-shirt, MP3 case. There was a Novak yo-yo. All this stuff would go like hotcakes, Goran assured me, inspecting the display cases. He pointed out a tennis ball the size of a basketball embossed with an image of Novak hitting a forehand. "We sold two thousand of those at Davis Cup," he said. Djoković led Serbia to a Davis Cup victory over Australia in September at Belgrade Arena, drawing the largest, most rabid crowd in the Cup's 100-year history. Goran agreed that the intensity of Novak worship in Serbia could hardly be greater, but other sales territories are a different story. "Worldwide, we are waiting," he said, "because we are in no hurry. Because we believe he will rule tennis for the next 10 years. We know the potential of Novak. We are expecting Adidas to make a Novak line. We expect to get full value for Novak's quality."
Marketing is, of course, not Novak's job. Tennis is. And the family's first priority, his uncle said, is to not get in the way of his game. "Our duty is to keep him relaxed," Goran said. "There is too much pressure on him. People are pushing him from every side."
To escape some of those people, Djoković recently moved to Monte Carlo. There were, to be sure, other reasons to make that move — low taxes; mild weather; good training facilities; his longtime girlfriend studying nearby in Milan. But I believed Djoković when he said that, if he could just get some privacy in his hometown, he'd rather be in Belgrade. The demands on him seemed incessant. During the days I was there, he couldn't even find time to hit. He finally cleared an hour — by making the prime minister, who was eager for another photo op before Djoković left town, cool his heels.
Training — fitness, flexibility, tennis drills, friendly matches — necessarily fills most of a touring pro's time between tournaments. But there is also the battle planning, the analysis. For Djoković, as for Nadal, this includes a lot of thinking about Federer's game. How do you neutralize the most lethal, multi-faceted combination of weapons the sport has ever seen?
I asked Djoković about it.
"Roger is the best player in the world," he said. "So I have a big respect for him." He paused. "But nobody's perfect. Even though they call him Mr. Perfect, nobody's unbeatable." He gave a little laugh that was more like a mental clearing of the throat, then laid out, with dispassionate thoroughness, two schools of thought about Federer's game — one emphasizing the ferocity of his forehand, the other highlighting the matchless variety of his backhand. "Both of these stories are true," he concluded, "but maybe I believe that, on his backhand side, you have more chances to develop a good opportunity for the winner. Maybe open up the court."
This was an enormous simplification of a plan that would involve some very complex mechanics. It also assumed an absurdly high level of execution. Djoković was talking about taking away some of Federer's time to prepare on his backhand side in order to seize any opportunity to attack. In Montreal in August, the only time Djoković had defeated Federer in their six meetings, the plan had worked. "Just put him in this uncomfortable zone — that's what I managed to do, and that's why he was making some unusual mistakes, and that's why I won." By the time they played again a few weeks later at the U.S. Open, though, Federer had made some minor adjustments, and Djoković's strategy gave him less trouble.
Now, though, he had a charity event to host. Djoković took the stage at Belgrade Arena — which seats 20,000, and was sold out — to the theme from Rocky. He was then unable to speak for minutes while the entire arena rocked with the chant "Novak! Novak!" A big courtside section of seats was filled with young kids in red shirts from Kosovo, reportedly brought to town by the busload at Djoković's expense. The evening's program included folk dancers, pop singers, rock bands, acrobats, and nervous under-16 doubles. Djoković seemed utterly comfortable as emcee, leaving the crowd roaring with jokes I couldn't understand. I tried to picture another tennis player — any other athlete — in this role. It was like Jon Stewart and Eli Manning inhabiting the same body. Then, late in the evening, Djoković took the mike and crooned a romantic popular song. Tipsarević came in on the chorus, and the whole arena sang along.
Djoković and Federer met in January at the Australian Open semifinals. Djoković had been in terrific form since the opening round, not dropping a set in his six previous matches. Federer's performance had been less steady, but he had, as usual, found ways to win without his A-game and was still the heavy favorite to win the whole thing. Federer, people liked to say, was no longer playing opponents — he was playing history. With 12 Grand Slam titles in the bag, he needed just two more to tie Pete Sampras for the all-time record.
Through the first few games he and Djoković traded clean blows, each holding serve. Djoković seemed nervous. He kept changing racquets, fiddling with the strings, as if they might be at the wrong tension. Federer seemed unnaturally calm, almost grim. The contrast in their playing styles did not flatter Djoković. Next to Federer's uncommonly beautiful strokes, his game looked merely efficient, orthodox, powerful. His two-handed backhand, though widely feared, cannot compare in form with the amazing number of variations in Federer's full-extension one-hander. In the eighth game of the first set, Federer jumped on a few second-serves and quickly broke Djoković. It was unclear what, if anything, Djoković was doing to impose his game plan on the match.
Then, just two points from losing the first set 6-3, Djoković seemed to find another gear. He took a high backhand, leaping several feet off the court to create a crosscourt angle that he could drive flat, and from there blasted a shot that seemed to stun Federer with both its pace and its improbability. Djoković started pounding balls deep to Federer's backhand corner and then treated his formidable defensive slices like opportunities, stepping into the court and smashing winners. Federer's rhythm was disrupted, and Djoković proceeded to go on the sort of run against the world number one that nobody has managed in years. He won nine of the next 10 games and was soon ahead two sets to love.
Djoković was covering the court so effortlessly now that he made Federer, who is extremely quick, look sluggish. The challenger grabbed virtually every opportunity to attack, slamming short balls away for angled winners, coming boldly to net and daring Federer to pass him. Federer's passing shots are, I believe, the finest single aspect of his game. Flicked or hammered, dipping or bullet-straight, they regularly alter one's idea of the possible in tennis. They often have to be studied in super-slow-mo replay before they can be understood — and some remain mysteries still. They routinely destroy the morale of his opponents. Against Djoković in Australia, however, Federer could not buy a passing shot. Djoković won it in straight sets.
The crowd in Melbourne, unlike New York, didn't take to him, though. They rooted for Federer, and in the final they supported — vociferously — Djoković's opponent, who was not Nadal. The world No. 2 had also fallen in the semis, in his case to a lumbering young Frenchman named Jo-Wilfried Tsonga. The duopoly that has owned men's tennis in recent years was finally looking vincible. But why did the Aussies root, increasingly raucously, against Djoković? Perhaps it was because Djoković has still not learned the aw-shucks demeanor that remains de rigueur for tennis champions. Australians in particular value manly self-effacement; Djoković would pound his chest after big points, and after victories naively announce that he was "very proud of myself."
But Djoković didn't let the crowd at the final distract him overly. He beat Tsonga in four sets. It was his first Grand Slam title, and a big step toward his lifelong goal. Djoković kissed the court, embraced Tsonga, took the microphone, and thanked his family. He said, referring to Tsonga, "I know the crowd wanted him to win more. That's O.K., it's all right. I still love you guys, don't worry." The Australians seemed genuinely disarmed by this piece of graciousness. Then Djoković's thoughts turned homeward. "I think it's going to be a crazy house back in Serbia," he said. That sounded about right.
(www.mensvogue.com)
Article and photos from www.novak-djokovic.com and Vogue
First photo - Photographed by Frederike Helwig at the Monte Carlo Country Club in Monaco, where Djoković now lives and trains.
The other photos from GQ Magazine
