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There are a few things that Andy knows to be indisputably true about Novak Djokovic.
Those things are like the Ten Commandments: a kind of rules which are set in stone, doomed to rest unchanged over the centuries - some so blatant that pretty nobody could ignore them, and not only the ones who’ve known Novak for a while, like Andy himself.
Among those things are the following:
- Novak hates Roger Federer’s guts. (Yet, nobody knows that one day he will try to kiss Roger and grope him through his pants and he will be ingloriously hard for him - and that while hating Roger all the same, because body and soul hardly ever want the same thing.)
- Novak is sick in love with Rafael Nadal and yet he never got to really touch Rafa, either through his pants or not. (Still, nobody knows that Novak will have his chance, in a few years, and blow it because he doesn’t want to disrespect the man he loves. In fact, Roger may profess to be the only one who truly loves Rafa - with Novak only wanting to bed him - but the truth is always a little different from what Roger usually thinks.)
- Novak hates to lose, always and however - thus, he hates anyone and anything reminding him of his defeats.
As a result, bringing up any of those three topics with Novak is most likely to end up greatly ailing him, and driving him either to the brink of madness or depression, depending on the context and his mood of the moment.
But when Novak wastes his third shot at a title since the beginning of 2025, Andy, as Novak’s coach, finds himself walking in very uncomfortable shoes. Shoes that feel even tighter as Novak’s friend, and send metaphorical jolts of pain throughout Andy’s body.
When Novak loses to Matteo in Doha, he gets very cranky, to put it mildly. While Andy is still taking his time - racking his brains about a way to get off the hook - Novak deals with it his own way. That is, in order:
- In the first few hours, he rants and raves at any poor wretch who’s luckless enough to run into him - then he stops talking to everyone at all.
- The next day, he catches a flight to Montecarlo. He’s presumably going to lock himself away from the world in the sumptuous residence he bought over there - just one of the many he owns around the world, in fact - and to enjoy his private tennis court alone, without his staff and especially without his coach.
- He’s not been answering his phone since then. Or emails. Or whatsoever. Andy knows from Jelena that he only calls every other day to speak to Stefan and Tara, then he hangs up, refusing to talk to his own wife as well.
Jelena may be used to the Novak treatment, but Andy is not Novak’s wife. He’s not going to grin and bear it. He texts Novak several times a day for the first few days - and his messages are sympathetic and indulging first, but then they get harsher and harsher with each passing day and eventually terse and brutally honest when he realizes that, no matter what he says and how, all he can get from Novak is the same haughty, affronted silence.
Andy is a nice tolerant man, everybody says that, but his patience is starting to run short. When even his last exasperated text (“Novak, stop being a twat, for God’s sake! It’s no use acting like a child, can’t you see?”) falls on deaf ears, it’s his turn, now, to get really, really annoyed.
It’s the first time Andy is experiencing firsthand the fierce passive-aggressiveness for which Novak is famous - and he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it all. He’s lost his temper with Novak a few times before - and who could blame him for that, for not having the patient of a saint, after all? - but he thinks Novak’s gone too far this time. So he makes his decision - a little bit on the spur of the moment, but still: he’s going to Montecarlo, and try to talk some sense into that hard head of his.
And if Novak doesn’t like the surprise, too bad for him.
In Andy’s opinion, a coach worthy of this name knows when to go hard on a misbehaving pupil.
While many coaches, nowadays, tend to be too lenient with young players - just like Juanki with Carlos, for example - Andy considers himself different from the others in this respect. He’s old school, he makes no concessions, not even when it comes to the oldest and most glorified tennis player still hanging around in the major circuit. Not when said player is acting like an undignified little brat, at least.
That’s why Andy unrepentantly sets off for the hard way, and one afternoon he jumps on a first-class flight to Montecarlo, carrying only a small bag with him. He tells nobody about his little plan, except his wife of course.
“Do you really think you’re going to make him come around?” Kim asks, quirking one brow while watching Andy packing haphazardly.
“I don’t know. I’m going to try. I’m his coach.”
Kim peers intently at him. “You’re not going to him because you’re his coach, though.”
Andy doesn’t know what to answer to that. “Not one word with my mom, please, okay?”
He kisses her goodbye and flies away, to Montecarlo.
The flight is lovely, and Andy smoothly finds his way to Novak’s house. Everybody in the area seems to know where Novak Djokovic lives and following the directions is easy-peasy, but when Andy gets to the entrance of Novak’s residence, he stumbles upon two men in dark suits and shades, dark faces and all, who are clearly two security guards like you see in the movies.
They stop him and resolutely wave at him to go back, without even asking for his identity.
“What?” Andy protests. “I travelled miles and miles just to get here. I want to see Novak!”
“Mr Djokovic doesn’t want to see anyone.”
“Sure, I guessed so. That’s why I’m here. Come on, let me get in.”
“Orders are orders.”
“But I’m his coach!”
“Mr Djokovic did not mention any exception.”
Andy is fuming, thinking about his trip for nothing. “Can I speak to him, at least? Please?”
The two men exchange a wary look. Andy can’t see their eyes behind the shades, and that bothers him greatly.
“Ok,” one of them finally concedes. “But we’d better ask him first. Please, wait.”
The man takes his phone from the inside pocket of his jacket and presses a button before bringing the phone to his ear. Andy drops his bag on the ground and crosses his arms over his chest, while the other man in black stares at him stone-faced.
The sun is still high in the sky and it’s pleasantly warm, so it must be the tension to squeeze tiny drops of sweat on Andy’s forehead, dripping down his temples.
Novak picks up after several rings. His “what - the - fuck?!?!” is so loud that Andy can hear it from three feet away.
“Mr Djokovic, it’s Goran here. Sorry to bother you. There’s someone here looking for you.”
“I’m not just someone!” Andy yells, goggle-eyed. “I’m his coach. I’m Andy Murray. Would you mind saying my name, sir, please?”
“…Yeah, he claims to be Andy Murray or something.”
“I am! Look at my face!”
The man named Goran moves away a little so that Andy can’t hear Novak’s answer. Andy takes off his cap from nervousness, runs a hand through his hair, then puts it back on firmly, suppressing a frustrated groan.
After a quick crossfire on the phone, Goran hangs up and slowly walks back to Andy and his colleague who are standing in silence, waiting, one jittery, the other deadpan. He comes to a halt in front of them and reaches up to scratch his head without saying a word.
“So?” Andy presses him, his hands on his hips. “What did he say?”
“Hold on.”
“Look, I just want to know-”
“Hold on, that’s what he said.”
Andy snorts. “I must have landed in a nuthouse,” he hisses under his breath.
“Easy, easy,” chants the other security man, the one who’s been quiet until now. “Want one, sir? While you wait?” He waves a pack of cigarettes under Andy’s nose, maybe taking pity on his sweaty red face.
“I don’t smoke, thanks.”
“It could take a while, you know,” the man says, taking one cigarette from the packet and sticking it between his lips. “Mr Djokovic always takes his time when doing things.”
“Tell me about it.”
“He likes to keep people waiting.”
“Zoran.”
The man with the cigarette turns around. Goran moves closer and leans towards him to whisper something in his ear. Andy’s eyebrows slowly raise towards his hairline.
“So your names are Goran and Zoran? I mean… seriously or is this a joke?”
The two men stop talking to each other and turn to Andy almost as one. The faint grin that’s appeared on Andy’s lips slowly slides off his face in front of their gloomy expression.
“Erm, I… I guess it’s no joke. Is it?”
“They’re common names in Serbia, where we come from, Mr Murray.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry…”
Andy breaks off before he can make it any worse. Goran and Zoran are now looking at him utterly disgusted. An uncomfortable silence stretch between them - not the slightest breath of wind stirs the still air. Andy is drenched in sweat.
He turns around when he hears the soft crunching of gravel under footsteps approaching from behind, and he spots a wild-eyed Novak padding in his slippers and robe on the driveway heading from the house to the main entrance where they are standing. As he strides closer, Andy notices that Novak looks just like someone who’s been jolted awake - pretty torqued off, so to say - and his own irritation instantly melts away like snow in the sun. He struggles to hide a smirk.
Novak stops a few steps away and points his long forefinger right at Andy’s chest, frowning. “What the fuck are you doing here?”, he snarls.
“As gracious as ever, I see.” Andy shrugs, rolling his eyes. “Saving you, of course. What else am I supposed to do here?”
Novak stares at him as if he couldn’t believe his own eyes and ears. He shakes his head and then just takes Andy’s elbow, starting to escort him towards the house while showing no sign of acknowledging Zoran and Goran’s presence. The two security men quietly step aside, clearly relieved to be ignored by angry Novak. Andy waves mockingly at them while letting himself be dragged - a little unceremoniously, to be honest - in front of them and along the driveway towards the house.
Novak doesn’t utter a word, but he exudes disappointment from every pore. Andy is still thinking about Novak’s stunned and horrified face in seeing him there, out of nowhere. That definitely paid off for every text left unanswered over the last days.
“Nice robe,” he jokes, breaking the silence. “Who got you that?”
“My mom.”
Andy knows better than to provoke Novak on that topic, so he just changes the subject.
“You’ve never invited me here before,” he says casually, when Novak finally gets him inside the atrium, closes the door and finally lets him go. He massages the spot over his elbow where Novak’s fingers have probably left bruises. “It looks pretty. I wouldn’t mind a tour of the house.”
“Maybe later,” Novak growls. He faces Andy, his arms crossed over his chest. “First, you tell me why you’re here. The truth, this time. No shit.”
“How about you offer me a welcome drink first?”
Novak slowly arches one eyebrow. “Is that what coaches usually do? Turning up on players' doorstep expecting free drinks when said players made it very clear they didn’t want anyone around?”
“No, that’s what friends do.”
Andy’s poker face is a masterpiece. The ghost of a sardonic smile flashes on Novak’s lips - his expression sharpens. “If so, pardon me,” he hisses suavely. “Be my guest, please.”
He gestures dramatically towards the kitchen, his eyes fixed on Andy, and Andy makes way, trying not to waver under Novak’s gaze, the one he usually has when he’s contemplating demolishing someone slowly and painfully on a tennis court.
The kitchen is huge, filled with beams of bright sunlight pouring through the high windows, and with a large peninsula in the middle. A few spindle-legged stools in different bright colors are scattered around it like egrets around a reed bed.
“Take your pick,” says Novak, pointing to them, and he grins when Andy walks to the bluish one and climbs onto it.
Andy glances around as he goofily adjusts his hips on the seat. “Let me say it again: nice place.”
“Yeah. Just a few millions worth. I feel spoiled.”
“You are.”
Novak’s smirk is feral. “Be a child in Serbia and then you can blame me for that.”
Andy bites his lip. “Yeah, you got a point.” He glances at Novak from down-upward. “Were you sleeping? Sorry for popping by here like this.”
“Just taking a nap. I’ll go get changed if you don’t like my robe.”
“As I just said, I absolutely love your robe and would die for it.”
Novak turns around to conceal his smile. “Let’s see what I can get you, you ball-buster,” he says, striding over to the liquor cabinet.
“I feel like I’m having a déjà vu, you know?” Andy says to Novak’s back. He crosses his arms, shifting his weight further back on the stool. “The last time you let me in your suite and gave me a Scotch was the night of Juan Carlos’ party, if I recall.”
Wrong. Wrong thing to say.
Andy immediately notices Novak’s shoulders straighten under the robe. Novak doesn’t reply, but the way he slams the glasses down on the counter speaks for itself. Andy bites his tongue and reminds himself to add that to the List of Forbidden Topics he must avoid with Novak from now on: Rafa, Roger, losing, Carlos, Juan Carlos, Rafa, Roger, losing… and it keeps getting longer and longer.
“Erm, I guess you don’t like to dig up the memory. Sorry.”
“Let’s say I’m not fond of that one in particular.” Novak spins on his heels, balancing two drinks in his hands. The ice cubes rattle against the glass. “Here.”
Andy reaches out to take his, glad to drop the topic. “No Scotch this time?” he teases softly.
“No Scotch.”
Novak drops onto the edge of the green stool, his feet apart, firmly planted on the floor. He cuddles his cocktail against his chest, staring into space as if he were suddenly alone in the room.
Andy immediately senses Novak’s mood shift - he can go from rage to bitterness in the blink of an eye - and takes a peep at him above the rim of his glass.
“Don’t worry, this time I won’t ask you to make a toast,” he says, faking a light-hearted tone.
“You'd better not,” Novak retorts, dead-serious. “I don’t have much to toast to, as my latest results show.”
Andy bites his tongue in silence again. Novak’s jabs are usually aimed to hurt - and they unfailingly do. But this time Andy handed it to him on a silver platter. One wrong move after another. No matter how careful he is, nothing really seems to go his way with Novak, recently.
“You've had better starts to the season, that's true,” Andy says plainly, trying to sound reassuring, but he has known Novak long enough to know that nothing can really lift his spirits when he's in his famous grumpy mood. “Nevertheless…”
“You’re the only one I know who says that,” Novak interrupts, and Andy glances quizzically at him. “Nevertheless,” Novak explains. “It sounds posh. Stop saying that.”
He tips his head back and takes a swig of his drink.
Andy watches him, his eyebrows arching a little, but doesn’t say anything for a while.
“Okay,” he concedes, eventually. “If it pleases you.”
“I’m not pleased. Do I look like I’m pleased?” Novak snaps, almost spilling his drink over.
Andy doesn’t flinch. “Novak, can you stop talking back to everything I say, please? That doesn’t help."
Novak grimaces and looks away, mumbling something in Serbian under his breath.
“Nevertheless,” Andy picks up, punctuating the word, “I understand your feelings. Your rage. Your frustration. And I’ll tell you, I feel partly responsible for your results. But I’m here to find a solution together with you, not to be your scapegoat.”
Novak’s face is still clouded over. When he gets like this, when he clams up in an outraged silence and refuses to give in, Andy doesn’t know what he feels like doing most - whether hugging him or choking him to death. The only thing he knows for sure is that he must give in first, because Novak will never do it of his own accord.
“Please, let’s not argue,” Andy sighs. “Like I said out there before, I’m here to save you, not to have a fight with you.”
“I’m not arguing. And I don’t really know who or what I should be saved from.”
“Uhm, from a certain Novak Djokovic, maybe? Does the name ring a bell?” Andy reads Novak’s mind before he can speak. “Yes, I know you believe that you don’t need to be saved, not even from yourself. Same old story. Luckily, I’ve never believed that. I know you are unable to ask for help, not even when you need it the most. That’s why I came without waiting for you to call. You stopped calling, actually, or answering any calls. An old strategy of yours. You'll have to come up with something new next time because, you see, this doesn't work anymore.”
If looks could kill Andy would be long gone, considering how Novak is glaring at him, but he persists anyway.
“So, let’s start all over again,” he says. “Honestly, how have you been lately, Nole?”
He takes a gulp of his drink while Novak collects his thoughts. Novak doesn’t look any less upset after Andy’s little speech, but Andy knows that all he has to do is to give him time. Time is the magic word when it comes to Novak.
Novak’s next words are not the ones Andy was expecting, though - they are raw and awfully sincere.
“Alone. I’ve been very alone lately, if you ask.”
Andy’s heart gives a squeeze. Novak’s glimpses of seriousness never fail to shock him deeply.
“You could have told me. I would have come earlier.”
“Good thing I didn’t, instead.”
“Stop pretending you can handle everything by yourself, Nole.”
“But I’m supposed to. I’m thirty-seven years old.”
“Everyone needs someone, no matter their age. 'No man is an island' and-”
“Oh, please.” Novak giggles bitterly, rolling his eyes. “I can actually picture you, Andy boy, wringing your hands with concern while walking back and forth in your bedroom and crying over my sad fate. I bet you were just dying to come and save my ass, just as Prince Charming would do for any damsel in distress. The idea is just terrific. I understand why sweet Kim married you, after all.”
Andy slowly lays his glass down on the kitchen. His cheeks look a little pinker than usual. Just as slowly, he crosses his legs, circling one knee with both hands and looks at Novak from bottom up, studying him in silence.
Novak’s sarcasm can be brutal and overwhelming, sometimes - that’s his personal way to put people to the test. Any other person would react to it either by fighting back (Roger, Rafa) or by shutting themselves off (Juan Carlos). Andy, however, chooses to give Novak a taste of his own medicine.
“Prince Charming, uh? I admit that you have a way with words that’s nearly poetic, my friend.”
“Coming from a Scot, it’s nearly moving. Thanks.”
Andy smiles with tight lips. “I see you got your humor back.”
“Never actually lost that.”
“You weren’t so funny when you screamed to me to go fuck off only two weeks go.”
Novak shoots a quick look at him before shrugging away the issue. “Don’t tell me I hurt your feelings, Andy boy.”
“Maybe a little bit.”
“Please, pardon me. Accept this drink as a kind apology.”
Andy grimaces. “I can’t. That’s not even Scotch.”
“Well, had I known you were coming, I would have ordered a couple of bottles just for you.”
“And thus depriving me of the pleasure of seeing you bewildered when you spot me outside your house? Not a chance.”
“Fine. Cheers then,” Novak grunts, and clashes his glass against Andy’s. “To intrusive guests.”
“To faithful - and worried - friends. And to Prince Charming, God bless him.”
Novak twists his lips. “I’m doing great, see? Thanks for your concern, anyway.”
“Alone doesn’t exactly mean great.”
“That was a momentary lapse. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“I like you best when you have those momentary lapses.”
Novak looks at him sideways, a wry grimace on his lips. “Yeah, like me but don’t get too close to me, Andy boy. I might break your heart, you know.”
“Since I’m apparently no longer your coach but just ‘Andy boy’ for you, I guess it’s already too late to keep the distance.”
Novak bursts out laughing. “You told me repetitively that you didn’t like the name. See? I just gave you what you wanted.”
“You could just call me Andy, like everyone else.”
“But in that case, I would be everyone else.”
“And you want to be different, don’t you? You want to leave your own mark.”
“Hmm, you talking about yourself or…?”
“Generally speaking.”
“Yeah, sure. Generally speaking.” Novak’s teeth flash between his lips. “I’ve always wanted to make an impression.”
“I guess so.”
Andy watches him thoughtfully - his dry smile, his glinting eyes - and suddenly decides to throw caution to the wind. “You know what, Nole? I’ve always wondered what a typical conversation between you and Roger or Rafa would feel like when you're in your best mood. In spite of everything that’s been going on between the three of you over the years, I have still never had the honor to witness it firsthand, but… well, I think I know what it feels like now. It’s like being caught in a firing line with no one covering your back.” Andy’s eyes glow with a fierce spark when he pauses for a second, before adding: “Terrific, really.”
Novak clenches his jaws - the shadows in the hollows under his cheekbones deepen. “Well, now you know the worst part of me. The one I usually spare you.”
“Why?” Andy asks softly, watching him with his head tilted to the side. “Why would you do that?”
“Spare you? Well, I think that’s because… I don’t want you to think ill of me.”
Andy clucks in disbelief. “Aren’t you supposed to be Novak the Great, the one who doesn’t give a shit about what people think of him?”
Novak smiles. “Yeah, and I really don’t give a shit nine times out of ten. But with a few people, with you for example… you…”
Novak breaks off, and Andy fills in his sentence. “I’m like that tenth time out of ten. I’m the exception. Yeah, I get it.”
Andy’s tone is playful, but his voice quivers with emotion. Novak’s eyes are darker than ever and his voice wavers too when he says: “You’re my friend. Sorry for doubting you. I shouldn’t have.”
“Doubting is human. Even Jesus Christ on the cross doubted his own father.”
“The parallelism flatters me, but I don't know if I’m up to that.”
“Ah ah, so funny.”
“I bet you’ll be gone by today afternoon, won’t you, my friend?”
Aggressive, again. Scared - secretly. Andy reads through his facade but that doesn’t cease to amaze him to bits.
“Well, I was actually planning to stay a few more days. If you don’t mind, of course. Do you?”
Now it’s Novak’s turn to be momentarily taken aback. His humor deflates a little as he peers at Andy and chews his lip. Andy watches a vein pulsing regularly on Novak’s temple while he ponders, winding along his hairline, and feels the unusual desire to trace it with the tip of his forefinger to feel the blood pumping under the skin.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Novak says in a low tone. He glances up at Andy and then looks away, breathing loudly through his nose. “You know, I came here to cool off some frustration and mull over my failures by my own. I also wanted to prove myself that I have not one single friend who comes to check on me when I’m deranged and in need. I don’t know why I feel the urge to do that, it just happens to me from time to time. It’s as if I wanted to punish myself or something, you get it?”
“More or less.”
Novak puts his drink down on the counter ever so slowly and deliberately, as if accomplishing a hard task, and glances at Andy from under his knitted brows.
“I appreciate your effort, seriously.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Novak grins. “Oh yes, I do have to mention it, instead. Actually, Jelena says that I should practice saying thanks to people more often. Well, I’m afraid this is the best I can do.”
Andy chuckles. “Brilliant woman.”
“Yeah. I’ve always given her credit for that.”
Something in Novak’s voice makes Andy stir and peer at him wryly again. “I guess Jelena is one of the list. Am I wrong?”
“What kind of list are you blathering about?”
“Well,” Andy says slowly and, letting out a deep sigh, begins to count on his fingers. “So… Rafa, Roger, Carlos, Juan Carlos, Jelena, losing…”
“What the hell? What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m just rattling off Novak Djokovic’s List of Forbidden Topics for you, dear.”
Novak is too baffled to get seriously mad at him.
“… also losing?”
“Expecially losing.”
“That’s not true! I can put up with losing well enough.”
“Ok, so why don’t we have a word or two about Doha and your last match against Matteo Berrettini?”
“No way. I’m not going to do that.”
“See? And I bet you don’t want to hear about Carlos or Juan Carlos either. Should I talk about Rafa, instead?”
“Hell no.”
“Yeah, and the same goes for Roger. End of the list. That was incredibly fast, as you see.”
Novak squints at him with a mockery smile. “And what are we going to do now that we’re out of topics? Shall we stop talking at all?”
“Well, maybe we can start focusing on making a game plan properly. We’re still into tennis, I hope. But you tell me, Nole. You hired me, you pay me. What do you want to do with me next? With us?”
Novak’s eyes pierce through Andy as if scavenging his soul. Not one word escapes from his pursed lips.
Andy sighs, carefully weighting his own words before giving voice to his thoughts.
“Look, as I said before, this is not your best start of the year. Let’s deal with that and move on, okay? However, I still think we can fix a thing or two about your game. Nothing’s irreparable, especially when it comes to you. And you proved it many times.”
Novak looks at him in silence, his eyes like daggers again. It takes all of Andy’s strength not to shake under that peremptory gaze.
“You don’t believe your own words.” Novak says flatly. “You’re not generally a liar, but you’re lying now. And I can see why. You want to cheer me up, you want to give me some hope, but I’m telling you, I don’t need your pity and I’m fed up of illusions. I’m not scared to hear the truth. So say it, Andy. Say the fucking truth, come on.”
“I’m not going to do it.” Andy’s voice is calm and cool, but his eyes are glowing with an inner fire. “Honestly, I don’t think that you are done, Novak. And if that’s what you want to hear from me, well, it’s not going to happen. In any case. I’m not going to lie for you. And that would definitely be a lie, no matter what you think.”
Novak snickers. “So you don’t believe that I got no chance left? That I’m too old and outdone, and my game cannot get any better, that I should retire, maybe?”
Andy reflects on his question. “No. I think you still have a few more loads to shoot.”
Novak’s grin is crooked, terrible to see, and disenchanted. “Thanks for your tactfulness, coach.”
Andy clings to the word to change the subject in the blink of an eye. “I’m your coach again?”
“Don’t know. I have to think about it.”
“But you’re going to go on with me a little longer, I hope. Until Roland Garros, maybe?”
“Why not Wimbledon? I’d love to. But… I’m not sure myself.”
Andy considers Novak’s wried brow carefully. “Whom don’t you trust, Nole?” he asks softly. “Just tell me. Me or yourself?”
Novak’s eyes drift to Andy - he looks through him without really seeing him.
“I don’t know,” he says, again - and he has never known so little in his entire life so far, “maybe it’s the two of us, together. This tag-team isn’t working as I’d hoped.”
Andy stays silent for a while. His gaze wanders around the room, just to avoid the other man’s eyes. The silence is tight.
“Maybe you’re right,” he whispers eventually. “Maybe we’re not compatible. Maybe I can’t find the right way to… to…”
He pauses, biting his lips. Novak looks back at him, a joyless smirk tugging at his lips. “No, you can’t bring yourself to do that, Andy. You can’t lie to yourself, taking all the responsibility, saying that it’s all your fault. It’s not your fault, and we both know. I am the only one to blame here. It’s me. It’s my body. It’s the passing time. Everything but your fault, you hear me?”
“It’s not only your body,” Andy says slowly, pensively. “It’s like… I don’t know, it seems more like a mental thing. Like you lost your motivation.”
“Well, after the Olympics I have little left to win, honestly. And with Rafa gone, none of my old rivals are around anymore. I found myself… lonely, all at once.”
“That’s true. Wimbledon, anyway…”
“Wimbledon, yes.” A flash crosses Novak’s eyes. “If thinking one could break Rafa's record in Paris is simply ridiculous, at least going even with Roger's at Wimbledon is worth a try. That would be my last challenge, that’s what you’re saying, aren’t you? However…”
“You still can, Nole.”
“I could. But maybe I don’t want to. Not anymore.”
Andy is utterly speechless now.
Novak is a man of many surprises and this is not the first time he leaves Andy at a loss for words. Andy knows that Novak can resort to pretty endless mental resources. His mental strength is known to be quite something, on and off court. Thus, hearing the truth from his lips now is devastating to him.
Novak Djokovic, the hungriest for victories of all times, doesn’t want any more wins.
“Are you serious? You’re telling me that you are really tired of winning? You?”
“I won everything I could, Andy. I broke all the records. I reached my goal: I became the most successful player in tennis history. What do we have left now?”
“I don’t now, you tell me. What does Novak Djokovic, the most successful player in tennis history, want to do now? What do you want, Nole? Honestly this time, not just saying.”
For the first time in his life, Novak looks lost.
“I don’t know,” he murmurs.
“You can’t keep saying that. Stop saying that. You must know what you want.”
“Once there was Roger, and there was Rafa, and you, Andy. You were my rivals, my people. The ones I had to fight against to get better and better, the ones who were constantly pushing me over my own limits. Once there were so many Grand Slams to win - they were numbers, just numbers, I know it now but I couldn’t know back then. There was a chance to leave a mark in history and be engraved in the collective memory. The Olympic gold was the sweetest prize for me: I finally managed to make my mistreated country and my mistreated people proud like very few times before. But now… what now, Andy? What’s next? If I look ahead I see only darkness. I can barely see my own feet. I was hoping you had all the answers, but you’re only asking me more questions.”
“That’s why you asked me to be your coach? Because you were seeking answers from me? What made you believe I had them?”
Novak doesn’t reply immediately. He scans Andy’s face, slowly looking from one pupil to the other.
“You’ve always been the one with answers, Andy, remember? Was I wrong? You can tell me now. Now that… I don’t have much to lose.”
“Oh, God, I can’t believe that.”
Andy stifles an exasperated groan into his hands. His palms run up to cover his face and rest there, silently shaking along with his whole body.
“Don’t get mad at me,” Novak resumes, dropping his voice half step. “I was just hoping to stop the time, maybe. With you. ‘Cause you’re the one I remember best, out there on the court, and our matches too. More than everyone else. More than Roger, who would always unnerve me so much, and more than Rafa, who would fill me with a lot of personal investment. Besides, I grew up with you. I thought you knew me. Better than many other people. Thought you could give me what I need.”
“But how can I know it when each one of us experience it their own way? You open up to me so little, and most of the time I’m left imagining what you think and feel. How can I tell what you need if you don’t speak to me? Even when you asked me to be your coach and I asked you why, you didn’t give me any answer. You were ambiguous and reticent as usual. You’re starting to admit the truth just now. What if it’s too late now?”
“It could be so,” Novak says flatly, cooly. “And as I said, it’s all my fault. Forget about it.”
Andy looks at him desolately. “I was number one once. Not for long, but still. And the only thing I remember from those days is… well, you may be right, you know? Being at the top is the loneliest place to be.”
Novak smiles faintly. “I’ve not been at the top for a while now.”
“You mean you’re not the first in the ranking, but you’re still the most successful player in tennis history, as you said before.”
“Until the next one comes up. Younger, faster, stronger people. They are already here, all around me. I cannot ignore them. Carlos, Jannik, all the others.” He has to force the name of the young Spaniard out of his lips and grimaces in doing so. Andy is deeply surprised that he does anyway. “My time is over, Andy.”
“If you really think so, why don’t you stop?”
Novak cackles. “I used to say the same thing about Rafa last year. Why the hell doesn’t he stop? Why go on when everything in your body lies bend and broken? Why risk humiliating yourself? Then I understood: it’s the mind. It’s always the mind that pushes you forwards. It’s the mind that doesn’t want to lose control over the body, and doesn’t want to quit, and doesn’t want to surrender to time and decay and death and whatever. Well, I suppose my mind is not yet ready to leave the stage.”
“So it has nothing to do with titles or matches or rivalries…”
“What rivalries? I got no more rivals, as I told you before. Rafa was my greatest and last rival. There was a time when I was literally living to play him and hopefully beat him. I saw my own decline in him - his face, his body, his game - long before it happened to me. Chronicle of a death foretold, in a way. There was nothing I could do about it. I could not stop the time for him then, just as I can’t do it for myself now.”
Novak pauses. When his gaze moves back to Andy, he sees surprise on his face.
“What?”
“I’m more and more amazed. I thought I would never hear you talk about Roger or Rafa as honestly as you’re doing now, and of your own accord.”
“It’s not my favorite topic. Especially Roger.”
“But you sort of… miss him too, don’t you? As a rival, I mean.”
“I don’t miss Roger Federer,” Novak punctuates sourly. “I can’t honestly say that he made my life better, in any sense. He helped improving my game, that’s true. But his mere existence has made mine much more troubled, in more ways than one. You know what I mean.”
Andy nods.
“About Rafa…” Novak sighs. “Well, it’s even more complicated. I wanted to beat him, for my personal glory of course, but also because I wanted him to look at me with different eyes. But you know the story: even at my peak, when I started beating him and Roger over and over again, he had eyes only for Roger. And vice versa. When Rafa retired, I lost a rival, and my one true love. I wonder if he felt the same when Roger left, a couple of years ago. Since he’s been gone, I often wondered if I could do something to keep him, to prevent things from going to the dogs like they did in the end.”
“I don’t think you could. Actually I think you have gone above and beyond. Do you know what a wise man once said?” Andy pauses. “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different outcome. Well, I think that’s precisely what happened to you, Nole. Going after Rafa for years almost costed your sanity.”
Novak frowns. “Einstein. I think that Einstein said that.”
Andy nods. “At a certain point I couldn’t tell if you were persisting because you truly loved him or just to get back at Roger."
“What do you think now?”
Andy sighs. “When it comes to you, the truth is never simple. Often it stands in the middle.”
“You just don’t want to understand, Andy. My feelings won’t change - ever.”
Andy looks really defeated now. “You’re never going to get what you want, Nole. And I know that it feels unfamiliar to you, but… you know that, too. You know that too. Why keep going like this?”
“Are we talking about my retirement or about my feelings?”
“About your feelings about retirement, maybe.”
Novak suppresses a laugh. “Well, hope dies last, doesn’t it?”
Andy slowly raises an eyebrow. “Okay, now I really hope we’re talking about your tennis career and not about your love fixation. Because you know, there is no spell, no love potion that could help that.”
Novak chuckles. “There isn’t any?”
Andy takes his head in his hands, growling loudly. “Spare me your sarcasm, please. Your situation is serious.”
Novak looks at him almost compassionately. “You look distressed, my friend.”
“Of course. I am distressed. And that’s because I’ve got to constantly struggle against your… against this… madness. This nonsense.” Andy drops his hands and shots Novak a killing glare. “What do you expect me to do, Nole? To support your foolishness or to give you some wise advice?”
“Both, I think. I need both your support and your advice.”
“This is my advice, Nole: let go, for God’s sake. Once and for good. Let go whatever you’re holding on to.”
“Have you ever wanted someone so much that you can barely think about anything else? That all your other successes seem to be worthless until you get that one person?”
“Yes. When I was thirteen maybe.”
“I see that you’re mad at me again.”
“I’m not mad! I’m just… I wish… Oh, fuck.”
Andy breaks off. He shakes his head and gets up abruptly from his seat, starting to pace back and forth in the kitchen. He takes his cap off again and runs his hand through his hair - when he drops it the hair stands straight up in the air like that of a lunatic.
He stops in his tracks in front of Novak and turns to face him. Novak is watching him silently, unfazed. He smiles smugly.
“Don’t look at me like that. You’re a moron!”
“Thank you.”
“Stop!”
“Doing what?”
“Stop speaking!”
“Okay.”
“And stop smiling! And looking at me, I said!”
Novak raises both his hands in the air apologetically, palms facing forwards, then he brings one hand to his lips and makes the gesture of sewing them up, then he lowers his hands and his eyes and stays like that, like a grounded child. But the tension vibrating at the corners of his mouth gives him away: he must be making a great effort to hold back a laughter right now.
Andy, despite being vaguely aware that he’s overreacting for nothing, is still burning with frustrated rage. He’s not sure he can’t think properly at the moment and that’s weird, because he’s used to being in control of himself in every situation. But Novak… well, he’d make the devil himself lose his temper.
Andy takes a few steps away, trying to walk away also from the desire to slap him. He breathes slowly, in and out, and flutters his eyelids close and presses the tip of his fingers on the inner corners of his eyes. He feels his own blood pump in his ears.
“Okay,” he says after long minutes, when he’s calm enough to resume a normal conversation with Novak. “Sorry. I lost it. Please forget about it.”
He hesitantly turns around to face Novak. Novak, who’s been sitting up on his steeple very straight and still in his robe while Andy was doing his breathing exercises, slowly looks up from the floor and glances at him from under his brow.
“I don’t know what got into me,” Andy says feebly. “I’ve made a fool out of myself. No wonder I’m a joke to you.”
“Don’t fucking say it, Andy. You’re not. I would never, ever make fun of you.”
Novak’s tone is so firm that Andy’s gaze is instinctively drawn up to meet his. The look in Novak’s eyes is again deadly serious.
“Oh, well.”
Andy doesn’t know what else to say. There is no shadow of humor at the back of Novak’s pupils, which are fixed on him like two black holes in the green sky of his irises. Any trace of his usual irony has temporarily gone from his face.
“You know, I wasn’t talking about Rafa before.” Andy swallows, trying to focus on Novak’s words. Novak crosses and uncrosses his arms over his chest, visibly nervous. “I made you believe that I was, because I’m a jerk, but… I was talking about my retirement, actually. And you are right. There are no potions and no spells that could help me with that either.”
The muscles of Andy’s face tremble slightly under his fair skin. He automatically takes a step closer before speaking.
“What do you want to do, Novak?” he whispers, like a man in agony. “You must make up your mind.”
The look on Novak’s face is no less anguished.
“I’m going to give it one last try, I suppose. Until Wimbledon, at least. If I don’t win there either, I quit. I swear.”
Andy doesn’t say a word. He just swallows loudly again, and he sees Novak’s eyes following the twitch of his throat this time before drifting back to his face, locking eyes with him.
“You think this is crazy, what I’m doing? Trying over and over again to win one last time? Without listening to my body, to what my aching joints have been screaming to me for a while now? Is this insanity, is this what your Einstein was talking about?”
Andy’s reply comes very slowly. “There might be a touch of insanity in all this, yes. But you are a little crazy, Novak. You are.”
Novak grins.
“Speaking of which, how your thigh’s going?”
“The muscle tear has completely healed. I don’t feel pain in it anymore. Actually, I completely forgot about it. That’s not the problem. The problem is… everything else. My mind, as you diagnosed correctly before. Can you fix my mind, doctor Andy?”
Something deep and dark makes Novak’s voice tremble for a moment. Andy doesn’t know what it pushes him - maybe it’s the pleading edge in Novak’s voice, or his suddenly misty eyes - but the next thing he knows he’s doing is also the least he was expecting from himself. In fact, he reaches up and curls his palm around the back of Novak’s head, slowly drawing him down to his shoulder.
Novak - a flash of surprise in his pupils - doesn’t resist. He rests his forehead in the crook between Andy’s neck and shoulder and lets out a loud sigh, as if exhaling all the tiredness he’s filled with inside.
“You’ll figure it out,” Andy whispers to his ear. His breath is warm, and lingers on Novak’s skin. “You’re gonna make it through. You’re Novak Djokovic, the most successful player in tennis history. You gotta know the way.”
Novak chuckles against Andy’s shirt.
“Even now, you’re making fun of me. You got no respect for an old crying man.”
“You’re wrong,” Andy says, hiding his smile in Novak’s hair. “But go ahead, I’m not gonna try to change your mind. I’m done with that. From now on, just do what you want, Nole, and I’ll follow. No more coach and player thing.”
Novak slowly raises his head to give him a sideways glance.
“You mean you’re gonna do whatever I say?”
“No, of course I don’t mean that.”
“I’m appealing to your big heart, Your Honor.”
Andy snorts. “Having a serious conversation with you is practically impossible.” His palm moves away from Novak’s nape to cup his jaw. He squeezes just a little, until his fingertips sink into the hollow of Novak’s cheeks. Andy feels the lower edge of Novak’s protruding cheekbones under his skin.
“Listen to me,” he hisses, aligning his eyes with Novak’s. “Listen to me carefully, Nole, and stop mocking just for a sec, okay?”
“I’m all ears,” Novak murmurs, and his voice comes out a little distorted because of Andy’s grip on his face.
Andy gets a few inches closer. He sees Novak’s pupils widen imperceptibly, but he stays in place.
“You’ve been through a lot,” Andy starts. “”You suffered a lot, you won a lot. You’ve always put up a fight to get what you wanted, always. That’s what got you here and that hasn’t changed over time. Look at you, thirty-seven years and more and still putting even the young guns through hell. I don’t expect nothing less from a 24-time Grand Slam winner. So now you get your shit together, you get your head together, and let’s get down to it. Stay here in Montecarlo as long as you need, if you want. Collect your thoughts, restore your energy. When you’re ready to get back to work you know where to find me. All right?”
Andy lets go of Novak’s face and finally takes a step back, breathing in deeply.
Novak blinks a few times.
“I thought you were going to stay here with me for a while.”
“Yes, I said that and you know that I hate to go back on my word. Nonetheless, I think it’s better you think over what we just said today by yourself.”
Novak’s expression is very hard to read now. A faint smile grazes his lips.
“You said it again. Nonetheless.”
Andy smiles back, shakes his head. “Sorry, I’m an insufferably posh bloke.”
“You’re a Sir. You met Queen Elizabeth II.”
“You met her too. And she watched you play in Wimbledon in 2010, remember?”
“Yes, but she was there for you. She came by the Central Court specifically to watch you play.”
“Oh, God, you’re not going to make a fuss even about the late Queen now?”
Novak smirks. “Nah, I’m done for today.”
“Thank God.” Andy reaches up and runs a hand over his face. He suddenly realizes he feels dog tired. “What time is it? It feels like ages since I came here and got engaged in this absurd conversation with you.”
“It’s late. It’s almost dinner time,” Novak says, glancing at his wristwatch and then back at Andy. “You staying for dinner, at least?”
“Yeah. And for the night too, if you please. I’ll look for a flight home by tomorrow morning at least.”
“You don’t have to, you know. You can stay.”
“Yeah, but.. well, I think I’ve made myself clear.”
“Yes you have.” Novak smiles softly. “So, Chinese? Veg? What do you feel like for dinner?”
“Hmm, I think I’ll go with what you choose.”
Novak looks at him scoffing. “You trust me that much.”
Andy rolls his eyes. “It’s just food, Novak.”
“Some people die for less.”
“And others for more. I think I know where you stand.”
Novak laughs. “You know me enough to say that I won’t risk having my coach killed before the start of a tournament, right?”
Andy looks at him with his head tilted to the side. “No, I think you would be perfectly capable of that. Just, you still need a friend by your side, don’t you?”
“Right. I’ll give you that. Not many people had the honor of having me crying on their shoulder, by the way.”
“What a honor that must be.”
“And I’m supposed to be the one who can’t have a serious conversation here?”
Andy shrugs, scratches his head. “Sorry. Anyway, you’d better get a move on and order something eatable because I’m starving.”
“Chinese.”
“I thought you were a veg.”
“Chinese for you and veg for me.”
“Oh, okay.”
Novak nods and makes to walk away, his eyes wandering across the room searching for his phone.
“Novak,” Andy calls him back.
Novak stops and turns, staring at him. “Yeah?”
“Don’t forget the chopsticks.”
“But you don’t even know how to use them.”
“I’m your coach, you just do as I say.”
Novak sneers and shows his middle finger in the air as he grabs his phone from the counter and speed-dials a number before bringing it to his ear.
Andy listens to him talking on the phone. Meanwhile, he watches him affectionately, his arms and legs crossed.
“… and I'll need chopsticks too, please. Thank you. Bye.”
When Novak hangs up, his eyes travel across the room and bounce back at Andy’s.
Andy’s smiling. “Good boy.”
There are a few things that Andy knows to be indisputably true about Novak Djokovic.
He’s a pain in the ass, and a loose cannon - but also a sensitive creature. He can be bitter but also damn funny, aggressive and also docile. He loves Rafa, and hates Roger, and hates losing - and it will probably be like this forever, or maybe not, who knows.
He hates being alone - despite what he claims. He craves human touch.
He’s got some sense of loyalty that relates to his personal pride.
He’s going to teach Andy how to use chopsticks before he leaves in the morning.
Among the things that pretty nobody knows about Novak is that he can be better than what he usually is. Most of the times, when he is, he is in his own interest - to get something for himself.
But sometimes he can be a truly good boy, expecting nothing in return. He can.
Trust Sir Andy Murray, Novak Djokovic’s - the most successful player in tennis history - last coach.
End