Was this the Wimbledon where Novak Djokovic finally became likeable?

It took four hours and 42 minutes of scintillating, riveting, extraordinary tennis, but at the end of the second longest final the All England Club has ever staged, the Centre Court crowd finally got the result they wanted: Novak Djokovic had been defeated.

The player who has not lost on the pristine surface since 2013, has for a decade been the man the doyens of the arena love to hate. Actually, love is too strong a word for it. They just hate him. And as he lost to the magnificent prodigy Carlos Alcaraz their affection was clear: they were all behind the Spaniard. This was as popular a winner as the court has seen since Andy Murray won the title in 2013. And who did he beat then? Oh yes, Novak Djokovic.

But here’s the thing. When Djokovic was interviewed down on the courtside by Annabel Croft after the match was over, his reaction was not that of the pantomime villain he has long since been reckoned. He was dignified, generous, warm in his praise of a player he insisted was the most complete he had ever faced.

There was no self-pity, no complaints about the umpire, no hint of paranoia about how the world had conspired against him. At no point did he threaten to wrap a racket around Croft’s head. Rather, he was the exemplar of sporting good will. This was decency personified.

And the crowd reacted in a way they had never done for any of his victories: they cheered him to the echo. Suddenly, the answer to the question that had been evidently troubling him for the past 15 years became clear. He had never quite understood why he was not popular with the Wimbledon crowd, beyond the few Nole fanatics who seemed to revel in shouting for the man everyone else loathed.

After all, he had delivered over the years precisely what any fan of the game could surely wish for: tennis performed at the highest level; brilliant, consistent, triumphant. Yet in return all he had received was sneering. Now it was obvious what he needed to do to be loved on Centre Court: lose.

This is the strangeness of our relationship with the sporting greats: we value vulnerability above all things. Our heroes are the ones who we reckon to have overcome fundamental issues on the way to their triumph. Over the past 21 years, four men have dominated Wimbledon, in that time winning every single iteration of the men’s singles between them.

Of them, we loved Rafael Nadal because he was so frequently obliged to fight against the damage inflicted on his own body by his athletic power. Murray too we adored for his constant battle against the depredations of chronology, plus the way he wore his heart on his sleeve, forever prone to an on-court blub.

Federer, we loved because of his refusal to compromise the beauty of his game, adored him for the fact he would rather lose than win ugly. But with Djokovic – who history may well insist was the finest of the quartet – there seemed no weakness, no chink, no hint of a flaw.

A huge part of his armoury was the aura of invincibility he carried on court. This was a man whose opponent was convinced from his first serve would refuse to be beaten. His relentlessness was unmatched: he was someone who would and could do anything to come out on top.

As a consequence, the adjectives used about his extraordinary ability were often things like robotic, mechanical, in-human. When he stepped out on Centre Court, there was an absolute conviction about him which did not appeal to the neutral. Always they preferred his opponent, who was invariably cast as the underdog.

It was an attitude which fed into his wider reputation. When in January 2022 he refused to get himself vaccinated against Covid ahead of the Australian Open, never mind that he was prepared to forego the chance to break the record for grand slam victories to stick by his principles, he was widely derided as a sad weirdo.

When playing he seemed to draw energy from such disdain. And yet, at the same time, in his public statements after matches on Centre Court he always seemed to be craving affection, talking constantly about how much the place meant to him and how he respected its tradition, hoping such compliments would be returned.

This year, perhaps finally realising that no amount of brilliance, consistency and longevity would turn the tide in his favour, he began to assume the identity of the comedy bad guy. He played up to wider assumptions, sarcastically chiding individuals in the crowd, mocking them with mimes of weeping when he won a point. In the final, he took out his frustrations on the net post, smashing his racket against it.

But then, in his speech in the immediate aftermath of defeat, he presented an entirely unexpected side. Sure, there was still the characteristic arrogance in there: after calling the Spaniard the best he had faced, he couldn’t help but add that he reminded him of himself.

That, though, is to be picky. The truth is: his speech was rather magnificent. And for him it could prove a game-changer. Now he has exposed the merest crack in his impregnable facade, the attitude of many who watch him may well change.

Finally recognising him for what he is – the most complete tennis player of this or any other era – on Centre Court they could begin to appreciate having him around. Next year, they might even cheer him on. If they do, the poor guy won’t know what to do.