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In sport, history does repeat, frequently. That's the point of it, if you're good enough. In this Australian Open, history would not be denied. Novak Djokovic has played in five Australian Open finals and won them all. Andy Murray has played in four and lost them all. Three were against one another. The last two, in 2013 and on Sunday night, were identikits of one another: split tie-break sets to begin, then Djokovic easing away. But the two major finals they have played elsewhere, Murray has won.
The algorithm rarely is subverted. Djokovic is No 1 in the world, Murray No 4. For 10 years, Djokovic has beaten Murray at twice the rate Murray has beaten Djokovic. Simply, this is where these lifelong peers have settled in the greater scheme. On hard courts, the margin is especially pronounced. Djokovic has won seven of their last eight clashes, all on hard courts. The exception was Murray's famous win on the grass of Wimbledon in 2013. Djokovic says the courts at Melbourne Park have been faster and bounce lower in the last two years. They suit him.
The record was in Djokovic's favour. So was the crowd, and why not? For years, Australians claimed Kim Clijsters as their own, fatuously. Meantime, Djokovic has claimed Australia, more resoundingly even than Federer ever did.
Murray's work ethic is famous. Between seasons, to leave behind an injury-ruined 2014, he co-opted Amelie Mauresmo as coach and redoubled his efforts. He entered the final in at least as fine fettle as Djokovic, and with a day's extra rest. His semi-final victory over Tomas Berdych had been a work of art, Djokovic's over Stan Wawrinka a jumble. For Murrayists, hope — the lifeblood of sport — sprang eternal.
At first, the margins were negligible, and the standard at a refined high. Djokovic looked like he could thread the ball through the mesh of the net if necessary, or laser guide it onto a line. Murray looked like he would be there anyway, waiting, shaping a shot of his own in reply.
No ball was hit merely for hitting's sake, but always with an eye to the three that might follow. Both are defenders in excelsis, so every point was conceded only grudgingly. For every action, there was an equal and opposite reaction. It made for bum-clenching viewing.
At this level, a player has to have the skill to hit the shot at hand, the awareness to know where his opponent is, and the intuition to see what will, or could, come next. In the absence of a blitzing first serve, these faculties became even more vital. Murray says he likes Mauresmo as coach because she asks questions. But Djokovic asks more, and with a prosecutor's sharpness.
These two have been playing against, and sometimes with, each other since they were 12. Mutual knowledge initially was the active dynamic. Each made inroads, but could not consolidate his gains. It was as if they knew what each other would do in each given set of circumstances. The breaks of serve — and there were many — came in pairs. Yet from time to time, each went on rollicking runs; 13 of 15 points in the first set for Djokovic, 13 in a row in the second, 12 of 14 for Murray as he salvaged. It was tennis as tug-of-war, heave this way, ho that, the invisible braid stretching but not breaking.
Much is made of their acquaintanceship and how it might impact on their encounters. In the end, it was a side issue. Tennis is a peculiar sport in that it is one-on-one, yet the protagonists play in half a court each, isolated, with a net and formalities between them. It makes for good diplomacy. Even when the battle was at its fiercest, Djokovic found it in himself to applaud Murray's best shots, and Murray sometimes reciprocated gruffly. Otherwise, they howled at one another via proxies, their respective boxes or the sky above. But it is as well that they play tennis so exceptionally, because neither would have a prayer at poker.
When Murray broke Djokovic in the first game of the third set, he led the match. Then all the weight of that history came to bear. Djokovic found chinks and widened them into gaps, and then gulfs. Take second serves, for instance. Djokovic won 34 points on second serve to Murray's 14, which accounts for all the difference between them in total points.
As Djokovic gathered, physically and mentally, Murray frayed. Upon losing his serve and falling behind in the third set, Murray dashed his racquet onto the court. It was understandable, but telling. He did not win another game, Djokovic stringing together the last nine in a row. With this one great Djokovic tug, Murray collapsed. The third and fourth sets together were shorter than either of the first two. So a mild tournament, temperamentally and meteoroligically, drew to a tame end.
When Djokovic won his first Australian Open, his first major, he was a shirt-ripping 20-year-old who apologised to the crowd for beating their favourite that year, Jo-Wilfried Tsonga, and dedicated his victory to his still war-torn country. He was a soldier then. Now he is 27, an eight-time major winner, a father and husband, gracious and genteel. Addressing Murray on the podium, he said: "I wish you a wonderful wedding, and many kids. It's slightly different for me now, since I became a husband and father. Sorry for changing the subject." He was readily forgiven.
Murray's consolation is not inconsiderable. By reaching this final, he rejoins the gang of four, albeit still as the junior partner. But just behind them, the forces of revolution are gathering, intent if not on re-writing history, at least making their own.
