No love, no recognition, no joy, no charisma
Novak Djokovic and Hillary Clinton both have scary eyes. There is something alien about those big round peepers that look over you as if scanning the sky for flying saucers. There is no love, no recognition, no joy, no CHARISMA. It is why Nole and Hillary will never be adored by the public like Roger Federer and Barack Obama.
How can Djokovic ever claim to be the greatest if he doesn’t have the love? He knows it and it bothers him. He once said to my friend Matthew Syed, ex-Commonwealth ping-pong champion and now a superb sports writer for The Times, ‘‘I’m not sure what I have to do to be popular.’’
How many of us have said the same thing. How many kids have cried out from the schoolyard or adults from the office party, ‘‘Why don’t people like me?’’
And it’s because they don’t have that ‘‘it’’ thing. They don’t feel our pain. They don’t look people in the eye and listen as if that person is the most important in the room. They don’t have the smile and the wit and the empathy and the easy walk. They don’t have CHARISMA.
The word comes from the Greek meaning gift. It comes from an olden time of magic. AN Wilson writes at the start of his biography of CS Lewis: ‘‘The world has changed more radically in the last hundred years than in any previous era of history. Old values and certainties have been destroyed; religions have collapsed. In such a world, a voice which appears to come from the old world and to speak with the old sureness will have an obvious appeal.’’
Aslan in the Narnia books embodies the old magic of the old world. Aslan’s charisma is part of the reason why Federer is so loved and Djokovic never will be.
Federer is the wardrobe that takes us through the fur coats into the old world. He loves to play on the grass of Wimbledon where he may yet win one more title in a few weeks’ time. We can imagine him with a wooden racket in hand.
Federer even seems to be walking backward through time as his career progresses. As a young man he used to stay planted on the baseline. Federer now rushes the net and we love him for it. He is bringing us the old magic.
He even says, ‘‘I enjoy coming to the net like back in the day.’’
Nothing about Djokovic is like ‘‘back in the day’’. Why would it be? His childhood was spent in a country ravaged by war. His whole soul screams for progress. And so Everybody loves Roger Federer...Novak Djokovic...Not so much. Djokovic plays tennis to survive. He plays tennis to eat. There is no risk reward. He wouldn’t try to drive a green that was 300 yards away with a lake on one side. Djokovic would play an iron to a precise spot in the fairway and then hit a wedge to half a metre.
Nick Bollettieri, the man who rolled out Andre Agassi and Maria Sharapova from the production line, calls Djokovic ‘‘the most complete of all time’’, but then Bollettieri owns a factory. We don’t have to believe in his industrial diktat.
No, we believe in Federer. Look at the two men move. Djokovic almost minces back to his chair. Federer prowls. It is another problem for Hillary. Hubby Bill could move mountains with his gentle tread. Billbo was absurdly charismatic in his prime, but Hillary wobbles about like a madeup doll.
There is maybe hope for Nole and Hillary. There are people out there who say we can learn how to be charismatic. Olivia Fox Cabane, who charges firms such as Google more than a $100,000 a year for her services, says, ‘‘It’s all about learning to play chemist with your brain. If you’re able to flood your body with oxytocin [the love hormone] whenever you want, your body language will be transformed. People will want to be near you.’’
Watch Bill Clinton work a room in his prime. He steps off the stage towards his audience. He looks the questioner in the eye and stays with them. His intonation moves down towards the end of sentences, which is one reason why Aussies can never have charisma.
Now watch the press conferences of Federer and Djokovic at the Australian Open. Federer’s voice is lower. He looks at the questioner. He says ‘‘in my opinion’’ in a way that suggests yours may be just as valuable. In contrast, Djokovic’s eyes are flitting all over the place. His pitch is higher. There is no comfort in his presence, no connection.
And it is reflected in the way the two men play. Djokovic, surrounded by a Teutonic crowd of men in red tracksuits, wears down his opponent with mechanical efficiency. His baseline length is the best in the industry. His twohanded backhand doesn’t break down. And then there once was that endless ball bouncing, drumming away in your brain.
Federer, of course, plays the most beautiful game as befits man who is idolised by Anna Wintour, the editor of Vogue. The onehanded backhand is again a remembrance of things past. That fluid service action and wristy forehand are like flowing water.
As the Washington Post said, ‘‘Everybody loves Roger Federer...Novak Djokovic...Not so much.’’
Actually, I confess I don’t love Federer and I do think that Djokovic will become the G.O.A.T. – the greatest of all time. But then I’m a nerd. I’m the sort of person who would as soon watch Kane Williamson as Virat Kohli.
But the world loves Ali and Pele and Sobers and Seve. Don Bradman and Ben Hogan and Ivan Lendl and Joe Montana? Not so much. We all love the old magic. We all want to find our way through the wardrobe into the land of Aslan and Federer, where we can be witty and charming and listening and loved.