Someone must clean the hallway.

Beyond the elegance of Roger Federer and the survival instinct of Rafael Nadal, I am interested in Novak Djokovic (mythomaniacs insist on including Andy Murray in this select group, the big four they call it; I don't really understand why, I would leave it at big three ).

If I'm crazy about Novak Djokovic, it's because I see him as human as a hieroglyph. He's ambitious and combative. He's irascible when things go wrong. He's capable of defending his ideals in any forum. If necessary, he'll fight the entire world. If he thinks he shouldn't get vaccinated, he won't, because he couldn't care less what people in Melbourne or anywhere else in the world think. He's well trained: this isn't the first time he's found himself in one of those situations. Djokovic remembers himself in the basement of a Belgrade building, when bombs were raining down on Serbia. "Me against the world," 2Pac Shakur rapped before being shot dead in Las Vegas. Me against the world.

Djokovic remembers himself in the basement of a Belgrade building as bombs rained down.

But beyond the public and bellicose Djokovic, there is someone I dare to guess.

Reader, let me tell you this story.

Months ago, Djokovic was visiting his childhood school in Belgrade when he noticed a silhouette, the figure of an octogenarian bustling around at the end of the hallway.

"Is that you?" Djokovic asked the old man.

Yes, the octogenarian replied, it was him: it was the man who had been the school's janitor and who had been sweeping and mopping those hallways for more than sixty years, just as he had done thirty years ago, when Djokovic was a kid, just another student.

–Why are you still here?

"Someone has to keep these halls clean. And the kids keep me young. And I need the money to take care of my wife, who's sick."

Djokovic took note.

And the next day he reappeared at the school, summoning all the students, the administration, and the elderly octogenarian to the auditorium. And those expecting a motivational talk were in for a treat. Djokovic asked the octogenarian to join him on stage, and from there he extolled the values ​​of that upright, long-suffering old man, the man who took care of all the children. Then he handed him a generous check, generous enough to cover his wife's medical expenses as he finally retired. And then he asked the school administration to inscribe a message on a bench in the courtyard: "To Mr. X, who kept these halls sparkling."

PS: It turns out the story is false, a fake circulating on social media. But it's enough for me to tell you, dear reader, that I like Djokovic. And what can I do?