I asked Djoković about it.

"Roger is the best player in the world," he said. "So I have a big respect for him." He paused. "But nobody's perfect. Even though they call him Mr. Perfect, nobody's unbeatable." He gave a little laugh that was more like a mental clearing of the throat, then laid out, with dispassionate thoroughness, two schools of thought about Federer's game — one emphasizing the ferocity of his forehand, the other highlighting the matchless variety of his backhand. "Both of these stories are true," he concluded, "but maybe I believe that, on his backhand side, you have more chances to develop a good opportunity for the winner. Maybe open up the court."

This was an enormous simplification of a plan that would involve some very complex mechanics. It also assumed an absurdly high level of execution. Djoković was talking about taking away some of Federer's time to prepare on his backhand side in order to seize any opportunity to attack. In Montreal in August, the only time Djoković had defeated Federer in their six meetings, the plan had worked. "Just put him in this uncomfortable zone — that's what I managed to do, and that's why he was making some unusual mistakes, and that's why I won." By the time they played again a few weeks later at the U.S. Open, though, Federer had made some minor adjustments, and Djoković's strategy gave him less trouble.

Now, though, he had a charity event to host. Djoković took the stage at Belgrade Arena — which seats 20,000, and was sold out — to the theme from Rocky. He was then unable to speak for minutes while the entire arena rocked with the chant "Novak! Novak!" A big courtside section of seats was filled with young kids in red shirts from Kosovo, reportedly brought to town by the busload at Djoković's expense. The evening's program included folk dancers, pop singers, rock bands, acrobats, and nervous under-16 doubles. Djoković seemed utterly comfortable as emcee, leaving the crowd roaring with jokes I couldn't understand. I tried to picture another tennis player — any other athlete — in this role. It was like Jon Stewart and Eli Manning inhabiting the same body. Then, late in the evening, Djoković took the mike and crooned a romantic popular song. Tipsarević came in on the chorus, and the whole arena sang along.

Djoković and Federer met in January at the Australian Open semifinals. Djoković had been in terrific form since the opening round, not dropping a set in his six previous matches. Federer's performance had been less steady, but he had, as usual, found ways to win without his A-game and was still the heavy favorite to win the whole thing. Federer, people liked to say, was no longer playing opponents — he was playing history. With 12 Grand Slam titles in the bag, he needed just two more to tie Pete Sampras for the all-time record.

Through the first few games he and Djoković traded clean blows, each holding serve. Djoković seemed nervous. He kept changing racquets, fiddling with the strings, as if they might be at the wrong tension. Federer seemed unnaturally calm, almost grim. The contrast in their playing styles did not flatter Djoković. Next to Federer's uncommonly beautiful strokes, his game looked merely efficient, orthodox, powerful. His two-handed backhand, though widely feared, cannot compare in form with the amazing number of variations in Federer's full-extension one-hander. In the eighth game of the first set, Federer jumped on a few second-serves and quickly broke Djoković. It was unclear what, if anything, Djoković was doing to impose his game plan on the match.

Then, just two points from losing the first set 6-3, Djoković seemed to find another gear. He took a high backhand, leaping several feet off the court to create a crosscourt angle that he could drive flat, and from there blasted a shot that seemed to stun Federer with both its pace and its improbability. Djoković started pounding balls deep to Federer's backhand corner and then treated his formidable defensive slices like opportunities, stepping into the court and smashing winners. Federer's rhythm was disrupted, and Djoković proceeded to go on the sort of run against the world number one that nobody has managed in years. He won nine of the next 10 games and was soon ahead two sets to love.

Djoković was covering the court so effortlessly now that he made Federer, who is extremely quick, look sluggish. The challenger grabbed virtually every opportunity to attack, slamming short balls away for angled winners, coming boldly to net and daring Federer to pass him. Federer's passing shots are, I believe, the finest single aspect of his game. Flicked or hammered, dipping or bullet-straight, they regularly alter one's idea of the possible in tennis. They often have to be studied in super-slow-mo replay before they can be understood — and some remain mysteries still. They routinely destroy the morale of his opponents. Against Djoković in Australia, however, Federer could not buy a passing shot. Djoković won it in straight sets.

The crowd in Melbourne, unlike New York, didn't take to him, though. They rooted for Federer, and in the final they supported — vociferously — Djoković's opponent, who was not Nadal. The world No. 2 had also fallen in the semis, in his case to a lumbering young Frenchman named Jo-Wilfried Tsonga. The duopoly that has owned men's tennis in recent years was finally looking vincible. But why did the Aussies root, increasingly raucously, against Djoković? Perhaps it was because Djoković has still not learned the aw-shucks demeanor that remains de rigueur for tennis champions. Australians in particular value manly self-effacement; Djoković would pound his chest after big points, and after victories naively announce that he was "very proud of myself."

But Djoković didn't let the crowd at the final distract him overly. He beat Tsonga in four sets. It was his first Grand Slam title, and a big step toward his lifelong goal. Djoković kissed the court, embraced Tsonga, took the microphone, and thanked his family. He said, referring to Tsonga, "I know the crowd wanted him to win more. That's O.K., it's all right. I still love you guys, don't worry." The Australians seemed genuinely disarmed by this piece of graciousness. Then Djoković's thoughts turned homeward. "I think it's going to be a crazy house back in Serbia," he said. That sounded about right.

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