Few players in the history of tennis have had the privilege, and the punishment, of facing all three members of the sport's legendary 'Big Three'. I am one of them. Across my career, I’ve stood across the net from Roger Federer, Rafael Nadal, and Novak Djokovic. Each encounter was a masterclass, but one, against Novak Djokovic, gave me the worst on-court experience of my life—not because of gamesmanship or poor sportsmanship, but because of something far more psychologically devastating.
The Artist: Roger Federer
My match against Roger Federer felt less like a battle and more like a private concert where I was the only attendee, and the music was my own defeat. From the first ball, the experience was surreal. His movement was ethereal, a silent glide across the court. There was no heavy grunting, no visible strain, just a serene execution of shots that seemed to defy physics. The word that comes to mind is effortless. You never feel like you can disrupt his rhythm because he isn't relying on rhythm in the conventional sense; he's creating it on the spot.
What makes playing Federer so uniquely challenging is the combination of pace, precision, and time. He takes the ball so early, especially on the return of serve, that you feel the entire court is shrinking. You hit what you believe is a strong, penetrating shot, and before you’ve finished your follow-through, the ball is already past you, a blur of speed and placement. The points are often quick, and the defeat is clean. There is no dirt under your fingernails from a long fight; you’ve simply been outclassed by a virtuoso. As I walked off the court, my overriding emotion wasn't anger or frustration, but a strange sense of awe. I had been dismantled by an artist.
The Warrior: Rafael Nadal
If Federer is a scalpel, Rafael Nadal is a sledgehammer. The experience of playing Nadal is a physical and mental trial by fire. The intensity begins in the warm-up. Every movement is explosive, every shot is struck with violent purpose. You feel his presence from the moment he steps on the court—the relentless pacing, the fiddling with his bottles, the pre-serve rituals. It’s a constant reminder that you are not just playing a tennis player; you are facing a force of nature.
The core of the nightmare is his topspin-laden forehand, particularly to the backhand side. It’s a shot that doesn’t just push you back; it explodes off the court and attacks your shoulder. You find yourself being pushed further and further behind the baseline, caught in a vortex of his own creation. The physical demands are immense, but the psychological warfare is just as brutal. He fights for every single point as if it's a match point in a Grand Slam final. There are no freebies. The experience is grueling, and you know you’ve been in a war. You leave the court exhausted, but with a strange respect for the sheer will and physicality you've witnessed.
The Machine: Novak Djokovic
And then there is Novak Djokovic. My match against him was, without exaggeration, the most disheartening and mentally draining experience of my professional life. Unlike the awe of Federer or the grueling respect for Nadal, the Djokovic experience is one of utter hopelessness. From the first point, you are not playing a man; you are playing a wall. A wall that absorbs all your power, all your best shots, and sends them back with interest. His flexibility and defensive skills are superhuman. You hit a shot that would be a winner against 99.9% of the tour, and he not only reaches it but returns it with depth and pace, immediately putting you on the back foot.
What truly breaks you, however, is his mental fortitude and tactical perfection. He plays chess while everyone else is playing checkers. He identifies your greatest strength and makes it your weakness. He forces you to hit one more ball, to go for a riskier shot, to doubt your own game plan. The match becomes a slow, methodical deconstruction of your entire game. There are no easy points, no shortcuts. You are trapped in a baseline prison of his making. I remember a specific moment in the second set where I executed what I thought was a perfect point—a big serve, a deep approach shot, and a volley placed sharply into the open court. He somehow lunged, got his racket on it, and flicked a passing shot winner. In that moment, I felt a profound sense of despair. I had done everything right and it still wasn't enough.
The key differences that made the Djokovic match my "worst experience" boil down to a few critical factors:
- Psychological Impenetrability: With Federer and Nadal, you feel you can potentially disrupt their flow. With Djokovic, you feel he is immune to momentum shifts. He is at his most dangerous when he is down.
- The Complete Absence of Weakness: Federer’s backhand could be attacked. Nadal’s serve, historically, could be vulnerable. Djokovic presents no such clear target. His game is a perfect, seamless whole.
- The Feeling of Inevitability: Against the others, you feel you are losing. Against Djokovic, you feel the loss is pre-ordained. He doesn't just beat you; he convinces you that you cannot win.
Tennis legend John McEnroe once perfectly encapsulated the feeling of playing Djokovic, saying, "You look at Federer, it's beautiful. You look at Nadal, it's violent intensity. You look at Djokovic, and you think, 'How the hell are we supposed to beat this guy?'" In my match, that question echoed in my mind with every passing game. It was a unique form of psychological torture, a slow, grinding realization of your own impotence against a perfect tennis machine.
Conclusion: Three Shades of Greatness
In the end, my "worst experience" with Djokovic is not a mark of disrespect. It is, in fact, the ultimate testament to his unique brand of greatness. Federer showed me the beauty of the sport. Nadal showed me its heart. Djokovic showed me its absolute, unrelenting limits. He broke me not with power or flair, but with a perfection so complete it felt inhuman. Each of the Big Three defined an era and redefined excellence in their own way. For me, they represent three distinct nightmares: one of sublime artistry, one of brutal force, and one of infallible, chilling perfection. And it is that last one that haunts me the most.