This article is taken from the June 2026 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Find our subscription offers here.
This year’s Wimbledon marks the silver jubilee of arguably the most extraordinary final ever played on Centre Court.
On one side of the net was Australia’s Pat Rafter: number 3 seed, runner-up the previous year, and one of the most popular guys on the circuit. The veteran tennis writer Bud Collins called him “a humble man known for a gracious manner on the court, great generosity and a gentlemanly demeanour at all times”.
On the other side was Goran Ivanišević of Croatia, a bewitching mixture of talent and unpredictability. “Every match I play against five opponents: umpire, crowd, ball boys, court and myself,” he once said, and he also spoke of the three Gorans: Good Goran, who charmed the crowds whilst firing down rocket serves; Bad Goran, who had volcanic tantrums when things were going wrong; and Emergency Goran, who appeared in answer to a mental 999 call and banged out a few aces to save the day.
In 2001, Ivanišević was ranked only 125th in the world, his form having tanked since losing to Pete Sampras in the final three years earlier. “I can only kill myself,” he’d said afterwards, and the summit appeared forever out of reach. But now a wildcard place opened the door for another tilt at “the only tournament I dreamed of growing up”, and he kicked that door clean off its hinges, beating Carlos Moyá, Andy Roddick, Greg Rusedski, Marat Safin and Tim Henman.
Rain delays and lack of a roof over centre Court meant the final was played a day later than scheduled, on a Monday. Gone were the corporate debenture and prawn sandwich brigade: in came ordinary punters with flags and face paint, Croatian football shirts and Aussie rugby jerseys, technicolour wigs and inflatable kangaroos. The usually reverent atmosphere was unabashedly raucous and partisan, and much the better for it.
Two sets all, Rafter serving first in the fifth, everyone aware that one slip now could be terminal. The first 12 games go with serve. Into the badlands beyond 6-6: no tiebreak, so it continues until one man is two games ahead. Ivanišević two points from defeat on his serve. Enter Emergency Goran to keep his man alive.
Now Rafter wobbles. Facing two break points, he serves a slow kicker, but the return is clean and true, and Ivanišević has his break. He aims a kiss skywards and crosses himself. No one’s an atheist, not one game away from a championship.
Ivanišević serves for the match. The crowd is rampant, the tension a living thing. This is it, the quick where you have it or you don’t, the clutch when you look into the abyss and the abyss looks back into you. One man against himself, against his demons and doubts, the neuroses which lurk in dark crannies of the psyche and surface in the white-hot glare of a Wimbledon decider.
A double fault for 15-30. In the commentary box, Pat Cash says: “I’m surprised he can stand up at all. His legs must be like jelly.”
Second serve ace. 30-30. Ivanišević asks for the same ball. “Can you believe it?” asks John Barrett. “With Goran,” Cash replies, “I can believe anything.”
Another ace. Championship point.
Again Ivanišević asks for the same ball. He wipes his face with a towel, looking as though he’s going to cry. The entire crowd are on their feet, participants as much as spectators, drawing energy from and sending it back to the gladiators in the middle.
A long serve wide to Rafter’s forehand. Out. Second serve. Double fault. Deuce.
First serve down the middle, Rafter nets the return. Second championship point.
In the players’ box, Ivanišević’s father Srdjan can’t watch. He has a heart condition, and this surely can’t be anywhere near the list of recommended treatments.
Another double fault. “One can only guess at the turmoil raging in the mind of Goran Ivanišević at this moment,” says Barrett. This is tennis as heavyweight boxing: the stamina, the technique, the mental strength, and most of all the lack of hiding place. No teammates, no breathing space. Just two men, and the instant when one has the will to do what the other does not.
Rafter puts a return wide. Third championship point.
Ivanišević crosses himself, squats, looks heavenwards, prays on the spot where the ball landed. Kisses the ball. Tries to tuck Rafter up, but the Australian’s lob is too good. Deuce. Again.
Rafter shovels into the net for a fourth championship point.
Once more Ivanišević asks for the same ball. This is the thing about tennis: you have to close it out. You can’t run down the clock or sit on a lead. The game renews itself with every point, and you have to win those points till it’s done.
Second serve down the middle. Rafter nets his return and Ivanišević falls to the ground, shaking with tears. Now it is done. Finally, excruciatingly, ecstatically, it’s done.
“I don’t know if someone is going to wake me up and tell me I haven’t won again,” he says afterwards. “This was my dream all my life. I came here and nobody thought about me, but here I am holding the trophy. If I’d had lost again, I would have gone to the North Pole or hanged myself from a bridge. I don’t even care if I ever play a match in my life again. This is it. This is the end of the world.”
