MELBOURNE – “Nole, Nole, Nole.”

All afternoon on Rod Laver Arena this chant will drift on the cool afternoon wind. Usually it’s in praise, now it’s as if they’re imploring him. Yet even as they’re shaken by what they’re seeing, everyone has the same thought.

It’s OK, Novak Djokovic will show up.

It’s not even a question, is it? He always shows up, he’s tennis’ North Star, he’s never lost a semi-final here, he comes with a warranty.

Djokovic better show up because the man on court playing Jannik Sinner is an impostor. He’s doing what Djokovic never does and that is to miss. Lines are painted for him to hit them.

Quickly Djokovic is 1-5 down in the first set but there’s a number even more staggering. It says 11-3 which is his unforced errors count versus Sinner’s. It’s as astonishing as Roger Federer collecting ugly shots.

Later the Serb will say: “I was shocked with my level. I guess this is one of the worst Grand Slam matches I’ve ever played.”

Sinner, whose gentle demeanour is at odds with his surname, is doing to Djokovic what Djokovic does to others: Making him play an extra ball. In late 2023, he beat the Serb twice but, with respect, this isn’t about how far the Italian has come but where the Serb has gone.

Djokovic could have been an engineer, a tailor, a circus knife thrower, for he deals in precise centimetres. But now he hits wide, long and into the net and resembles a piece of sophisticated machinery with a broken part.

The unforced error count grows.

15-4.

23-7.

“Novak, Novak, Novak,” they chant again.

He’ll come, won’t he? Not because anyone wants him to win but because this deserves to be a great match.

But the Serb hasn’t been well and perhaps this is the lingering fallout of a harsh flu. He looks emotionally flat and isn’t even shouting at his box. The beauty of this match is that it’s baffling.

Sinner is 22, Djokovic 36, and someone asks later, respectfully, if his form is a reflection of his age. Time catches everyone but Djokovic only smiles.

“Let’s see.”

The Serb reads serves like radar does missiles. No one has ever returned better and yet for the first time ever he can’t even conjure a single break point. Yes, Sinner is serving beautifully but Djokovic has broken Federer for a living.

Sinner has the first two sets 6-1, 6-2 and everyone dives into history. Only in 2020 at the French Open v Rafael Nadal and in 2005 in Melbourne v Marat Safin does he win fewer games in the first two sets. Only twice in 414 previous Slam matches. Imagine.

Serbian flags fly but not the man they wave them for. Even Sinner can see that this isn’t the Djokovic he prepared for. “He was not hitting the ball as he used to. He was also not moving that well, he was also not that focused.” Even so, Sinner has to be wary because he knows what we know.

Djokovic will show up, right?

And then, finally, like ornithologists waiting for a rare bird, a sighting comes.

Djokovic wins a 23-shot rally in the first game of the third set and then a 21-point rally. Is this him? The real, undiluted, take-your-scalp, Grand Slam Djokovic who is on a 33-match winning streak here?

He grimly takes the set to a tiebreak and Sinner gets shaky as anyone will as history flirts. The Serb is down 4-5 in the tiebreak but curls a lob as beautiful as an embroidery stitch and his arm is up and so is the crowd. The set is his 7-6 (8-6), the match is on.

See, he’s come, hasn’t he?

But no, he hasn’t, this is just a cameo, this is all the skill and pride and defiance he can muster. In the fourth game he’ll be 40-0 up on serve and get broken and the real Djokovic, that old one, he’d never allow this. Sinner just bounces on his toes like a boxer. He’s been the superior fighter all day.

And then it’s over, expectedly and still abruptly, 6-1, 6-2, 6-7 (6-8), 6-3, and Djokovic jogs to the net, always a fine loser, and in the press room he says: “He outplayed me completely today.” The young man is in his first Slam final, Djokovic has been to 36. The final unforced error count is him 54, Sinner 28.

Every camera on court is turned to Sinner. Djokovic packs his bags, climbs the stairs and trudges through the Walk of Champions where lighted boards celebrate past winners. The first board is in his name and lists all his victories. Champion 10 times but not this time. He used to make history.

Later, a camera will catch him walking through the carpark. He is alone. Just like he was on court. On a strange Friday the game’s finest player doesn’t show up and now it doesn’t matter. For he has gone.