Roger Federer, Rafael Nadal, Novak Djokovic: Where Does Men's Tennis Stand?

We stand at the summit of greatness.

What 10 (if not 50) years of evolution and progress have brought to the face of tennis, this 21st-century, 2011 audience witnesses the fruits.

It is a hard truth—Novak Djokovic, Rafael Nadal, and Roger Federer are the world's three greatest tennis players (in the order of those names).

Over the last seven months, tennis has undergone inconceivable, seismic shifts in the lay of power, culminating mightily in this last trans-Channel, clay-grass grand slam swing.

We began where we should have begun—deep in the renaissance of Federer-Nadal, before an Australian Open many had decided would be waged between the two.

Instead, and to the surprise of all, we witnessed the rise (or re-rise) of that long-dormant, second-fiddling Serb, Novak Djokovic.

His rivalry with Rafael Nadal earlier this year looked to become a dogfight but instead turned out to describe the emergence of that long-sought impossibility, a nemesis to the Spaniard, who himself had been the nemesis of countless others before (Djokovic too, at one point).

It was all a case of take-some-of-your-own-medicine, with Djokovic re-enacting the sort of dominance that Nadal himself exercised over Federer in 2006 in winning four straight encounters then.

Unlike Federer, Nadal couldn't survive it.

The unlikely joker king, long eastern European prince behind the majestic Swiss and Spanish monarchies of Federer and Nadal, pronounced a new era.

It could have been little better phrased—with a maiden title at the most hallowed of tennis turfs, Wimbledon, and a win over five-time finalist, and two-time champion overall, Rafael Nadal. A long-held pattern of play that entranced the European grand slam season has been broken, possibly never again to be revived.

For the first time in seven years, a man not named Federer or Nadal could claim to be champion at either Roland Garros or Wimbledon. The latter only, this time—but one would feel, the former too, sometime in the years ahead.

It would seem the natural progress of physics that a monopoly progresses to duopoly, a duopoly to oligopoly, and a oligopoly, possibly, to anarchy.

It is a fact of tennis history, a sport, above all, centred on the personality. We have seen so many dominant figures in the past—Borg, McEnroe, Lendl, Sampras, and now, this wonderful era of Federer, Nadal, and Djokovic.

Ancient Greek political theorists would have a monarchy replaced by a democracy, and a democracy descend into anarchy, only to be revived by another monarchy, or by an aristocratic oligarchy.

We have seen the workings of this perfectly in the last century. Roger Federer emerged as the veritable true heir to Sampras, following a period of much confusion and disarray—no disrespect intended to Hewitt or Ferrero, but with so many one-time grand slam champions in the years 2001-04, it must surely have been difficult not to see the manifestations of an ancient political theory of constitutional cycles.

The truth is, it has been happening all the while.

Connnors was the Open Era's first real dominant force, after the fading of Laver, who bestrode the pre-unified, and unified, tennis worlds. His was a monopoly of sorts, peaking in 1974.

Then Borg came along, and stole his thunder; indeed, the thunders of practically everyone for the next six years. But he found his challenger in John McEnroe, a man who in some ways initiated the democratisation of tennis, paving the way for all sorts of interesting things in the 1980s.

He won Wimbledon in 1981 and went on to reach the next three finals before the emergence of new powers.

Ivan Lendl built up his resume at the French, while Boris Becker made headlines at the All-England Club, in not only winning it as a 17-year-old in 1985, but defending his title the year after.

Then, there was Mats Wilander, who nearly became the greatest of them all, in winning three of the four grand slams in 1988.

Pat Cash, Stefan Edberg, Michael Chang, were all key figures of the 1980s. Having many winners, as in the early 2000s, may well be as much a sign of much strength as it is of weakness.

As the 1990s loomed, tennis seemed ready for another periodical transition to dominance, with the rise of Pete Sampras, whose dominance in that decade was near-monarchical. He was joined by fellow Americans, Jim Courier and Andre Agassi, but only the latter could come near the legendary 13 slams Sampras would win from 1990-2000.

The lid had been blown off the canister of conventionality, however—true, immortal greatness was for the first time a realistic option for a tennis player.

The end of that decade was really the point at which the contrasts in tennis styles really peaked.

The serve-and-volleyers of the last two centuries had paved the way for power games centred on the baseline. Indeed, much of the relative dearth of truly great players in the early 2000s may be attributed to this.

Safin, probably, was the first sign of things to come, when he blew Sampras off the Flushing Meadows in 2000; he didn't, perhaps, quite have the mind for greatness.

Hewitt was king for some time, although, as events would suggest, his was in some sense merely an interregnum.

We emerge, then, in our era.

An era in which players of talent and skills not before seen have come, playing the sort of tennis even the greatest of the past could only have dreamt of.

First came the player who had it all, and still does—Roger Federer. He brought us to unworldly heights, and crashed the record books almost everywhere.

It only incited the envy of Rafael Nadal, however, who contrived to fashion a game which had everything, too. His dominance, as we are all aware, extends even to this present day.

At this moment, however, it is Novak Djokovic who leads at the helm—a player in so many ways a product of the preceding decade. He is hardly a specialist—he has all the shots and all the games.

Perhaps, as one commentator has put it, he doesn't merely have all the strengths—he just doesn't have any weaknesses. Djokovic plays a game that is truly one of the 21st century, and one which has aspects of his rivals (might we say, predecessors?), Federer and Nadal.

Some have said Djokovic's coronation marks the beginning of a new era, a new reign in tennis.

But, as history has shown, it could well be a crossroads moment. It could well be the point at which the wielders of power make way for more and more competitors, and, perhaps, among them, a new, true king.

Djokovic might well himself be this new revelatory king, the way of the tennis future. Federer and Nadal, too, may make an astounding return. Of all decades, perhaps this, the second of the century, may be the least predictable yet.

It is clear, nonetheless, that the ground has shifted, and the days of heady, super-human dominance (for all of Djokovic's 50-match winning streak) seem numbered. Del Potros, Murrays, Soderlings, and even Tomics, Dimitrovs, all lie waiting.

What do the next few years of tennis beckon? A  political forecast could hardly be less mesmerising.