At 37, Novak Djokovic Reveals the 5 Tennis Players He Admires Most

At 37, I no longer pretend that tennis is a story about elegance or destiny. It is a profession built on pressure, pain, and the few opponents who force you to become someone tougher than you ever planned to be. People talk about titles, numbers, weeks at the top. I remember something entirely different. I remember the moments when my lungs felt empty, when my legs stopped answering, when every rally became a question of who would break first. And every one of those moments came from the same group of players. Love the most is not a phrase built on friendship. In my world, it means something sharper. It means the rivals who push me into that space where fear and clarity meet, the ones who exposed every weakness I had, the ones who made me rebuild my body, my tactics, my mental discipline. Without them, my game would have stayed predictable because of them. I became the player who could survive five hours, six hours, whatever it took. When you play long enough, you realize victories fade, trophies fade, applause fades. What stays are the names you could never ignore. The man who made you dig for one more shot, one more answer, one more level you did not know existed. I entered this sport at a time when the landscape was already shaped by giants. I was not the chosen one. I was the outsider trying to break into a world defined by two established kings and a generation built on precision, discipline, and tradition to survive. I had to change faster than anyone else. I had to strengthen my body, sharpen my mind, and build a game that could adapt to every surface and every pace, every storm the tour could throw at me. But evolution never comes from comfort. It comes from resistance. Every major shift in my career happened because a specific rival made it necessary. A new tactic, a new fitness level, a new mentality. These five opponents shaped every version of the player I became. Each of them represents a different kind of pressure, a different kind of pain, and a different kind of respect. Those are the players I am talking about. Today I revealed the five men I love the most, the five who defined my career more than any victory ever did. Number five, Juan Martin Del Potro. When I think about raw pressure, the kind that forces you backward even before the point begins, I think of Juan Martin Del Potro. His game was not subtle. It did not try to disguise itself. It hit you straight in the chest. The first time I faced his forehand at full speed, I understood that power was not just a number. It was a presence. Every shot he delivered came with weight, with intention, with a demand that you either absorb it or break under it. And no matter how prepared you were, the ball arrived heavier than expected. Our matches were never quiet. They were tests of endurance, points stretched into battles of positioning where every meter you were pushed back felt like a confession against him. My usual patterns meant nothing. Defending deep was not safety, it was surrender. To survive, I had to take the ball earlier, step inside the court, and trust the level of commitment that left no room for hesitation. Del Potro forced me into that mold. He made the court smaller, the time shorter, the margin thinner. Some of the most demanding nights of my career happened against him. The Olympics in Rio is the memory that never leaves. I came in prepared, confident, ready for a long tournament. He dismantled that expectation in one swing after another. It was not just power, it was conviction. His energy, his presence, his belief turned every rally into a burden I had to carry. When you face someone who hits that big while still carrying himself with humility and respect, it changes the emotional weight of the match. You feel the danger, but you also feel the dignity. The truth is simple. Del Potro exposed the limits of my defense more than once. He forced me to repair my patterns and upgrade my physical base. He punished every short ball, every passive choice, every moment of doubt. Strangely, that is why he earned a place on this list. He made me confront the version of myself that was not enough. He made me tougher without trying to. He pushed me backwards so I could eventually learn to stand taller. That is why he is here, because admiration in my world starts with the opponents who made survival feel like the minimum requirement. Number four, Andy Murray. When people talk about rivalries, they usually look for contrasts, opposites, clashing styles. With Andy Murray, it was the opposite. He was the player who understood me because he was built from the same materials, same patience, same stubbornness, same willingness to stay in a rally, not because he was smart, but because neither of us wanted to be the first one to step away. Playing him felt like arguing with myself. Every point demanded structure. Discipline and clarity. There was no space for shortcuts. From the start, our matches carried a particular tension. He read my intentions faster than most. He anticipated patterns that usually worked against others. If I changed rhythm, he changed with me. If I extended the point, he extended it further. When we met in finals, the pressure doubled. Australian Open finals especially became a recurring test of endurance. People saw the scorelines and imagined routine wins. They had no idea how much mental weight those matches required. Andy never allowed me to relax. He forced me to play patiently, then aggressively, then patiently again. Every adjustment was met by another adjustment. There were moments when he pushed me out of my comfort zone entirely. The US Open final in 2012 is one of them. I walked into that match with momentum and left with a lesson. He took control of the big points, controlled the wind, controlled the chaos, and made me taste a version of defeat that felt heavy. That loss stayed with me. It reminded me that discipline alone was not enough. I needed a sharper edge. A stronger baseline of aggression and a calmer approach under pressure. Wimbledon in 2013 was another turning point. That moment meant everything to him, but it also affected me. Watching him carve his place in history forced me to refine my own ambitions. A player who pushes himself that hard will always push you too. Whether you like it or not, Andy's evolution forced mine. What people never understood is how physical our matches were. Not in strikes, but in demands. Long rallies, constant resets, constant calculation. He challenged my cardio, my recovery, my concentration. He made me respect the game's smallest details because he punished every lapse in focus. Andy Murray earned his place on this list because he never let me rely on my habits. He made me update, rethink, rebuild. Facing him was like facing a mirror that refused to soften the reflection. In this sport, there is no deeper form of respect than that. Number three, Stan Wawrinka. When people ask me which opponent hurt me the most, they expect a poetic answer. They expect names linked to history, tradition, or surface dominance. But pain in tennis has nothing to do with legacy. It comes from impact. It comes from the matches that leave you questioning your own level. No one did that to me like Stan Wawrinka. His best tennis did not just beat you. It cut through every layer of your identity as a player. Playing Stan on a big stage was a unique experience because you could feel when he shifted into that rare zone, the ball sounded different, the pace jumped, the court felt smaller. My strongest patterns suddenly carried no authority. Usually, when a rally gets heavy, most players blink first. Stan didn't blink. He stepped in. He took time away. He punished anything that set even an inch too high. Facing him required maximum commitment on every shot. And even then, you often ended up defending without control. The match that stays with me most is the Roland Garros final in 2015. I walked in confident, prepared, ready to claim the one major I had chased for years. He took that moment and ripped it away with a level of shot making that felt unreal. Backhands down the line that landed on the line. Forehands hit with the balance of a statue and the force of a hammer. It wasn't a tactical loss. It was a submission to a player who reached a gear beyond logic. Then came the US Open in 2016. Another final, another night when he absorbed everything I threw at him and sent it back twice as hard. Long exchanges where I thought I had built the point correctly, only to watch him reset it with one brutal strike. There is a certain frustration that only a few opponents can create. Stan created it consistently. He made me feel the limits of my own resistance. But here is the truth that matters. He made me upgrade after those losses. I had to reassess my patterns, my positioning, even my confidence. Pain became a teacher. Stan forced me to accept that surviving wasn't enough. I had to dominate, dictate and trust my offense more aggressively. He reshaped my game through sheer force. That is why he's on this list. Not because he was frequent, but because he was devastating. Because every time he reached his peak, he pushed me to rebuild the parts of my game that comfort had allowed to settle. That kind of opponent earns respect the hard way. Number two, Roger Federer. When I entered the tour, Roger Federer was not just a champion. He was the definition of what greatness was supposed to look like. He shaped the standards. He shaped the expectations. He shaped the conversation. Every player of my generation grew up believing that if you wanted to matter, you had to measure yourself against him. I felt that pressure from the very first time I walked onto a court with him. His game was fast, clean, efficient and confident in a way that made you feel like you were borrowing time that didn't belong to you. Playing Roger was not like playing anyone else. He did not rely on chaos. He created order. He controlled tempo, spacing, patterns. He made tennis look simple while forcing you into positions where your own simplicity collapsed. Whenever I thought I had found the rhythm, he accelerated it. Whenever I tried to slow the match down, he lifted the pace with a shot that ignored the logic of the rally. You could feel how much the crowd trusted him, how much the sport itself trusted him. That trust becomes a kind of pressure you have to manage silently. The matches that shaped me most were not just about winning or losing. They were about what they meant. Wimbledon especially, standing on the grass across from him, felt like standing inside the heart of tennis tradition. Every point mattered twice. Every small doubt became visible. The finals in 2014 and 2015 forced me to reach a mental level I had never accessed before. They were long, sharp, unforgiving matches where survival depended on precision, not emotion. The moment you relaxed even for a breath, he took the initiative. Then came the 2019 final. The weight of that match was different. It was not only about who played better. It was about history, momentum, narrative. I had to accept that the entire stadium wanted him to win and still find the clarity to take the points that mattered. That afternoon taught me something. Essential respect is not softness. Respect is the willingness to face the player who represents everything the sport celebrates. Still refused to surrender to the script, Roger Federer earns this place on my list because he set the bar I had to clear not once, not twice. But for more than a decade, he made me sharpen my return, strengthen my defense and believe that I could stay composed when the world expected me to break. Without him, I would have stayed efficient. Because of him, I learned how to be undeniable. Number one, Rafael Nadal. When people talk about Rafael Nadal, they talk about clay records, intensity. But when I talk about him, I talk about survival. No opponent ever made me feel the weight of the sport the way he did. Facing him was not just a match. It was a confrontation with everything you fear as a competitor. Exhaustion, doubt, limits you pretend don't exist. Every rally felt like it demanded a piece of your identity. If you didn't give enough, he took control without hesitation. From the first point, you feel his presence. The ball jumps higher and pushes deeper and forces you into positions you do not want to be in. Most players give you windows, moments where their patterns weaken. Rafael gives you none. He covers space with a conviction that makes the court feel smaller by the minute. If you defend, he drags you wider. If you attack, he tests the precision of every swing. He does not let you breathe. The truth is that pressure changes you. The match that defines our rivalry for me is the Australian Open final in 2012. Nearly six hours, heat, fatigue, momentum swings that felt endless. That night stripped both of us down to pure will. There was no strategy left at the end. It became a question of who could stay present long enough to take the final chance. When you go through something like that with another player, respect stops being an idea. It becomes a lived experience. Then there is Roland Garros, the place where he demands your absolute best just to stay competitive. Facing him there means accepting that pain is the entry price. Every year, I prepare differently for that match. Every time he pushed me to a threshold I did not know how to reach until he forced it out of me. No one else did that to me with such consistency. People often assume that our rivalry was defined by the surface. They are wrong. It was defined by resistance, by two players refusing to let the other dictate the terms for long. Raphael taught me that surviving is not enough. You have to impose yourself even when your legs are gone, when your lungs burn, when the scoreboard leans against you. He made me rebuild my mentality more times than I can count. That is why he is number one. No opponent demanded more. No opponent exposed more. No opponent left me with a clear understanding of who I had to become just to stay on his level. Looking back at these five names, I see more than rivalries. I see the architecture of my career. Each of them forced a reaction out of me that changed the direction of my game. Del Potro taught me the meaning of absorbing power. Murray showed me how precise and disciplined tennis must be when every detail matters. Wawrinka exposed the limits of my resistance and made me rebuild. Federer set the standard that shaped every version of myself. Nadal pushed me deeper into the questions that define a competitor. How long can you stay present? How long can you suffer? How long can you hold your identity under pressure? People remember the trophies but trophies don't shape you. Opponents do. These five are the reason I survived the eras I entered, the reason I evolved, the reason I stayed in the conversation when many expected me to fade. They challenged my strengths, magnified my weaknesses and demanded a level of that few matches ever reach. If you want to understand who I became, these are the names that tell the story and now I ask you who would be on your list?