PARIS — Rafael Nadal made people believe here Monday, not because of how he played, but because he is Rafa, and he was on the clay at Roland Garros, and there has never been a finer marriage of man and material. If this 6–1, 6–4 loss to Novak Djokovic was the final Olympics singles match of Nadal’s career, as many have speculated, then he went out the only way he could: Not at his best, but with his best. It is the only way he has ever played.

The first set was a relentless reminder of why Djokovic remains a threat to win Grand Slams and why Nadal has likely won his last. Djokovic covered the whole court; Nadal had one mishit after another. Afterward, when Nadal was asked about the difference in the match, he said “Everything.” So yes: Nadal struggled. But it was not, from this vantage point, depressing to watch, because Nadal has always struggled. This is part of his allure.

Roger Federer, at his best, made tennis look easy; Nadal, at his best, reminds us it is hard. He did not dominate with an awesome serve, and though he won Wimbledon twice, the quick points on grass were never his specialty. He is wired for clay. Lengthy baseline rallies that seemed to exhaust everybody else energize Nadal. Clay-court tennis rewards the methodical, and so specialists are supposed to be boring. But Nadal was not a clay-court specialist. He was an artist who did his best work with clay. The harder the tennis, the better he played.

Djokovic won 10 of the match’s first 11 games, thoroughly outclassing Nadal, and then … and then … how do you even explain what happened next? Nadal won four straight games. He played some brilliant tennis. Fans who had cheered at every wisp of hope suddenly had real reason for it. If Rafa could just find a way to force a third set, who wouldn’t believe?

Nadal has won 14 French Open finals on Court Phillippe-Chatrier, a number that staggers no matter how often one repeats it. When Nadal started his career, only one man had won 14 Grand Slam events: Pete Sampras, who won exactly that many. Nadal won 14 at one venue, at a time when his two chief rivals were among the three best players in history.

The place was hopping as Nadal served to go up 5-4. This was not just a favored adopted son trying to win a second-round match at the Olympics; it was an icon and his fans holding hands and trying to pull each other forward.

The atmosphere would have caused most opponents to topple, but Djokovic merely teetered. Djokovic broke Nadal with a backhand drop shot, then served out the match. The final point was a ruthless ace from the ad court: Au revoir, Rafa, or adios—whichever you prefer.

Afterward, Nadal politely acknowledged the effects of age but refused to give into them.

“I was not able to have enough quality of shots, enough quality of movement,” Nadal said. “He was playing almost all the time from comfortable positions, and he played quite well. So playing against Novak without creating damage to him, and without having the legs of 20 years ago, it’s almost impossible now.”

It would have been nice if Djokovic had the same sense of the moment. Instead, after hugging Nadal, Djokovic pretended to play his racquet like a violin.

Like most of Djokovic’s unforced conduct errors, the root cause was not malice. It was obliviousness. To most sports fans, pretending to play the violin is a way of mocking those who are sad and emotional. But Djokovic has done the violin celebration all summer for his daughter, who has taken up the instrument.

A more socially savvy superstar would have recognized that even though he won, the moment belonged to Nadal, and all he had to do was not step on it. Then again, a more socially savvy superstar would have come up with a different celebration in the first place, just so nobody would mistake the message. Surely there are ways for Djokovic to connect with his daughter without irritating anybody else.

Djokovic is no villain. He is a relentless competitor and a gracious loser, and he can be charming and even sweet. He has a temper, but tennis has seen far worse; Djokovic’s moments of on-court petulance would have earned Jimmy Connors and John McEnroe points for good behavior. 

Djokovic just has a remarkable tendency to make himself look bad at the most inopportune times. He engages with hecklers, or in the case of Casper Ruud’s fans at Wimbledon, people Djokovic imagines to be hecklers. He mocks the celebrations of opponents who are nowhere near his equal, as he did with Ben Shelton at last year’s U.S. Open.

Djokovic became the best player in the world after most fans had already fallen for Nadal or Federer—or both. So admiration came later than it should have, and his anti-vaccination stance alienated a lot of fans. If he resents being the best player ever but the third-favorite of his generation, that is his right.

But Djokovic could have done himself a favor Monday by looking across at Nadal and realizing that will be him before long. He is 37. As Nadal said after the match, speaking only of his own inevitable retirement: “That’s part of life. Everything has a beginning, everything has an end.” Mass affection would come Djokovic’s way if only he would let it.

“I always feel like [I’m] playing at home when I play here,” Nadal said after the match. “It’s so special for me. I can’t thank enough all the people here who made me feel so special.”

Nadal was asked about if this was the end, and his answer was predictable, because he has given it many times before: He doesn’t know, and the reason he doesn’t know is because he still loves tennis. Not just winning matches. Not just the trappings of success. He loves playing. He loves the experience of it. He loves when it’s hard. And that is why he is beloved.