With his French Open victory on Sunday, Novak Djokovic became the first man since the sixties to hold all four Grand Slam titles simultaneously. PHOTOGRAPH BY PHILIPPE LOPEZ / AFP / GETTY

For a moment on Sunday, after his four-set victory over Andy Murray, Novak Djokovic looked as if he might fall—not collapse in a rush of relief and joy but stumble. That, in itself, was astonishing. For three hours, Djokovic had stretched, slid, and spun into shots and out of them, never losing balance. His body had seemed constructed of sinew and veins and long, strong ligaments. But, when it was over, when he knew he had won his first French Open title, he seemed suddenly frail and thin, catching his breath, staggered by a staggering thing.

It was a strangely unbelievable moment, for all its air of inevitability. Before Sunday, Roland Garros was the only Grand Slam that Djokovic couldn’t seem to win, in an era in which he couldn’t seem to lose. It is his twelfth major title and—even more impressive—his fourth in a row. He is the first man to hold all Grand Slam titles at once since Rod Laver did it, in 1969, and only the second since Don Budge, in the nineteen-thirties. It turned a tournament in which nothing seemed to go right into one that ended as it should.

For two weeks, tennis had seemed out of sorts. The grounds at Roland Garros were cold and gray and muted. There was no Federer, who did not play due to injury, breaking his streak of sixty-five straight majors. Rafael Nadal appeared only briefly—his withdrawal after the second round all the more crushing because of his recent resurgent form. Mostly, there was the rain. The stands were half empty, fans taking cover from the weather or unable to make it to Roland Garros through the transit strike and the flood. Those who did looked grim, bundled and huddled and hugging themselves.

Much of the tennis, when there was tennis, was halting and messy. The footing was unsteady, the balls soggy and slow. There were flashes of anger—players upset at the umpires for having to play in steady rain, with themselves for washing away big leads. I lost count of how many rackets were thrown. Djokovic was nearly disqualified after a racket he bounced in frustration flew a foot from a line judge. But, by the end, there was a sense that we were right where we should have been, with the two best players on the men’s tour.

Djokovic collected himself, stood up straight, gathered the ball girls and had them hold hands. Together they bowed low and then thrust their hands up toward the crowd, repeating the motion toward all parts of the stadium. He had taken a ball kid to do this after every match, all tournament long. It was both sweet and telling. Tennis is an individual sport, but Djokovic did not want to celebrate alone.

Djokovic has a real chance to catch the Grand Slam total of Nadal, who has only two more, and even Federer, who has seventeen. There is an argument to be made that what he has already done makes him the greatest player in history. He is totally dominant, having reached the final in twenty-one of the twenty-two most recent big tournaments (majors, Masters, and World Tour Finals), winning seventeen. On Monday, when the new rankings are released, he will hold the top spot by an overwhelming margin. Most impressively, he has not been winning in an era of weakness. He has played Nadal at his most tenacious and Federer at full strength, and he has beaten Andy Murray again and again.

So little separates Djokovic and Murray. They are both twenty-nine. They have two of the best returns, the best backhands, the best abilities to move seamlessly from defense into offense, to hit for pace and angle, to use spin and slice, to approach the net and trust their hands. But Djokovic does everything a tiny bit better, and with greater calm. He shows no weaknesses, while Murray demonstrates his frustration—every word a tirade, every grimace a snarl of stress. Since Murray beat Djokovic in the final at Wimbledon, in 2013, Djokovic has won all five of their Grand Slam encounters.

On Sunday, he came out flat, misfiring forehands, struggling with his second serve, unable to counter Murray’s aggressive shotmaking. But, in the critical second set, Djokovic adjusted. He recovered his forehand, pressed his advantage on Murray’s second serve, and pushed him back while driving forward himself. Djokovic hit sharp, scything slices and delicate drop shots; he won a remarkable twenty-six of thirty-three points at the net. It came to seem that the Scotsman, who had played so dominantly at the start, never had a chance.

There is something about Djokovic that infuriates many people, his opponents but also tennis fans. It may be his planar style, or his backswing, efficient rather than a liquid whip. It may be the way he seems to make the right choice instead of the beautiful one, the way he plays with percentages instead of grit, or the way he bends and never seems to break. It may be the way he runs down every ball, stretches for every volley, hits that demoralizing extra shot. People call him a machine—not very nicely.

And yet, to me, he is among the most human of players. For all the self-assurance of his game, when he glances at the crowd, when he gives interviews, when he pals around with ball kids, he looks imploring. It is as if his desire is not only to win but to be seen.

Tennis has a certain vulnerability to style. The way a player carries herself can come to seem interchangeable with her play, with the trajectory of her strokes. Serena Williams is as powerful and dominant as her serve; Agnieszka Radwanska, a stunning shotmaker, is all stealth and cunning. It hardly matters that Roger Federer is a little dorky; the elegance of his forehand long ago became shorthand for his personality. On Saturday, in the women’s final, Garbiñe Muguruza, lanky and charming, announced herself as a star, defeating Williams decisively, 7-5, 6-4. Even her forehand seemed charismatic. It demands attention—the fluid stroke, the way the ball seems to gain speed as it moves across the court. On Saturday, she took Williams’s serve early, cutting off angles and often sending it back before Williams had recovered from her service motion. But what was most impressive about Muguruza’s performance was her ability to let four championship points slip away—and then come out to serve for the match and win.

On some days—even in the first round at Roland Garros—Muguruza looks lost and unsure. Her footwork breaks down; she stops attacking; she looks tight. She is now being heralded as the next great champion, the one who could rival Williams. This may be premature; it wouldn’t be surprising if she won Wimbledon, or if she lost in the first round. But on Saturday, at least, Muguruza hit, as she said, “without regret,” and you could tell. On her fifth match point, pushed back by Williams’s strong approach, she flicked up a soaring backhand lob that landed, somehow, just inside the line. Williams could only turn and smile.

It took Djokovic four French Open finals to win his first. After the match, he was asked what went through his mind on championship point, and he talked about his “connection” with the people at Roland Garros. There it was—that desire for love. Only this time he had it. The crowd had chanted “Nole, Nole” and cheered every shot. He heard it. During the final game, he stopped and looked around, listening. He lifted his arms and exhorted the crowd.

There were a few tense points in the final games. He couldn’t close it out while serving at 5-2 in the fourth, and then lost two championship points while serving at 5-4. He looked visibly nervous. And then he relaxed. You could see it. He was no machine.