History at Wimbledon: it clings to every wall and crevice like the Virginia creeper that envelops the Club House. It drips from every hanging basket and balcony like summer rain. There is no escaping it. You cannot see it but you can feel it wherever you go.

And Novak Djokovic and Matteo Berrettini were feeling it as they made the long walk from the locker room to Centre Court on Sunday.

For the Italian, this was his first Wimbledon final and it was his country’s first Wimbledon final. And on the day that Italy was playing England in the Euro 2020 final, the level of national expectation had reached fever pitch.

That, though, was as nothing compared to the pressure Djokovic was under. Yes, this was his seventh final in SW19 so, yes, he was well used to the nerves, the excitement, the suffocating fear of failure that can afflict the rookie and the seasoned champion alike. But this year, all of that was increased 100-fold; this year Djokovic was aiming for the calendar Grand Slam.

He was two steps of the way there already thanks to his wins in Melbourne and Paris. His usual rivals were either not here at all (Rafa Nadal) or had gone out well before the final (Roger Federer). And, just to add an extra couple of sandbags-worth of weight to his load, if he could win today, he would stand shoulder to shoulder with those two with 20 Grand Slam titles to his name. Off you go, then, Novak; go out there and have some fun.

The crowd was clearly ready to enjoy it. There were the handmade signs: “Wimblettini” read one; “It’s coming Rome” read another, carefully written in the colours of the Italian flag.

The Djokovic fans, not to be outdone, had found themselves a Serbian TV crew and a gaggle of them were being interviewed. They sang their Djokovic song, a novel little ditty that seemed alarmingly light on melody and lyric. Basically, it was half a dozen blokes chanting 'Nole! Nole! Nole!' until the interviewer told them to pipe down. And then he told them again. And again.

Inside the packed Centre Court, the crowd was making it clear who they were backing. Although Djokovic had his supporters, it was Berrettini so many of them had come to see. Both men got a standing ovation as they made their entrance but it was Berrettini who was cheered all the way from here to the banks of the Tiber when he won the opening set.

Quite how he had won it not even he will know. To play Djokovic in a final is bad enough, but to begin shackled by nerves and then to be powerless to stop the world No.1 from taking a 5-2 lead, and then to come back and take the set – now that was something else again.

Yet this was not the usual Djokovic; this was Djokovic within touching distance of a piece of history. When he reached his first Roland-Garros final in 2012, he was trying to complete the non-calendar year Grand Slam and his own personal, career Grand Slam. And Nadal broke his heart in four sets.

When he came back two years later, still seeking that career slam, Nadal knocked him back again and Stan Wawrinka did likewise in 2015. History felt like manacles around his ankles.

He is not alone, though. As Federer approached Pete Sampras’s record of 14 major trophies, he looked tighter and tighter until he finally got over that hurdle at Roland-Garros in 2009.

Coming into that title match, he had lost three of four previous Grand Slam finals – a record that seemed unthinkable for the Swiss at that stage in his career. The bigger the prize, the greater the nerves – it was no wonder, then, that Djokovic was looking edgy.

Berrettini’s opening tactic was risky: he wasn’t taking the sprinkling of chances that his nervous foe was giving him and he was always playing catch-up. That seemed a forlorn hope at 5-2 down after about half an hour but with that serve and that forehand – when he could get them both working – it was not impossible. And, sure enough, he did catch up. Cue thunderous applause.

He tried the same approach in the second set – Djokovic sped to a 4-0 lead – but this time, the defending champion was beginning to make hay with Berrettini’s second serve and, at the same time, he was starting to impose himself on the match. When, after two hours or so, he turned to his box and tapped his temple. The message was clear: I know how to do this; my mind is strong. That took care of the second and third sets.

By this time, the crowd had given up on the usual Centre Court etiquette (enthusiastic yet polite applause and the occasional cry of ‘Come on Novak’ or ‘Come on Matteo’) and they were getting involved in every point. Chants of ‘Matt-e-o! Matt-e-o!’ were countered by ‘Nole! Nole!’ (the Serbian singers must have found a few extra tickets and squeezed themselves on court) while the umpire, Marija Cicak, was doing her best to keep order. It was a thankless task.

But then, in the fourth set, the old Djokovic made his appearance. The Djokovic who knows that the history of his sport is on his racket strings; the man who has watched his rivals set record after record and then matched them. The Djokovic who has stated his intent to be the best player there has ever been and, now, with his sixth Wimbledon trophy and his 20th Grand Slam title secured, is one step closer to proving it.

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