First published in The Sydney Morning Herald and The Age, February 3, 2024.
For me, the real New Year doesn’t begin until the Australian Open ends. Straddling the last two full weeks of January, the Open is the great watershed event. When it begins, the silly season is still in full swing. The air is still thick with barbecue smells and far-fetched resolutions. By the time the tennis ends, there’s no denying the carnival is over. It’s time to get back to real life.
This week I’ve been walking around with a tennis hangover – the post-Open blues. I’ve still got an after-image of centre court branded on the back of my eyelids. I’m still hearing phantom tennis sounds. The squeak of rubber soles on hardcourt, the slap of ball against net tape. The sound of Jim Courier getting all hushed and grave in the commentary box (“This is some tough sledding for Stefanos”) before exploding with approval on a big point (“Oh, that is clutch!”).
I’m also still hearing the ads. At the Australian Open, a change of ends lasts for just one minute. Advertisers have a limited chance to get into your head. Borrowing an approach from the field of enhanced interrogation, they assail you with the same insufferable ad over and over, as if they can infuriate you into parting with your cash.
Last year it was the fantastically annoying ANZ ads (“You make me feel like financing”). This year it was Andre Agassi for Uber One. “You know what is disappointing?” Agassi kept saying. “Not having a mullet and mullets are back.”
Even after four hundred viewings, I never quite made up my mind about Andre’s mesmerisingly naff line-reading. Was it so bad it was good? Or was it just bad? Why did he say “and” instead of “when”? Did he botch the line or was it written that way? Did the ad’s makers know it would play thirty times a night for fifteen nights straight? If so, why didn’t they politely ask Andre for one more take?
But these are quibbles. The star of the show was tennis, which is surely the greatest spectator sport ever devised. Like a cross between boxing and chess, it’s a supreme test of both body and mind. The key to the game’s magic lies in its scoring system. No match is over until it’s over. The biggest lead can melt into defeat if you lose your nerve.
Out on the court, the players engage in a struggle that feels like a metaphor for life itself. Work hard in the small moments and the big moments – the clutch moments – will come. Seize those moments and glory will be yours.
But it won’t last forever. Time comes for everyone in the end. This year it came for Novak Djokovic, the most formidable player in history. Going into the tournament, he hadn’t lost a match at Melbourne Park since 2018. This year he meekly succumbed in the semis to 22-year-old Jannik Sinner, who went on to win the final. Watching the 36-year-old Joker run out of answers, you felt the sun setting on an era.
No other game reveals the personality, or the character, the way tennis does. The distinction between those terms is important. Martin Amis once said that in tennis, “personality” has effectively become a synonym for another word – one that starts with “a” and ends with “hole.” He also observed that the game’s all-time greats – Rosewall, Ashe, Navratilova – didn’t need “personality” because they had character.
Among the current Aussie players, Alex de Minaur has the winningest blend of character and talent. Like Ash Barty and Dylan Alcott, the Demon comes across as an exemplary human being – a paragon of pluck, energy, and commitment.
This year he was stopped in the fourth round by the flame-haired Russian Andrey Rublev. Even as his dream unravelled in the fifth set, the Demon continued to applaud Rublev’s canonball winners in the time-honoured way, by clapping the heel of his spare hand against his strings.
Meanwhile, up the other end, Rublev was being a personality. With a hairstyle like the top of a Bunsen burner, Rublev ranted in Cyrillic after every bad shot. This would have been easier to take if he was losing, as opposed to crushing the Demon’s dream. But I’d be lying if I said that Rublev’s anger-management struggles were not, in themselves, deeply fun to watch.
By historical standards – by the standards of McEnroe and Connors – Rublev is a poor excuse for a tennis bad boy. But tennis misbehaviour is a dying art these days. The Australian Open did away with line judges in 2021. Since then the line calls have been fully computerised.
As a result, today’s tantrum-chuckers have precious little material to work with. You can’t argue with a computer. A modern hothead like Rublev has nothing to rage against except his own shot selection.
This is why I’m calling for the Australian Open to scrap the computers and bring back human line judges. Gripping as this year’s tournament was, something vital was missing from it. Tennis has robbed itself of the crackle of suspense – the tasty danger that a bad line call, real or imagined, might trigger a spectacular psychological meltdown at any moment.
Purists will say that’s a good thing. But I freely admit that I’m not a purist. I watch tennis for the theatre as well as the skill. I appreciate a good drop volley, but I also like watching cheesed-off adults behave appallingly under controlled conditions.
I’m also a sucker for quality sports commentary. The best line of the tournament was uttered by Peter “Salty” Psaltis, during an epic five-setter between Alexander Zverev and Cameron Norrie. As the final tie-break began, Salty dug deep for the clutch phrase, and delivered the line that said it all. He said, “I just feel sorry for people who don’t have sport in their lives.”
