Contrasting approaches Novak Djokovic (left) goes through his post-match routine, in which he endeavours to share ‘that love and that light and divine energy with all the people’, while Nick Kyrgios’ unpredictability makes him popular with crowds the world over
problems in tennis have sounded naïve at best and, at worst, ludicrous. And then there is that ritual he goes through at the end of matches. “It’s God himself inside of me and in the sky, as well,” he tried to explain. “So I’m trying to share that love and that light and divine energy with all the people.” But however well intentioned it is, the routine still looks like he is trying to advertise a push-up bra. It is really not a good look. Meanwhile Federer and Nadal have, quietly and politely, refused to agree with most of Djokovic’s statements or opinions on anything. That has just added a little more fuel to the fire. But it has always been this way. Agassi’s unpredictability – playing like a god one day, tanking the next – together with his flamboyant clothes and lifestyle was the perfect counterbalance to Pete Sampras. In his pomp, Sampras was the undisputed champion, but he was not exactly a sparkling personality. Before them, McEnroe was the fire to Bjorn Borg’s ice. And Connors just seemed to have it in for everybody. What binds these villains together is talent. Only the very best can become a villain. There is no fun in winding up a grumpy world No 200: no one knows him, no one cares and, anyway, it doesn’t seem fair. But a genius with a fatal flaw (usually a fraying temper), that is a different matter. Now the crowd can get involved in the match rather than just watch. A dodgy service game, a few whistles or giggles in the stands and, hey presto, we could have a full-scale meltdown on our hands. As Nick Kyrgios pointed out in Melbourne, it is because no one knows what is going to happen next in the villains’ matches that people come to watch. Kyrgios has, to use the Aussie term, copped a lot of flak over the years for his behaviour, but the stadium is packed whenever he plays. When he plays well, he can beat anyone; when he starts acting up, you cannot take your eyes off him. Now there is Medvedev. After his epic final in Melbourne, he was exhausted and crushed. It wasn’t just the losing to Nadal that hurt him, it was the fact that for nearly five and a half hours he had given his
Roddick intoned. Djokovic didn’t like that. When he beat Roddick, he told the crowd what he thought of his opponent. “It’s not nice to say that,” he said petulantly. Then he told the interviewer what he thought of the crowd: “They are already against me because they think I’m faking it.” There was no way back from there. Getting himself disqualified from the same event 12 years later in another fit of pique did not help matters. This year, his protracted arguments with the Australian government over his eligibility to play, unvaccinated, in Melbourne followed by his eventual deportation just sealed the deal: he was a pariah in the new Covid world. The more Djokovic has tried to be loved, the worse it has become. His enthusiastic explanations about his holistic approach to life can make him sound like a crank. To some, his attempts to offer solutions to the
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