He is a dream come true for those skilled in the dark art of being able to finger-wag and type at the same time, writes Nick Ryan.
In a dank subterranean space beneath a city office block somewhere, a thousand monkeys bang away at keyboards, having become sufficiently educated in spelling the name ‘Kyrgios.’
Wikipedia claims Nicholas Hilmy Kyrgios was born in Canberra in 1995, but in fact he was dragged into this temporal realm by the collective consciousness of columnists desperate for something to write about.
When Nick Kyrgios retires from professional tennis his career will be measured by a ratio of column inches generated to points played, with the former outgunning the latter by a factor of 50.
Kyrgios is a dream come true for those skilled in the dark art of being able to finger-wag and type at the same time.
A lightening rod for confected scorn, a human tunnelling machine gouging out the gap between generations.
The scowling starting point for every column declaring Ash Barty to be a modern-day saint.
An opportunity for blokes whose idea of a marathon is a lunch that finishes after dinner to hold up a primed athlete as an example of everything wrong with young people today.
You have to ask, why do we care?
I can understand a kind of couch-bound connection to our national teams.
Those who sweat in green and gold do it in unison with those of us who drink beer while we watch them.
But for those who wander the globe competing in individual sports, the photo inside the passport is what drives them, not the coat of arms on the cover.
And that’s cool.
It us who need reminding these guys are doing it for themselves.
That way you don’t feel foolish agonising over Greg Norman tanking in the final round of another Major when he turns out to be little more than a sluice for stained Saudi cash.
That way you needn’t feel any kinship with Margaret Court when she decides kindness and love is to be allocated only to those who subscribe to her particular version of God.
It’s worth remembering that when we all stay up tonight to watch Kyrgios play the Wimbledon final.
He competes for personal gain, not patriotic duty. His success or failure is his, not ours.
And that’s ok.
I know we’ve all been brought up on this idea that the Wimbledon Centre Court is some kind of shrine to Australian sportsmanship, but it’s been nearly 50 years since the Men’s Singles was won by an Australian who wasn’t a bit of a wanker.
Normally I think watching tennis is as much fun as a squid jag suppository, but I’ll be glued to the screen tonight.
Not draped in green and gold, not shouting ‘C’mon Aussie.’
Just watching a contest between an anti-vaxxing sociopath and a supremely talented smartarse who just happened to grow up about 1000km from where I did.
A contest between two blokes who spend half their year in planes.
I actually hope Kyrgios wins. Not reasons of manufactured patriotism, but because I’ve warmed to his ability to not give a toss.
Earlier in the tournament, when being prodded by an English journo grasping for a reaction, Kyrgios dismissed him with the words that seem like apt message of support now.
Keep doing you then, Champion.
Originally published as Nick Ryan: I actually hope Kyrgios wins Wimbledon because I’ve warmed to his ability to not give a toss
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