If there’s such a thing as a silver lining to being sick as a dog, I experienced it this afternoon. With my son Luke and I both felled by the flu, I got a chance to crawl under some blankets, stick Luke on my chest, and spend the afternoon at home, watching tennis—Hewitt and Hingis, mostly.
Although Hewitt wasn’t playing especially well before the tournament, I picked him to win the men's singles at the mothership's website. My reasoning wasn’t very scientific; I see Hewitt as Australia’s version of Jimmy Connors (albeit two decades too late). Much like Jimbo, he punches above his weight (of course, Hewitt isn’t as nearly as good or successful); he’s also feral, combative, and probably unable to formulate a question beginning with “I wonder why . . ."
Hewitt has a Connorsesque lust for competition, and he’s the ideal tennis star for the mass audience, which treasures hard work, determination, guts. If Hewitt were from the U.S., he' be from . . . well, somewhere where the idea of a cultural capital is Las Vegas.
Throw all those elements together, add Hewitt's patriotism, and keep in mind that he’s won two Grand Slams—neither of which is the championship of his homeland. Frankly, I’m amazed that Hewitt hasn’t won in Melbourne, although he came awfully close last year, when all the stars seemed to be aligned for him until knucklehead Safin decided to pull out one of his semi-decadal peak performances.
But after watching Hewitt struggle against Czech newcomer Robin Vik, I no longer feel so sure that he’s destined to triumph in Rod Laver Arena. What struck me most in the desultory battle was the degree to which Hewitt succeeds on intangibles.
Oh, sure, the unforced errors were uncharacteristic; Hewitt was off form. And granted, there were flashes of the inner fire as the match went on. But I didn’t get the sense that Hewitt was in full command of his greatest asset—the absolute, seamless opportunism and aggression that adds sting and punch to his groundstrokes—the instinctive, go-for-the-jugular quality that makes him a genius in one department: shot selection. The guy never hits a purposeless, ill-conceived, or half-hearted shot. And that's an incredible gift; the tennis player's equivalent of speaking perfectly.
You would never mistake Safin, or Federer, or Nadal for a “mere” Top 20 player, even on their worst of days. Yet, take away Hewitt's glowing purpose, and that's exactly what he resembles. A journeyman, with solid if inelegant groundstrokes. This is one guy who needs to be fully dialed in to win big.
Hewitt wasn't very sharp. I wonder how much of that has to do with the recent changes in his life. It's tempting to posulate that, thanks to his recent marriage, Hewitt has gotten sucked into a black hole that must be unfamiliar territory for him: celebrity.
The more I think about it, the more it seems to me that it's almost like the poor guy has become a vehicle for furthering the fame of his actress wife, Bec Cartwright. That sounds nasty, I know. But let’s face it, it’s common for one partner or another to be pulled into the orbit of the other—it’s true of power couples like the Hewitts as well as ordinary folks.
Hey. Bec’s an actress. Attention is the air she breathes. I find it hard to imagine that if it were up to Lleyton, he would have sold the rights to the exclusive story and pictures of the birth of his first kid to a women’s magazine . . . (Aussie Rules Digest, maybe, but Woman's Day?) Remember, this is a kid who professes to loathe the press!
I know Hewitt really wanted to be present at the birth of his first child; but I also wonder, did the deal with WD require him to be present, in which case you could say that the ultra-competitive Hewitt passed up playing the ATP Championships because of a contractual obligation with Woman's Day?
Puh-leez!
But think further on it. Did Lleyton really need the extra mil, or is the real payout the visibility Bec gets through the deal, part of which enables her to take pen in hand as a columnist. Check out the dated but still saucy riff that ran on the subject in the Sydney Morning Herald a few weeks ago. Li’l Bec certainly has vaulted into the limelight, has she not? Ah, l'amour, l'amour . . .
Lleyton clearly was off his game against Vik. During the broadcast, either Cliff Drysdale of Pat McEnroe made the observation that Lleyton seemed “distracted.” Getting married, having a kid, they’re huge, life shaping—and life altering—events. I can’t help but remember that marriage knocked Connors for a loop, too, and his bride—the former Patti McGuire—wasn’t in the same league as Bec as a celebrity.
Well, it’s hard to read a lot into one match. But Hewitt’s next opponent, Chela, will be a tough assignment—they almost came to blows last year, over Hewitt’s alleged gamesmanship. So it will be a very interesting pairing.
One other thing I took away from the telecast. Pat McEnroe has evolved into a great commentator. He’s crisp, succinct, given to showing flashes of ironic humor—and able to make a simple observation that gets right to the heart of a technical or strategic issue. Pat also picked a perfect moment to zero in, and without mincing words, on Hewitt's habit of intimidating linesmen—a quality that makes him unpopular in the locker room.