Early on in his epic losing match against Fernando Gonzalez, Lleyton Hewitt was admonished by the umpire for calling out a stifled “C’mon!” as he belted a winner down the line.
Apparently, players have been warned against yelling out when hitting shots. But on other courts and other days, many of the women players are allowed to grunt so prodigiously that you’d think they are going to have triplets then and there on the courts.
Everything, it seems, is conspiring against Hewitt in his comeback since his hip surgery five months ago.
He is slower around the court than in his eager-retriever days. He looks even slighter than in earlier years. He big shots, especially on the forehand side and his serve, still look about as damaging as pop-gun fire when compared with the big hitters like Gonzalez.
And now the officials appear to be intent on taking away his Rocky Balboa spirit, that spirit that made him chase down every ball and never, ever give up on any point. This was the ‘C’mon!’ spirit that made him a long-time number one, gave him two Grand Slam titles, and a win on the senior tour when he was a teenager, younger than the latest Australian ‘prodigy’ Bernard Tomic.
Against Gonzalez, Hewitt looked to be a caricature of the relentless, courageous, pumped up player of his glory days.
His serve was slower. He had no power on either side. His net play, never a important factor in his game (one of his weaknesses as a top player, in fact), was poor. And towards the end of the match, although he’d forced it to five sets in an effort of will-power over court-power, he seemed to run out of energy.
He ended, uncharacteristically, with a whimper rather than with a bang.
In my opinion, Hewitt is now a tennis equivalent of Rocky Balboa who does not have a second round of triumphs in him. Although he talks about how he’ll be fitter for Wimbledon and sharper, his days as a serious contender in the Grand Slam tournaments are over.
For me, there is always a sense of sadness when farewelling a champion. But in Hewitt’s case, this sadness is muted. He had his supporters and fans but I, and I’d suggest the majority of Australians, could not bring ourselves to identify with him, his triumphs and losses, the way you with the other great champions of Australian tennis.
He always seemed like a spoiled, snarling brat. He was pumped up on rudeness and ungraciousness. He seemed to lack the laughter, class and the fun of life that the greats like John Newcombe, Rod Laver, Ken Rosewell, Lew Hoad and Yvonne Goolagong-Cawley had.
Now at the end of his career, when he has the chance to perhaps endear himself to us the way, say, another spoiled brat turned good-guy, Andre Agassi, did, Hewitt seems to be unable to rise to the occasion.
Asked about his heir-apparent on the court, Tomic, the surly Hewitt conceded that he had a “great win” in the first round but that, “I could be retired by the time he gets to the top 100.”
No graceful handing over of the torch here.
Come to think of it, the attempt to silence Hewitt on the court might have been better applied to his churlish statements off the court.
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