An umpire (right) plays as Mark Philippoussis' partner during a round one legends doubles match at the Australian Open tennis tournament in Melbourne, Sunday, Jan. 25, 2009. AAP Image/Julian Smith
So Mark Philippoussis has flushed all – or most – of his money down the dunny. Ten million or thereabouts in prize money, plus goodness knows how much in endorsements, poured down the drain pipe of indulgence.
There is nothing much to show for it, other than some nice snaps of he and an ever evolving female entourage, driving around in a range of low slung European sports cars.
And of course, that heavily mortgaged home in Williamstown, Victoria.
Sift through the vitriol that’s appeared on countless blogs and news sites over the past few weeks, and it’s pretty plain to see – there’s little sympathy out there in punter-land for Mark Philippoussis.
Where did it all go wrong?
In his formative years, it looked like he might help fill the void that had become Australian tennis. But the tall good looking Greek God was quickly on the nose.
He become the Poo, Mark Full-of excuses, Mark Fall-to-pieces, The Dud instead of the Scud.
Why such disdain?
He won us the Davis Cup, and narrowly lost Grand Slam titles. Besides he never broke the law. Never clocked anyone in a night club. Never defecated in his doubles partners’ tennis shoe. He didn’t even get caught having a slash in the streets of Double Bay. Four times.
So what went wrong?
For mine, there were a couple of the pivotal moments, the first in 2000 when he declined the offer – read refused – to play Davis Cup for Australia.
Not going to win you too many friends with that sort of behavour. A bit like refusing to have a beer on your bucks night.
Strike one.
Strike two – the clumsy dumping of girlfriend Delta Goodrem. For Paris Hilton. Paris Hilton. Whoosh. There go the female fans. Do what you like to Paris and any other American bimbo you want to fraternize with, but leave our little Delta alone.
The final swing at the plate?
That was no more complicated than his outright refusal to make the most of his enormous potential – the squandering of God given talents.
In the same way we love the little Aussie battler who continues to climb back off the canvas floor while he’s being beaten to a pulp, we can’t cop the chiseled Adonis who struts around the ring and rarely throws a punch.
Line the Poo up alongside one his major contemporaries, Pat Rafter.
Two time Grand Slam champion, Davis Cup hero, Wimbledon finalist. A national treasure, with a stadium named in his honor. On the court, Rafter’s record was superior – but not that superior. It’s just that he squeezed every little drip he could out of every pore of his body.
He won and he lost graciously.
The sad thing is, the Poo at some stage of his life, will probably come to realize the great waste. He may even regret the way he behaved. And by then, it will be far too late to do anything about it.
Perhaps he should give Symmo a call. Maybe the two of them could duck out for a days fishing.
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