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There’s not much to Lleyton Hewitt.
As you walk through the back courts of the 1998 Adelaide International, a myriad of seasoned pros are warming up, hitting the last few cobwebs out of the off-season. You can’t tell, they all hit the ball incredibly well; smooth swings thwack fuzzy yellow balls with ease as they rally back-and-forth down the middle.
Amidst the couples of sparring pros sprawled out across the courts, you can be forgiven for skipping your eyes over Lleyton Hewitt, 16-years-old and ranked 550 in the world.
A men’s Nike shirt hangs loosely on his scrawny five-foot-nothing frame, sun-soaked blond hair flows out of his baseball cap fitted on backwards to complete the punk-kid look.
He shovels flat backhands and hits soft, loopy forehands that make for a consistent, but not overly impressive spectacle. He’s solid, but he won’t trouble anyone so you move on to watch grand slam winners Andre Agassi and Jim Courier warm up without giving the local runt a second thought.
Everyone would forgive your assessment; everyone’s was the same as yours anyway. No one saw this headline coming. 16 years old, 550 in the world, the local wildcard kid upsets Andre Agassi on his way to becoming the second-youngest and lowest-ranked winner of a tournament in ATP tour history.
It was an underdog story for the ages, and would be the first of many in a career that has been defined by everything but his strokes.
It’s a question that I often used to ask myself, “how does this bloke win?”
There’s no booming serve, his groundstrokes are flat and lack the power of other heavyweight players, and with an eye-test doesn’t look all that talented when hitting the ball.
He was never supposed to win. Power players won, talented players won; players like Lleyton were there to make up the numbers. Give any other pro the tools Hewitt has worked with over his career and you wouldn’t have heard of him.
Yet here he is, two-time grand slam winner and former world number one. Davis Cup legend and Australian tennis’ once loathed, but now loved son.
Australians love an underdog, there’s something so special about watching someone win who by all means should lose. You feel both perplexed and proud for this stranger who strains and struggles in the face of seemingly better opposition.
So often when talking about great players we revel in their style or strokes as weapons; Sampras’ serve, Nadal’s vicious forehand or McEnroe’s soft touch. With Hewitt, it’s a shovel backhand and an attitude that just doesn’t know when to quit.
He’s like a possessed prisoner, playing for his life every damn match of his career. Every single point is a scrap, fighting tooth and nail and willing to endure anything so long as he can survive and move on to the next round. He stretches every sinew of his smaller body to shove back everything getting shoved at him.
It’s a very strange feeling to win after such struggle. It’s more relief than joy, more pain than pleasure with an aching body lingering the next day. To be so addicted to the struggle is something very few people, indeed very few athletes, can recognise on Hewitt’s level.
The ATP lists Lleyton Hewitt and Roger Federer both as grand slam winning tennis players, but to say they work the same job is really not true.
Federer is ‘playing’ out there. It really does seem enjoyable to hit deft drop shots, casual slices and glide around smooth backhands. It looks like an effortless Sunday hobby. He wins, does a classy interview in five languages and then strolls to the players lounge without breaking a sweat.
To watch Hewitt is a horror movie, he’s a no hope. Often he looks dead and buried early and if he does get on top you’re never sure he will close it out emphatically. It’s a stressful rollercoaster of emotions as you will and shout this fighter from Adelaide to just survive so you can watch him fight in the arena again tomorrow.
He’d proven his mettle by age 20, capturing the world number one ranking and emphatically defeating Pete Sampras at the US Open in 2001. It was a master class in counter-punching tennis and for a while he was the gold standard in consistent, defensive play.
Yet the game quickly moved on and by 2004 the supremely talented, shot-making Roger Federer was tennis and Hewitt was simply a canvas to paint upon. A 2005 marathon to the Australian Open final was his closest to glory down under, but big-hitting Russian Marat Safin stopped him in four sets.
The ranking slipped and Hewitt’s body became riddled with injuries, it would have been easy to retire five years ago for someone with his mileage, but that’s not Hewitt.
He’s approaching his 20th and final Australian Open campaign this month, and you would be an absolute madman to think he has a shot at winning it. He simply doesn’t – he will be bloody hard to stop but he will be stopped, that’s close to a fact.
He doesn’t play for victory, I mean he does, but why has he played these last few years, body in tatters despite a skim schedule? He has nothing to prove, he’s left everything and then some out there when he played. What keeps him going?
He loves it.
Absolutely can’t get enough of this. Not just the game, the underdog story again. I’ve written him off here, everyone has ever since he was that 16-year-old punk ranked 550 in the world taking on Agassi.
That’s fine for Lleyton, he’s got us right where he wants us, doubting with all sound logic but hoping with childish ambition that he can surprise us one more time and explode into one more ‘C’mon!’ under the lights of Rod Laver Arena.
There will be a tear shed from many when the little fighter from Adelaide finally, finally succumbs to an inevitably stronger foe.
For a player who appeared to have so little, Rusty has given so, so much. And that is why we love him.
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