I’m not sure I should be saying this, but I have a guilty pleasure.
I really know I shouldn’t do it, let alone like it. But I really can’t help it.
It’s not an addiction, moreso a fascination. A bit like the feeling you get when eating greasy chicken – it’s great, but afterwards the heartburn elevates into the stratosphere.
Please don’t judge me. It’s not drugs, or gambling, or porn.
My compulsive obsession is Nick Kyrgios.
Allow me to defend myself. It’s not the man I can’t get enough of. His mouth, his work ethic, the way he speaks of others. Shameful. All of it. There’s nothing about him which fetches him an invitation to my dinner table.
There’s the look, nothing my twitchy left eye is lured to.
If I’m to be honest, he ticks very few boxes.
Not the way Federer, Nadal, or Ash Barty do. They’re champions of the game, to borrow the cliche, on and off the court.
The way Federer speaks positively about himself without arrogance, the way Nadal humbly finds flaws in his worn out body, and the way Barty overcomes past demons by being as normal as any world Number 1 can be.
Do I want my offspring to emulate Kyrgios? Not a chance.
Do I want Kyrgios to always win? Not really.
Would I say I like him. No way.
Do I hunger for the opportunity to one day see him play against Novak Djokovic. You bet I do.
There’s plenty about sporting confrontations that doesn’t cut everyday decorum. When our team cheated at cricket, and any sort of racism. They’re both well over the line.
Yet, when two players or teams are vicious rivals, it spices up the contest. No harm done, right?
And maybe that’s what it is about Kyrgios that makes him such a drawcard. Most of the players find the man so repulsive that they feel they must destroy his ego, yet so often he turns around and rubs it in their face.
Again, it’s not a laudable trait. In life, it’s abhorrent.
But professional sport is not life, is it? Don’t get me wrong, it is when children are playing it.
Nevertheless, maybe that’s the attraction. The theatre, with Kyrgios at the centre of the plot and thousands of revved up minions in his midst.
Kyrgios is escapism, a detraction from the daily grind. He’s not polished, nor cavalier by any stretch.
Like so many of our sporting stars, we’re somehow tolerant of the odd rogue – wanting badly for them to mature into a human we feel less culpable in our desire as we dare a fleeting glance at his antics.
Maybe there’s fault in that. I get it.
But he lost. So I’ve stopped now. Until next time.
