THE irony, as is his style, hits you straight in the face. Lleyton Hewitt is by ranking the third best player in the world, by form the most gifted ("He's arguably, right now, the No. 1 player in the world," says Davis Cup captain John Fitzgerald). Yet there is nothing remotely exceptional about him at first glance.
He is officially (and surely inaccurately) only 5ft 11in, and must in effect look up to his taller peers, something he figuratively would rather not do. He is not endowed with doorway-sized shoulders nor rests on legs that resemble felled timber from a Canadian forest. He lacks a Goran-style serve that is visible only in slow-motion, his groundstrokes are not known to blister paint like Agassi's, and he has sneered at conventional wisdom by winning without an obvious weapon.
But greatness, which Hewitt courts, is often not obvious. And indeed only if you slice open his chest do we find the invisible muscle that propels him: his heart.
Once a generation of cricketers would say that if they had to choose a man to bat for their life it would be Javed Miandad. In tennis, it would be Hewitt, a genetic mix of Michael Chang and Jimmy Connors, speed allied with unbending will.
Nothing exemplified that better than the Davis Cup semi-finals against Sweden in Sydney. Despite hearing the disturbing news of the terrorist attack on New York on landing in Australia (he was on one of the last flights out); despite being subject to endless media scrutiny after his U. S. Open victory; despite expected to suffer some decline in form after peaking at the Open; despite Patrick Rafter inexplicably succumbing to Thomas Johansson in the first match after being two sets to love up, Hewitt did not falter.
He held off a rampaging Jonas Bjorkman in four sets and returned on Day 3 to manhandle Johansson in four, raising his Cup win-loss record to a staggering 16-4 (he is but only 20) and delivered Australia to its third consecutive Davis Cup final, against France in November-December.
For Hewitt it was an opportunity to gain redemption, for, surprisingly, in a nation strong on patriotism (but whose commentators often fall into senseless jingoism, as in one saying during the tie that "I haven't seen Todd Woodbridge miss an overhead in 10 years, he has the best overhead in the world"), he is actively disliked. Recently, when he played Andy Roddick at the U. S. Open, standing in a newspaper office I was startled to note a bunch of Aussies cheering on Roddick!
Much has to do with Hewitt's manner, described as that of a street thug, and also because it stands in direct, unfavourable contrast to that of his fellow man, the aptly named Saint Patrick of Rafter.
But his collected calm during the latter stages of the U.S. Open, his commitment to the Davis Cup married with his evident passion, has brought him some forgiveness. As a letter to The Age newspaper, ironically written by a young Indian-Australian, Sandip Mukherjea (son and nephew respectively of Davis Cuppers Chiradip and Jaideep Mukherjea), put it, "....Many people do not like Hewitt. But like me, they should learn now to at least respect him. That much he has earned."
In a way the identity of the Cup semi-finalist this year told a significant story. In an era where athletes sulk if sponsors don't etch their murals on skyscrapers, and the pursuit of individualism (read greed) is primary, the Davis Cup as an institution has become increasingly marginalised. No Sampras, no Agassi, and constant calls for a change of format, preferably held in one city over a few weeks, thus dismissing the delightful concept of home advantage. Yet in some sweetly divine coincidence, three of the four nations involved this year - The Netherlands in their first semi-final being the exception - have a stirring history of Cup play. France have won it 8 times, Sweden seven times, and Australia 27 times, all oxygenating a tradition that promises to die.
A young country like Australia's embrace of this old idea is bewildering, but then their entire romance with sport is possibly unique. Donald Horne possibly explained it best in his 1987 book The Lucky Country, when he wrote, "Australia was not a country of great political dialogue.... For most Australians, playing or watching sport gave life one of its principal meanings. The elements of loyalty, fanaticism, pleasure-seeking, competitiveness, ambition and struggle that were not allowed precise expression in non-sporting life were stated precisely in sport."
They are also a nation, in contrast to India, who worship the idea of team as opposed to individual heroics. As a sporting unit they are bonded by some unique cement. Where it comes from is arguable, but as Horne explains, "the sheer size and emptiness of the outback may have an effect on the psyche, the resulting isolation may explain the Australian virtue of mateship".
This camaraderie, this ability to subdue self-interest for the sake of team, is strengthened by the fact that the umbilical cord that connects generations remains intact. So while Steve Waugh invites members of Bradman's 1948 Invincibles to dine and lecture his team during Test matches, since 1997 every Cup tie in Australia has honoured two former Australian greats. At this tie, last year's captain John Newcombe and coach Tony Roche, were serenaded (literally) and awarded a plaque in front of an adoring crowd.
It makes them very hard to beat. Though Australia were possibly overconfident for this tie, leaving Bjorkman to wonder whether the Swedes should have turned up at all, a No. 3 (Hewitt) and No. 7 (Rafter), in tandem with Woodbridge/ Wayne Arthurs, at home, truly made a Swedish win improbable. Yet the scoreline 3-1 flatters Australia and pays inadequate tribute to Swedish resolve, for it took 17 sets (8 of them tie-breakers) and a series of three hour plus matches to settle the tie.
France, despite missing the injured Sebastian Grosjean were less pushed by The Netherlands, Nicholas Escude's close-to-five-hour marathon against Sjeng Schalken in the second singles effectively shutting the door.
The final (a repeat of 1999, and Australia's first home final since 1986), at Melbourne Park, between November 30 to December 2, already has captain Fitzgerald contemplating his surface options. Grosjean and Arnaud Clement contested one semi-final at this year's Australian Open and are so enamoured by the physically demanding Rebound Ace they've possibly carpeted their homes with it.
Rafter, whose kick serve accelerates heavenwards at the US Open, wants a faster hard court, but, so wonderfully graceful a man he always is, has deferred to Hewitt since "he is the one bringing home the bacon." A portable grass court (Hewitt has won Queens in consecutive years) is a further option, but considering his present ability to walk on water, Hewitt couldn't care less if they strung a net across the Yarra river.
There is too, oddly enough for a seemingly macho nation, a sentimental element to Australia's Cup campaign, for they see eventual victory as a fitting farewell gift for a semi-retiring, Rafter who has never been part of a Cup winning team.
And so once again the irony. For in the end, perhaps it will take a street thug to fulfil the dreams of a saint.
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