Why Ash Barty is my new hero

If she wins, that’s fantastic. And if she loses, she doesn’t consider she’s been hard done by and she is gracious and generous every time.

I wish Barty every triumph and success. Illustration: Glen Le Lievre

Who were your heroes when you were a kid? Mine were the tennis players, Rod Laver and Ken Rosewall. I was fantastically proud of the fact that they were the best in the world at a world pursuit. Rocket Rod and “Muscles” Rosewall. As an Australian, you could be endlessly proud of them, especially Rosewall.

His designation as “Muscles” was ironic. His serve was no thunderbolt. It was described as getting the ball into play as inoffensively as possible. Rosewall’s play was athletic, but it was subtle, clever, artful. His great weapon was not a blistering top spin but a deceptive backhand slice.

Now I have a new hero, who also possesses a subtle, slice backhand, Ash Barty, who is simply the best.

Up to a certain point, the more obsessed with sport a nation is, the healthier it is likely to be psychologically, culturally, politically. I hope I’m not verballing him, but I think it was Kim Beazley who once remarked that it takes a good deal of apathy to run a democracy well. If you want intense political involvement, go to any Kasbah in the Middle East. One thing you won’t find there is a stable, well mannered society in which people obey the law and treat each other with respect and solidarity.

Malcolm Fraser was groping for this insight when he declared that as Prime Minister he wanted to put sport back on the front page of newspapers. When I was a kid sporting ability, especially for boys, was the single great predictor of social success and overall happiness.

Alas, gifted as I was with the physical co-ordination of a stale blancmange, this did not offer me an obvious path to greatness.

Nonetheless, I had a shot. Being pretty rotund as a kid, I played prop forward in a very junior rugby league team and quickly broke my shoulder. I did develop a very modest competence at tennis, a game I could play while wearing specs, and therefore could fantasise about the great Rosewall and Laver moments.

Many years later, wanting some self respect among all my mates in football teams, I found I could play soccer without specs. I played right full back and restricted myself entirely to my quarter. I could see just well enough to distinguish opponents’ uniforms from ours. My ambition was never more than to keep the winger I marked from scoring. I received just one sporting accolade (and treasure it still) when in 1975 I was a member of the Killarney Heights Amateur League 5th division side (there was no sixth division) and the club journal recorded: “a very good half game from Greg Sheridan”.

Laver and Rosewall were not only the best in the world, they were such decent, well mannered, good guys, such sportsmen. In recent years the two most famous Australian male players have been Nick Kyrgios and Bernard Tomic. My wish whenever I see them play doesn’t revolve around winning or losing, but simply the hope that they don’t embarrass themselves.

Whereas Barty is so universally good humoured, so utterly poised, so generous, so free of airs and graces, I wonder if she’s been misplaced by the 1950s. Any Australian can be happy whenever Barty plays. If she wins, that’s fantastic. And if she loses, she doesn’t consider she’s been hard done by and she is gracious and generous every time. We need our heroes, those of us especially incompetent at sport perhaps more than most.

Of course I wish Barty every triumph and success. But more than anything, I just hope she never changes.