Ahead of Wimbledon 2022 semi-final against Rafael Nadal, what do we make of Nincompoop Nick Kyrgios?
Nincompoop Nick is off his rocker if he thinks his on-court sob stories have anything going for them. They’ve become predictable and boring at The Championships, more tiresome by the day. The Times in London has asked a reasonable question – is Nick Kyrgios good for tennis? – and may I suggest the answer is bleeding obvious. Yes and no. Nincompoop Nick’s tennis is good for tennis but the nincompoop manner of Nincompoop Nick is not.
A first Grand Slam semi-final ​✅​@NickKyrgios defeats Cristian Garin 6-4, 6-3, 7-6(5)#Wimbledonpic.twitter.com/irn1vbb7DP
— Wimbledon (@Wimbledon) July 6, 2022
Put it this way. If you saw a 12-year-old carrying on like this, you’d haul the precious little blighter of the court and tell him to stop embarrassing himself. The most accurate test of sporting manners is the 12-year-old test and Nincompoop Nick fails his examination in spectacular fashion. He’s a grown man acting like a toddler who dislikes the slop he’s been dished up for dinner.
In short – he plays great tennis, acts like a nincompoop. Isn’t that the simple guts of it? Right now he’s playing Chilean Cristian Garin in the Wimbledon quarter-finals. The incessant portrayal of victimisation is a yawn. Makes me want to go and watch Rafa on Centre Court. When Nincompoop Nick misses a regulation forehand in the first set, he screams at the family and friends in his box, “What the f*** was that?” They sit there and say nothing. He demands an answer. Shouts at them again, as if it’s been their fault: “What the f*** was that?” One of them should tell him, “It was an unforced error of your own doing. And why are you blaming us?”
Nincompoop Nick is wearing the dopiest cap Wimbledon has ever seen. At 4-3, 0-15, he unleashes a looping and curving down-the-line forehand to win a marathon rally. That’s as great a shot as anything Nadal has ever hit from his preferred wing. You could wax lyrical about the perfection of Nincompoop Nick’s service motion and the brute power and spin of the forehand as he whips the ball so hard it becomes the shape of an egg, but who has time for that? Nincompoop Nick’s sideshow commands all the attention and column inches. He’s muttering and mumbling like the world is against him. Scintillating tennis is spoiled by the sooking. It’s such a yawn I’m not sure I can finish this sentence.
He hollers at his box – sister Halimah, father Giorgos, manager Daniel Horsfall, physio Will Maher and girlfriend Costeen Hatzi – for standing up too often, for not standing up enough, for making too much noise, for being too quiet. One of them calls, “Come on, Kygs!”. He gives a dirty look and shouts, “Don’t say that!” He misses a first serve and chastises his nearest and dearest once more. He wins a point and blows up again. It’s obviously his defence mechanism against tension. He has to yell it to free himself up. The fact it’s abusive and angry is childish and churlish. Why they put up with it, I’ll never know.
I don’t know how Nincompoop Nick is in real life. I don’t know how he behaves when he’s playing video games. I don’t know if he helps little old ladies cross the street. I don’t know the details of the allegations against him of domestic abuse. That will be for another court to decide. A court in which the umpire won’t cut him half as much slack as these ones do. I don’t know if Nincompoop Nick buys flowers for his mother on her birthday and I don’t know anything he does away from tennis. When I suggest he’s a nincompoop, I’m talking about his behaviour in a tennis match. It is there for all to see but of course, there’s contradictions and sympathy for what he says has been a harrowing history of mental health issues. He beats Garin 6-4, 6-3, 7-6 (7-5) to set up a Wimbledon semi-final against Nadal and describes his journey with a grin and one-word summation: “Rocky.”
Nincompoop Nick isn’t acting like a nincompoop now the match is done. He stares at the turf and looks likely to cry before he departs Court 1. His supporters coo: see, he’s not so bad. His knockers roll their eyes at the crocodile tears. For all the mid-match nincompoopness, reaching the Wimbledon semi-finals has been a mighty accomplishment.
"I never thought I'd be at a semi-final of a Grand Slam"@NickKyrgios thought his ship had sailed but he's through to the last four#Wimbledonpic.twitter.com/56fHc7Qqve
— Wimbledon (@Wimbledon) July 6, 2022
“I never thought that I would be here,” he says. “The ship, I thought, was gone. Especially where I was a couple of years ago but obviously everything I’ve overcome, I’m feeling really, really proud of myself and the team and the level I’m playing.”
On what he was thinking during the deep, meaningful and mercifully silent moments after his victory, Nincompoop Nick says: “Just how things can change. There was a point where I was almost done with the sport. Obviously I posted this year about the kind of mental state I was in in 2019, when I was at the Australian Open with self-harm and suicidal thoughts and stuff. I’m sitting there today after the match – to be a semi-finalist at Wimbledon, it’s a special accomplishment for everyone, but I think especially for me. I don’t think anyone would have – if you asked anyone if I was able to do that the last couple years, I think everyone would have probably said no. He doesn’t have the mental capacity. He doesn’t have the fitness capacity. He doesn’t have the discipline. All that. I almost started doubting myself with all that traffic coming in and out of my mind. I just sat there today and soaked it all in. There’s just so many people I want to thank. At the same time I feel like I don’t want to stop here, either.”
He adds: “Honestly, I’m so proud of just – like, honestly, at the start of the year, I didn’t even know if I wanted to really play like a proper schedule at all. I don’t really play a proper schedule now. I obviously had thoughts the last year, year-and-a-half, whether I wanted to play anymore. Lost the love, lost the fire, lost the spark. Then some things just changed in my life. I don’t know. I kind of just rediscovered that I’ve got a lot of people that want me to play, that I play for. I’ve got a lot left in the tank. I feel like I’m probably playing some of my best tennis, mentally feeling great. It’s been a heck of a ride.”
Nincompoop Nick remains immature on the court. He reckons he’s more mature off it. He says: “I think earlier in my career if I made a third, fourth round or quarterfinals, I’d be on my phone a lot. I’d be engaging online a lot. Would be keen to go out to dinner and explore or just do things to kind of, not necessarily soak in the achievement, but just not conservatively go back to my house at Wimbledon with my team, put my feet up, get treatment and eat, get good rest. I think everyone has the same goal in my team. We all know what we’ve come here to do. I made it pretty known to them that I wanted to go pretty deep here and possibly even raise the trophy. I’ve made that pretty known. I feel like it’s literally just been as simple as getting some rest. Like, Nick, stay in the house. That’s not always been the easiest thing for me over my career.”
Is Nincompoop Nick good for tennis? Again, yes and no. “He returns better than he serves,” he’s called out in a clear sledge of Garin. That’s lame. A weak moment in a sport where verbals between players are a no-no. Then two rainbow-shaped forehands in the fourth game of the second set are a sight to see. He’s rocks and diamonds, boorishness and brilliance, angels and demons. He beats Garin while barely shutting up from the first point to the last. Some of the woe-is-me routine is understandable; this is a pressure-packed sport. And yet a lot of it is ugly and annoying. One of the people he is hurling abuse at is his own father. I don’t understand that. On and on it goes. As a spectator has yelled at Nincompoop Nick earlier in the tournament, “Stop moaning!”
He berates the audience and then targets his own gang again. “Give me something!” he yells. “There’s five of you! Five of you!” The half-volley in the 12th game of the third set, and the drop shot to start the tie-breaker, are the shots of a supremely gifted player. But the behaviour is an absolute turn-off. He thinks it’s entertaining, but he’s wrong. It’s the tennis that can put bums on seats. The rest is growing old. “Probably be the most-watched match of all time,” he says of his semi-final against Nadal. “I would argue that.”
I would argue he has more than a fighter’s chance against the 23-time major champion. Because a funny old thing is happening in London. Nincompoop Nick is threatening to win a tournament that doesn’t really want him in it.
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Nick Kyrgios’s nincompoop behaviour means his tennis gets overlooked. Analysis focuses on the f-bombs and crudity. His cringe-worthy lack of sportsmanship and absolute disrespect for the traditions of a grand 150-year-old sport overshadow the best serve we’ve ever seen, the thunderous whiplash forehand and his eerie knack of producing his most volcanic tennis at the most important moments. Rarely do these stirring and awe-inspiring athletic qualities get a mention over the unquestionably regrettable conduct. Such is the life of the nincompoop.