Australian Open: Party-pooping Basilishvili salutes Cruz Hewitt before Bernie Tomic ambles to another shambles

Grizzled, worldly, uncompromising, bearded man versus boy. The grizzled, worldly, uncompromising, bearded man won in straight sets before congratulating young Cruz Hewitt for not pooping his pants. That honour was left to the ambling, shambling Bernie Tomic.

Cruz Hewitt during his match against Nikoloz Basilashvili Picture: Michael Klein

The fresh-faced, flush-cheeked, rosy-futured Cruz Hewitt steps into the Australian Open against a bearded veteran and you cannot help wondering about the complex life of someone with such a staggeringly famous parent.

Let’s not get too carried away while casting our minds back through the mists of time but when you really think about it … how good was Bec Cartwright in Home and Away?

Cannot be easy for a young bloke to follow in mum’s footsteps. There’s also some grainy museum footage floating around of his old man supposedly going all right in another form of entertainment. Sport. Lleyton, of course, was an absolute ripper, with groundstrokes as reliable as the Wimbledon clock, footwork swift enough to have a twirl for the Australian Ballet, a technique tidier than school captain and a brainiac’s tennis IQ. Lleyton won two majors, became world No.1, packed stadiums and pissed off assorted Argentinians while oozing fight, mongrel, counter-punching aggression, aggressive counter-pun-ching, fist-pumps, chest-thumps, a rousing sense of occasion and a heart big enough to win a Melbourne Cup in a canter.

Cruz Hewitt serves against Nikoloz Basilashvili during the opening round of qualifying for the Australian Open. Picture: Michael Klein

The large, thumping, Jimmy Connors-scale heart was perhaps Lleyton’s greatest strength, and his 16-year-old boy showed plenty of the family ticker in his 6-1 6-4 qualifying loss to Georgian Nikoloz Basilashvili at Melbourne Park. Basilashvili, whose father really is a dancer in the Georgian National Ballet, which has nothing to do with nothing, but seems worth mentioning, was the world No.13 before three hand surgeries wiped him off the tour for a couple of years. He was always going to beat his teenage opponent, the one Cruz’n for a bruisin’, but little Lleyton acquitted himself in mightily commendable fashion.

A crowd of perhaps 300 huddled around Court 3, which goes bonkers during the real Australian Open but was more subdued on Tuesday while everyone cast a judgemental eye on the son of Bec. Can he play? Roger that. Attempting to climb Everest, he hasn’t even departed Kathmandu yet, a lowly 1263 on the world rankings, and no higher than 59 in juniors, but the potential is genuine.

Cruz Hewitt’s parents Lleyton, front row centre, and Bec Hewitt, middle row right, watch him play. Picture: Michael Klein

Head-to-toe in Nike clobber and wielding a Yonex racquet, the same flashing blade Lleyton took to the top of the mountain, he unveiled a rhythmical and powerful serve supported by a thumping forehand. Everything else appeared respectable while he demonstrated he’s a fighter, hanging in there after falling behind 0-5, fearlessly expressive, increasingly animated, fond of a post-point c’mon while his fabulous father grinned and politely exclaimed, “Good stuff! Great stuff!”

Basilashvili rather ruthlessly played party-pooper before praising Cruz for the lack of real pooping. “Cruz showed up and played very well,” Basilashvili said. “He’s 16 years old, he’s just turned 16, when I was 16 I think I would be pooping my pants to step out at a grand slam in the quallies. He managed it very well. Well done to him to come up and play that brave. I think he can play very well in the future.”

Cruz is far from intimidated by the seasoned professionals. He’s been hanging around them since he was a tot. He knows what they’re made of, the flesh and blood and occasional unforced errors, and he was tenacious in defeat, making a very decent fist of the second set. It was a grizzled, worldly, uncompromising, bearded man versus boy, and the grizzled, worldly, uncompromising, bearded man won in straight sets, and yet Cruz looked right at home in this setting. He’s spent a bit of time at Melbourne Park from nappies until now.

Nikoloz Basilashvili congratulates Cruz Hewitt on his performance Picture: Michael Klein

To go onwards and upwards, to get out of Kathmandu and head towards Base Camp, he needs more miles and muscle in his legs, more matches, more time in the gym, as does any 16-year-old, and he needs a higher serving percentage. Landing only 45 per cent of first deliveries was calamitous against a snarling, seasoned pro but as highlighted by the son of the famous Nodar Basilashvili, he of the Georgian National Ballet, at least he didn’t poop his pants.

That honour belonged to Bernie Tomic. Qualifying at the Open can be a mystery – who are these people?! – but occasionally a familiar name and goofball face pops up. There he was, in the flesh, as we live and breathe, Bernie Tomic, esquire, requiring no introduction to the smattering of patrons inside Kia Arena.

Bernard Tomic crashed out of the Australian Open qualifying in an hour Picture: Getty Images

Tomic was flogged in 60 minutes, 6-3 6-1, by Slovakian battler Jozef Kovalik. Not his finest hour. He has more natural talent in his right pinkie than most of the top 100 and Basilashvili put together, and he’s featured prime time in week two of the Australian Open against Roger Federer but now his Australian Open is over before the real Australian Open even begins.

The mercurial, mystifying 32-year-old, a former world No.17 who’s now anchored in the 200s, was ordinary. Well, that’s not entirely accurate. To call his effort ordinary against Kovalik would be to label a sloth merely restful. Tomic took ordinary to a whole new level. What a crying shame. Jeez, he could play back in the day. The magic hands, the rope-a-dope courtcraft, he gave Melbourne Park lashings of entertainment when Craig Tiley didn’t schedule matches after his bedtime.

Unsighted for ages, you wondered how Tomic might present himself. Perhaps in the rough and rugged manner of Tom Hanks in Cast Away. Perhaps with the rock-star visage of Eminem in 8 Mile. He might play the lights out, or he might tank, but it was none of the above.

He just looked like a regular second-tier tennis player. He just wasn’t very good. He used to have this swerving, loop-the-looping, handy fast-medium pace serve. Now it just flopped into the court like it couldn’t really be bothered. He used to move as stealthily as a cat or Miloslav Mecir, one and the same, but now he could borrow from Maria Sharapova’s self-description of her running game on clay: “I felt like a cow on ice.” Ambling, shambling, he didn’t fire up, he didn’t blow up, he just rather swiftly went belly-up before departing with a thumb and his nose in the air. He didn’t poop his pants, in truth. He seemed incapable of summoning the energy.