Nick Kyrgios: Breath of fresh air or a total dickhead?

Nick Kyrgios is a law unto himself and that’s what makes him so special on a tennis court.

Australia’s Nick Kyrgios wears his heart on his sleeve on the tennis court.

Nick Kyrgios was belting balls on the day his sponsorship deal with Malaysian Airlines was announced and once it became clear he would be unable to reveal the whereabouts of a black box belonging to MH 370, he settled into a couple of hours of Harlem Globetrotter tennis and no-holds-barred interviews with anyone who bothered to seek a face-to-face encounter with the young lunatic before taking it upon themselves to decide whether he was a fledgling rock star or incurable reprobate.

He flicked through NBA scores on his mobile device. He repeated his oft-made remark about basketball being the superior product and how he disliked tennis compared to hoops blah-blah-blah. Notes were written on pieces of paper for his speech. He looked younger in real life, resembling a primary school student (easily distracted) holding palm cards in preparation for show and tell. He forgot his notes (easily distracted) before giving a rather self-deprecating talk through a busted microphone.

He gave his mobile to his mother before stepping onto the court and joyously rallying with a representative from Malaysian Airlines as thanks for a whole lot of free flights at the front of the plane. You hate tennis? C’mon. You love it. He winked: “Yeah, maybe.”

No time limits were placed on the interviews. No vetoing of the Qs presented for his As. Elsewhere in Australian sport, interviewers are pre-interviewed on what the real interview will be about. What do you want to ask him? Why do you want to ask it? What’s your angle? They want you to steer clear of certain topics (for example, the most interesting topics) and just when you’re warming up to asking someone if they’re as big a dickhead as everyone thinks, for example, the media minder/blockade will chip in with, “OK, last question”. The only demand prior to the Kyrgios interview came from Kyrgios himself: “Make it interesting. We’ve gotta make it interesting. Ask me anything you want.”

Kyrgios’s major debut was a strutting win over Radek Stepanek on a tucked-away back court at Roland Garros in 2013. That was the fine Parisian day it became clear he was somewhat off his head, gripped by a combination of whiteline and tramline fever, destined to polarise opinion in this crazily opinionated nation if he ever went deep into tournaments of significance.

The same routine has arisen at the slams. There’s on-court drama amid Kyrgios’s demolition tennis (does anyone actually get how good he is?) while TV ratings go ballistic and stadiums are sold out. In the background, the Over 50s brigade tut-tut about the behaviour of a player who doesn’t fit the stereotype of the 1960s Australian Davis Cup hero.

The alleged dickhead was delayed because photographers were agitating for action shots that didn’t involve a representative from Malaysian Airlines. Kyrgios hit balls with the coach who’s no longer his coach, they started playing points, it started getting feisty, Kyrgios started going full throttle. “Oh, no!” he shouted with boyish glee. “What have I started?”

Now there’s a question to contemplate. What has he started? Kyrgios meets Richard Gasquet in a Wimbledon fourth-rounder tonight. Elsewhere, Bernard Tomic has been sent to the naughty corner while mercifully, the most powerful figure in world tennis (Roger Federer’s missus) has succeeded in getting The Fanatics to shut up. Here’s hoping that Gasquet’s missus has the same degree of clout.

Kyrgios enters The All England Club knowing the primary reaction to his first three powerhouses matches has amounted to the sort of bogan reaction The Fanatics might settle upon if they ever sobered up. Kyrgios, apparently, has become the national dickhead.

What an appalling reaction. Is that it? Is that all we’re prepared to see in him? He’s a fat kid from Canberra who’s gatecrashed the highest echelons of a positively ruthless sport. He’s beaten the G.O. A. T: Roger Federer. He’s beaten the wannabe but never-will-be G.O. A. T: Rafael Nadal.

He’s bonkers, no doubt. Advice from some bloke in a Batman T-shirt at Wimbledon is heard, noted and acted upon. He goes overboard, no doubt. He possesses so many explosive gifts that his short-circuiting brain doesn’t always know what to do with them.

All this makes him a dickhead? If a 20-year-old in general society is talented yet volatile, would we dismiss him and hope for his failure? Would we perhaps attempt to understand him? Heaven forbid, encourage him? Are we really that juvenile that we’re going to ignore three hours of genuine sporting theatre, and three years of a meteoric rising, to home in on snippets of agitated behaviour and decide he’s unworthy of flying the Australian colours?

Kyrgios hit the forehand of the century against Milos Raonic. Anyone care? He spun his racquet around his index finger like he was holding a smoking pistol. Brilliant. He produced a set-and-a-half of the most untouchable serving you would ever wish to see.

Kyrgios isn’t the best thing to happen to Australian tennis. He’s the best thing to happen to world tennis. He hounds ball kids? Rubbish. He’s done it a few times. So has Federer. So has Nadal, a lot. So has Andy Murray, even more. Why do they do it? Because the ball kid is incompetent and shouldn’t be out there.

Why did Kyrgios tell a spectator at the Australian Open to get off his effing phone? Because the spectator was his brother and it was neither the time nor effing place. He drops too many eff-bombs. Ever sat courtside for Murray? He smashes too many racquets. Ever sat courtside for Djokovic? Slow play is a scourge of modern tennis. A form of cheating favoured by Nadal and Djokovic. Kyrgios whips through his service games as quickly as possible.

He’s another John McEnroe? Kyrgios provides more on-court humour than McEnroe on a scale of about one-to-a-100. He’s been sledged for seeing spectators leaving early at Melbourne Park and calling out, “Oy! Where are you going?” It was comedy of the highest order.

Kyrgios was told at the Malaysian Airlines function that the do-gooders wanted every Australian tennis player to act with the gentlemanly grace of Laver and Rosewall. He nodded and stuffed his gold chain inside his shirt and acknowledged he might not be everyone’s cup of Twinings’ tea.

The further he progressed, he agreed, the more he would be negatively judged by the same people who used to call Michael Clarke a tosser because the Test captain didn’t match the stereotype of a grizzled Australian cricket skipper.

Did he care if he was disliked? It was impossible to quote Kyrgios’ reaction because the reaction amounted to a level of laughter that could not be accurately translated. “Of course I care what people think,” he said.

Kyrgios is a youth. If Kyrgios is occasionally an irresponsible youth, forgive him like others might have forgiven you at the same age. He’s easily distracted. He’s easily bored.

Kyrgios is a Gael-Monfils-sized circus. But he’s Monfils with ticker. He’s Bernard Tomic with wheels. He’s one-in-a-million.