The day Ash Barty made Evonne Goolagong proud

When Ash Barty returned from a two-year lay-off she dreamt the impossible dream of emulating Miss E.F Goolagong.

Evonne Goolagong and Ash Barty arrive at the 2019 Newcombe Medal

“Go drop a line, darl.”

Such was Evonne Goolagong’s loving advice to Ash Barty when her stressed-out little mate quit tennis. Everyone else was aghast. You’re making the biggest mistake of your life, darl. Don’t throw it all away, darl.

Goolagong was more empathetic and understanding than most. She knew the mind could go walkabout. She knew you could feel a stranger to the world while on the road. On Goolagong’s first trip to Wimbledon, this wonderfully quiet and unassuming Wiradjuri woman sat alone on a window sill at The All England Club, gazing at all the Flash Harries and Hooray Henrys and their posh partners while asking herself: “Where am I?”

And so Goolagong understood when an 18-year-old Barty looked at her life in 2014 and asked herself, where am I? Not sure she wanted to be. Disoriented and lost in mind, body, spirit. So she racked off for a couple of years of cricket and self-exploration. That’s when Goolagong told her those precise words: “Go drop a line, darl.”

In other words, go fishing, darl. Go take proper care of yourself, darl. Go be happy, darl. And I’ll see you on the other side. When Barty returned two years later to tennis, she was dreaming the impossible dream again. To play where Miss E.F. Goolagong had played. To stand where Miss E.F. Goolagong had stood. To succeed like Miss E.F. Goolagong had succeeded. She dreamt the impossible dream of emulating Miss E.F Goolagong so fervently and deeply that she took years to be able to speak of it. When she finally came clean about her ultimate career ambition – “I want to win Wimbledon” – only then did the dream manifest and begin to take shape. “It’s amazing what happens when you send all your hopes and dreams out into The Universe,” she said.

The truth’ll set you free, darl. Fast-forward to Saturday afternoon and the impossible dream was swinging in Old London town. Miss A. Barty would join Miss E.F Goolagong, and even Mrs R. Crawley, as per the All England Club’s hideous tradition of using the surname and even initial of a married female player’s name. When Barty closed her tear-stained eyes kissed the Wimbledon trophy in one of the most emotional and poignant moments in the history of Australian sport, she did it so tenderly that it might have been Goolagong’s face that she held in her hands.

It was as if the image being reflected from the large silver dish was not of Barty’s glorious noggin, but Goolagong’s. Fifty years between drinks, their maiden Wimbledon titles, who could really tell them apart? Barty planted one on the glistening silver dish like her lips were gently on Goolagong’s left cheek. Barty was wearing a scalloped-edged skirt in tribute to her heroine. The Indigenous heroine whose first tennis dress had been made from bed sheets. Whose first racquet had been fashioned from an old wooden fruit box. Who first encountered Wimbledon and remarked: “Oh, wow! Is this place for real?!”

How Barty would have loved Miss E.F. Goolagong to be up there with all the toffs in the royal box or, even better, positioned next to the blokiest blokes in Australia: Barty’s boyfriend, Garry Kissick, and her coach Craig Tyzzer. Goolagong was right up there in her thoughts, no doubt about it, before, during and after the wonder match. When they finally spoke on the telephone, when Barty dropped her a line, darl, the message from the 25-year-old Ngarigo woman to her 69-year-old Wiradjuri elder would have been emotional and simple. Thanks for the all support, darl. “A very special person in my life,” Barty said.

Let’s go back to the start of this magical day and night. It was one for the dreamers. A day and night, at home and abroad, that made one grateful to be alive. What a representative we have on the world stage. The best of us in every conceivable way. A fierce fighter. A bold yet decent young woman, holding her audience in the palm of her hand. Laughing like a kookaburra during the coin toss. Barely tall enough to see over the net. Shorter than some of the ball kids. Adored and admired by all. Trembling with nerves. Unsure if she could do it. She did it. By the time her head hit the pillow, her status had been upgraded from great Australian athlete. You’ve become a living legend, darl.

A prime-time television bulletin in Sydney had begun with a pessimistic exchange. “Ash Barty must be feeling the weight of a nation tonight,” the anchorman said as if all our hopes and expectations would somehow drag her down. It was an inaccurate suggestion. Barty’s not that type. She was fully aware of the slaps on the back, she wanted them. She appreciated them, she embraced them. Rather than weighing heavily, the tangible outpouring of support put a spring in her step and wind in her sails. She knew she wasn’t walking alone. She knew exactly what we were thinking – go get ‘em, darl – and she knew we were saying it in droves.

I heard variations on go get ‘em, darl from ratbag tradies, yahooing surfers, eloquent ladies and trucker-mouthed men at the local pie shop. I heard it from mousy bookshop owners and foghorn café managers. All ages, all walks of life. The sincerity of the support reminded me of the 87-year-old Richard Treweeke’s tender words ahead of Winx’s final race. Her dear old co-owner’s message to the wonder mare was this: “Enjoy yourself – and travel safe.”

She really was the best of us. Give her a dress made from bed sheets. Wouldn’t matter. Give her a racquet carved from an old wooden fruit box. She’d find the sweet spot.

Before, during and after the wonder match, she was everything our greatest ever cricketer, Sir Donald Bradman, wanted all our sporting folk to be. “The finest of athletes have, along with skill, a few more essential qualities,” Bradman once said. “To conduct their life with dignity, with integrity, with courage and modesty. All these, are totally compatible with pride, ambition, determination and competitiveness.”

Barty was all this and more. She was proud of herself yet modest. She was dignified beyond compare and yet she fought like a wolf.

Enjoy yourself, darl. And travel safe. Did she ever. Barty got off to a flyer. Serve and gorgeously topspun groundstrokes had the rhythm and flow of low and high tide. The sliced backhand was the killer shot, repeatedly skidding like Shane Warne’s zooter against an opponent, the towering Czech Karolina Pliskova, who was paralysed by nerves and confounded by the range of old-school shotmaking.

On one side of the net, the impossible dream made flesh. On the other, a nightmare. It was three-love in the blink of an eye. Oh, wow. Is this place for real? Twelve consecutive points had gone to the good. It threatened to be a slaughter. You might not drop a game, darl.

Sideways glances and mumbles of discontent among the latest crop of Flash Harries and Hooray Henry’s and their posh partners in the crowd. Going a bit quick, innit?

Pliskova was gasping for breath. Stone-faced. Prince William hadn’t seen a performance so disappointing since Harry went on Oprah. Tom Cruise hadn’t witnessed scenes so unbearable since he was on the set of Days Of Thunder.

I don’t know about you, but my heart was going about a million beats a minute. My foot tapped constantly. I was in full voice when the world was normally asking to be quiet. My eyes were wide open when I’d normally be asleep. My nerves were frayed yet I was not the one who played. I heard one particularly unforgettable cry of, Come on! Not from my house, but from the one next door.

Barty led by a set. A break. Don’t go getting the wobbles now, darl. She got the wobbles. Don’t go dropping your serve, darl. She dropped her serve. Don’t go drifting from the game plan, darl. She drifted from the game plan. Heart was overtaking head. A dangerous development. She served for the match in the second set. You’re nearly over the line, darl. Don’t let it slip, darl. She let it slip. Don’t let it go to a third set, darl. It went to a third set. Don’t drop your head, darl. She didn’t do that.

Keep fighting. That’s what she told herself when the impossible dream could have splintered into a thousand pieces. Just keep fighting. Her final set was all grit and grunt and Ipswich guts. The crowd shrieked and gasped. They couldn’t watch. They had to watch. Impossible tension. Harrowingly small margins. Net cords here. Video reviews there. Match point. Barty’s ad. A first serve. Let. A crosscourt backhand reply from Pliskova. A sliced backhand up the middle from Barty. A crosscourt forehand from Pliskova. A down-the-line forehand from Barty. A backhand into the net from Pliskova. Such a heady and unbelievable moment that Barty said later: “I can’t even remember it. I’m sorry!”

She had to be sorry for naught. Truly, a day and night for the dreamers. She fell to her haunches and sobbed. Who didn’t? She climbed into the grandstand. I could have climbed my roof and shouted, you little beauty! She buried her face in the shoulder of Kissick. I buried my face in a pillow. Even John McEnroe, that grizzled old soul who could find fault in a sunrise, said: “That’s beautiful.” Barty hugged Tyzzer. Her “captain. I love him to death,” she said.

On-court tears. Off-court tears. Disbelieving tears. Joyous tears. Unstoppable tears. Unexpected tears, when she was laughing one second and bawling the next. Tears accompanied by laughter. Tears accompanied by a wince. Tears after tears after tears. They were such wonderful scenes, provoking such a warm response, that every flower, every tree and every blade of grass at The All England Club might have joined the ovation. Unconfirmed reports of Big Ben applauding. Buckingham Palace doffed its cap. Well played, darl.

“Better than I could have imagined,” she said. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. She looked for a sec like she’d go for the bushman’s hanky. Her climb into the grandstand was perilous. “A little bit of a wobbly step there,” she grinned. “I should have just taken the elegant route – but that’s OK.”

She was in front of the honour board when her name appeared – 2021: Miss A. Barty. Glorious moment was being piled on glorious moment. The most glorious moment of all was at the mere mention of Miss. E.F. Goolagong’s name.

It happened during her on-court interview as ball kids formed a guard of honour. She was shorter than most of them – but that’s OK. Goolagong … Barty’s chin hit her chest. Goolagong … Barty exhaled with the force of a strong sou’easter. Goolagong … Barty nodded to the suggestion that Miss E.F. Goolagong meant quite a lot to her. “Ah, she does,” Barty said, emotion getting the better of her. The left hand went to left hip. Her eyes welled once more. Her lips quivered. As she backed away to wipe the tears from her eyes all over again, she said from the bottom of her beautiful heart: “I hope I made Evonne proud.”

Nice line, darl.