It’s no coincidence that since Ash Barty’s retirement, Australia has relapsed to its position on the back courts of world tennis.
That’s because Barty was the most inspiring thing to happen to Aussie tennis since Pat Rafter’s Bonds shoot- and in her absence, the game has hit the skids.
Unlike many of her contemporaries, Barty was charming, humble, and for the most part, the only Aussie in the second week of a Grand Slam who wasn’t on Contiki tour.
Witnessing her magnificent career and its fitting culmination – an Australian Open title chased with a stubby on live TV – had us reliving the glory of the golden years and forgetting the desolation of the current.
But nobody since has picked up the heavy burden she carried- and things are now so bleak, we’d probably chuck a tickertape parade if someone was granted a wildcard.
Barty played in a manner that tickled our every national ideal, thus shaking Median Australia out of its sporadic interest in the game usually restricted to the Australian Open, Wimbledon and whatever New Idea had fabricated that week about the Hewitts.
Her career reconnected us with the game’s golden heritage, and that’s why ratings for the local grand slam have plummeted 40% since she retired.
Now we’re back again wondering where the hell it all went wrong for tennis, and how the Aussie game can overcome the five-set slug-fest it finds itself in to reverse the trend.
For those unaware, Australia used to slay at tennis.
During the 50s, 60s and 70s, random Aussies with bryl-creamed hair and neat frocks would pocket majors in their lunch breaks, with the nation collectively claiming nearly 100 titles across the three decades.
But besides the all-too-rare triumphs in the modern era of Barty, Rafter, Pat Cash, Lleyton Hewitt and Sam Stosur, the last time an Aussie toppled anyone of note in a Grand Slam was Novak Djokovic in 2022, and that was our Immigration Department.
Usually we can bank on one glorious fortnight a year to capture interest with the Australian Open, but even that’s losing its appeal.
While it remains one of the nation’s flagship events, local interest has often faded by day three, with our small army eliminated one-by-one before our last chance is put to the sword by a seed on Centre Court as Rod Laver watches on in dismay.
In the fair dinkum department, it remains one of the great mysteries how more Aussies haven’t capitalised on home conditions.
Considering Melbourne Park’s hard bouncy decks and stifling conditions, we’d be undefeated if it were an Ashes series. It’s such a waste, we might as well shift the thing back to Kooyong and play it on clay.
Nevertheless, whether it’s due to the exportation of our big brains, lack of grassroots interest or just the heinous cost for an hour on your local court, Australia’s demise is mostly blamed on Nick Kyrgios.
Kyrgios – along with other bad boys like Bernard Tomic and Margaret Court – have become synonymous with the underwhelming state of modern Australian tennis, and thus are easy targets for our back-court malaise.
All have courted controversy in their own unique ways; the fiery Kyrgios teases with his talent, Court is associated with the church, whereas the only major singles prize money associated with Tomic nowadays is his girlfriend’s OnlyFans.
Unlike the chesty pioneers who routinely pulled up trees solely in the national interest, tennis is now less a passion than a career to today’s modern player, a vocation where grand slams and national adulation are secondary to flooding your superannuation with Swiss francs.
Sure, take nothing away from gutsy goers like Alex de Minaur, Thanasi Kokkinakis and Ajla Tomljanovic, all wonderful names in their own right who do the joint proud.
Sadly however, all are overshadowed by our obsession with the naughty boys and their latest code violation or tweet.
But not Barty.
The Queenslander eclipsed the game’s headaches, and stuffed if I know how we’ll ever get back to this place without her.
