Tennis dish needs a dash of passion

At this very moment one of the major tournaments on the badminton circuit, the Malaysian Open, is nearing its conclusion, with the finals due to be staged tomorrow in Selangor.

Over the past few days I spent some time browsing through the pages of the internet edition of The Malaysian Star (well, we can't all lead full lives), on the look-out for any reports of rowdy behaviour at the tournament among the world's badminton elite.

My search was prompted by a recent International Badminton Federation announcement, one that quite probably rocked the most civil of sports to its very ancient foundations.

"The IBF Council has decided to drop its policy of warning players for expressing emotion on court. Now, unless their behaviour is regarded as offensive or threatening, players are free to express their emotions and personalities," said the statement.

Imagine that. Now, perhaps the IBF define a player's freedom to `express their emotions and personalities' as the right to raise one eyebrow (Roger Moore school-of-acting style) or crinkle one's forehead, in an animalistic fashion, at a dubious umpiring decision, without fear of being fined heavily. How long we'll have to wait before a badminton player feels sufficiently liberated emotionally to launch in to a "you cannot be serious" tirade against an official, we will have to wait and see, but hopefully it's only a matter of time. Watching Wimbledon this past week one wondered if most of the players on view had started out their sporting lives in the emotionally-restricted confines of the world of badminton, before swapping their shuttlecocks for balls. Yes, there were a few code violations for the use of rude words, the odd slamming of tennis racquets into the soggy grass and, once, Jim Courier angrily chucked an empty cardboard cup on the ground ("Oooooh," gasped a horrified Centre Court) but there was no seriously, nasty, riotous behaviour.

Come back John McEnroe, all is forgiven - even the time you called Czechoslovakia's Tomas Smid a "Commie bastard" over the net, during a rather heated match somewhere in Europe. It was an insulting remark but at least McEnroe was displaying a bit of passion for his sport, and there's been a distinct lack of that particular quality at Wimbledon these past few years, with not too many exceptions.

Last week? "Grr," said Tim Henman, after one dodgy call went against him. And that was the end of his protest. "But I saw a puff of chalk," exclaimed Cedric Pioline, after another questionable call. And that was the end of his protest. Elsewhere a call went against Mark Philippoussis. What did he do? He placed his hands on his hips and . . . looked at the line judge. And that was the end of his protest.

God be with the days when the referee was called out at least once a set to remove McEnroe's racquet from the throat of an 89-year-old line judge, who was probably cleaning his glasses when he called Mac's serve `out'.

"Shocking," we used to say then, while admiring Bjorn Borg's expressionless face, but what we wouldn't give for another McEnroe to liven up today's tennis.

A few years back it looked like Henman might have been the American's tempestuous successor when frustration got the better of him and he smashed a ball into a ball-girl at Wimbledon. But then he blew it by (a) apologising profusely and insisting it was an accident and (b) buying the ball-girl a bouquet of flowers the next day. McEnroe (a) would never have apologised and (b) would have said "you cannot be serious" if someone had suggested he buy anyone employed by the Wimbledon authorities a bouquet of flowers.

Chile's Marcelo Rios, the ninth-ranked player in the world and former number one, is, perhaps, the only leading current tennis star with serious McEnroelike credentials (i.e. he's great to watch and he's bad-tempered). Much of his nasty reputation, though, has been earned off-court. He once, allegedly, said "move your fat butt" to Monica Seles while standing behind her in a queue at the Wimbledon players' canteen and greeted an Australian female journalist by saying "God, you're ugly". So, he is seriously nasty, but he's also one of those South American clay court specialists who believe grass should be reserved for grazing cows (copyright: Gustavo Kuerten of Brazil), and not tennis - that's probably why he withdrew from Wimbledon this year, although officially he has a leg injury. So we've been deprived the chance of a decent, explosive Centre Court flare-up.

That doesn't mean the men's tennis hasn't been good. If you came out of your coma after the Todd Martin v Goran Ivanisevic shoot-out (zzzzz) you would have seen a rally at 4.16 on Wednesday afternoon between Henman and Courier - but it's just lacked that little bit of passion. Of course tennis players don't have to be nasty to be passionate, but it definitely helps. Ilie Nastase? Jimmy `I hate to lose more than I love to win' Connors? McEnroe? Say no more. They had both `qualities' in abundance, so you ended up regarding the outcome of their matches as `life or death' matters.

You either loved them or loathed them, but either way you ended up almost as worked up as they were themselves. No matter how hard you try, it's hard to feel the same way about a Martin v Rafter or a Sampras v Philippoussis match, no matter how good the tennis might be. We all admired Steve Davis, but we loved Alex Higgins. We admired Bjorn Borg, but we loved John McEnroe. Some of us even admired Big Daddy's wrestling skills in our youth, but we (secretly) loved Giant Haystacks. We all admire David Duval, but we adore John Daly. Higgins, McEnroe, Giant Haystacks (RIP) and Daly? They'd never have made it in badminton.