Kyrgios’s road to repair

Microphones and TV cameras crowded around Nick Kyrgios on Thursday after an exhibition match at leafy Kooyong, the exclusive Melbourne country club which hosted the Australian Open during the ‘70s and ‘80s.

‘‘Does it mean a lot to have the crowd behind you?’’ asked one reporter.

‘‘It’s a good feeling,’’ replied Kyrgios in his off-handed way. ‘‘But regardless whether you like me or you don’t like me, the stadium is usually full anyway.’’

This was peak Kyrgios, the eternal smartarse. He wears his disdain for hackneyed sports reporting like a chain-mail vest. And yet, every so often, we glimpse something vulnerable and soft-hearted lurking underneath.

Take the moment in Brisbane two weeks ago, when he was asked about the bushfire smoke choking his native city of Canberra.

His voice broke with emotion as he said: ‘‘We’ve got the most toxic air in the world at the moment. It’s pretty sad.’’

With his promise to give A$200 (NZ$207) for every ace he hits this Australian summer, Kyrgios started a trend.

Once he had set the snowball rolling, an avalanche of sporting support ensued, ranging from Shane Warne’s million-dollar sale of his baggy green cap to Wednesday night’s sell-out Rally for Relief – which Kyrgios himself attended – on Rod Laver Arena.

‘‘But regardless whether you like me or you don’t like me, the stadium is usually full anyway.’’ Nick Krygios

The past fortnight has been a transformative period for one of sport’s most misunderstood men.

As the Melbourne-based writer Russell Jackson put it: ‘‘Quiet Australians are suddenly loving The Loudest Australian.’’

Back at Kooyong, Kyrgios told reporters: ‘‘It is just amazing what we can do as athletes. We have got a platform, and we have to use it, especially when something like this [bushfire crisis] is happening. It’s devastating.’’

But when he was asked about the impact on his own image, he said: ‘‘Mate, I don’t really care about the support, to be honest. I do this because I genuinely care [about the effects of the fires]. What you guys choose to do after that is your choice.’’

This was the backdrop to the Herald Sun’s recent poll of ‘‘Most hated athletes of the decade’’, which placed him at No 2 – sandwiched between a pair of convicted murderers in Paralympic sprinter Oscar Pistorius and NFL tight-end Aaron Hernandez.

However indifferent Kyrgios pretends to be, that one had to sting. And yet, despite the sheer quantity of bile sprayed in his direction, Kyrgios’s point about the full stadiums still holds. At the Australian Open, he always asks to play on the third-string court – Melbourne Arena – because there is no reserved seating. The queue invariably stretches around the block.

There is no denying that Kyrgios has issues – otherwise he would not be facing the suspended sentence of a 16-week ban and a US$25,000 (NZ$37,000) fine if he misbehaves again before the end of March. But one of these issues is philosophical: he is all too aware of what the British author Simon Barnes once called ‘‘the monstrous triviality of sport’’.

Hence his motivational difficulties, which prevent him from training with the same intensity and discipline as Novak Djokovic and Rafael Nadal – the two dominant champions whom he called out during a podcast interview last summer.

Djokovic ‘‘wants to be liked so much that I just can’t stand him’’, Kyrgios said then, while Nadal is ‘‘super salty’’ when he loses. It is in these sorts of areas, though, that his advocacy for bushfire relief could help. Kyrgios loves a cause – and needs one, too.

A little over two years ago, he wrote that he had ‘‘found his purpose’’ in the shape of a children’s home that he wants to build in Melbourne.

Admittedly, this claim fell flat in the short term. Only a day later, Kyrgios rowed with umpire Fergus Murphy – a man he appears to hold in little esteem – and abandoned his match in high dudgeon. But the project continues. The Daily Telegraph understands that a site has recently been identified, with a view to housing 20-30 underprivileged children.

There are echoes here of another selfdestructive talent with a philanthropic streak: the wig-wearing, crystal methsnorting Andre Agassi.

In his autobiography, Open, Agassi said: ‘‘I hate tennis, hate it with a dark and secret passion, and always have.’’

Kyrgios is rather less dramatic, merely describing his chosen sport as ‘‘boring’’ and wishing that he had stuck with basketball instead. But the feeling of ‘‘outsiderdom’’ is the same.

So, where will this colourful journey end? Having begun his career as an angry but empathetic misfit, Agassi wound up finding a higher purpose: the founding of dozens of charter schools around the United States.

Kyrgios’s fans wish him the same kind of redemption, in the fullness of time. He is only 24, so his own book has plenty of pages to fill.