He shouts, spits and swears – but Kyrgios is proper box office

You cannot take your eyes off Australian even if he does behave like a lout, writes Jim White

To be on Centre Court yesterday was to witness things many would suggest should never be seen on its hallowed lawns. There was swearing, spitting, arguing; there was gamesmanship, mind games and tanking; there was anger, volatility and a deep and obvious loathing. Just a normal day at the office, then, when Nick Kyrgios is on court.

To watch the Australian at close quarters in this sort of form is to be conflicted. On one hand, you think this is a disgrace, a joke, you wonder why it is tolerated. But on the other, you cannot take your eyes off him. He is proper box office. Kyrgios is a man with the brakes removed. He has no restraint, no social nicety, no wish to be liked or admired. He is a boiling mishmash of exposed nerves. If he is not chuntering to himself, he is squaring up to an imagined rival in the crowd. If he is not spitting on the turf he is berating the umpire.

And while his angry tirade at the man in the chair yesterday had none of the poetry of John Mcenroe’s diatribe four decades ago, Kyrgios’s “You’ve got no idea what’s going on; you’re a disgrace”, may well come to be similarly inscribed in infamy. This was the “You cannot be serious” of the Instagram era.

And yet, unhinged as he might be, to watch Kyrgios in action is an exciting experience, because with him comes the possibility of total meltdown. The fact the volcano might erupt at any second provides a jeopardy that is compelling.

What made it all the more peculiar is that everyone knew yesterday’s eruption was coming. The queue for Centre Court press tickets for this match was longer

than that which forms for finals. That is because Rafael Nadal seems to be the spark that lights Kyrgios’s touchpaper. Perhaps it is the fact that the Spaniard is so polite, so considerate, renowned as the nicest guy in the dressing room, that so irks the wacaday Aussie.

There is certainly an irony in him complaining about Nadal’s pre-service tics. It may well be as much an element of gamesmanship as Maria Sharapova’s grunting, the way Nadal insists on hauling his pants from between his buttocks before every service. But for Kyrgios, a man who stuffs his towel in his mouth between games, to complain about it is was magnificent in its brass neck.

Nadal’s presence drove him to ever greater levels of dysfunction. He tried to rile him with underarm serves, whinged endlessly to the umpire about the Spaniard’s

The fact that the volcano might erupt at any second provides a jeopardy that is compelling

time-wasting, got shirtier and shirtier, his shots at times becoming horribly casual. His self-flagellating outbursts grew darker. It was only the intervention of his father – the bloke in his box who looked as though he had taken a detour from a bikers’ convention – that prevented him from self-combusting.

There are those who insist that if only Kyrgios could stick to the tennis he might be a contender. And it is true some of his serves and forehand returns against Nadal were sublime. But the point about Kyrgios is that he will never be able to stick to the tennis. For him the game is about more than medals and trophies. It is only out on court that he finds meaning and purpose. Even if he has to fight himself at every turn to locate it.