It's a sport of considerable extremes, tennis. Suave, yet often brutal. Far more cosmopolitan and nuanced than simply being a version of ping pong involving a tap dance on the table. The savagery of Rafael Nadal; the effortless, almost surgical precision of Roger Federer; the unorthodox, impossible-to-imitate service action of John McEnroe, who would serve standing with his back to his opponent.
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The Australian writer and critic Clive James once likened McEnroe to being as charming as a dead mouse inside a loaf of bread. But by this ol' Clive completely misses the point. McEnroe oozed intemperance, but as a tennis player was a genius, albeit flawed.
In his playing career McEnroe won only as many Grand Slam titles as did Mats Wilander and Rene Lacoste - the latter's fame more squarely attributable to the green crocodile that adorns the eponymous clothing company he founded - yet McEnroe somehow transcended tennis in the same way Federer does, but Novak Djokovic doesn't – statistics rarely tell a complete story. As a commentator, McEnroe is similarly excellent. The great travesty of the Australian summer is that McEnroe doesn't appear any more on the Australian Open coverage.
The appeal of any sport, tennis included, lies not in mere winners and losers, regardless as to whether the contest is gladiatorial, or more genteel. Brilliant sport can be magnetic; epic. Where a single event can leave one person pirouetting in fits of ecstasy, and render another paralysed by despair. That said though, a Melbourne darts crowd jubilantly erecting a Machu Picchu pile of white plastic furniture is hardly the way to celebrate the return to these shores of the wrinkle-free green 'n' gold polyester-clad Simon "The Wizard" Whitlock. Never in Sydney, surely.
A fortnight ago I channelled angry man Frank Costanza in a rant about the myriad ways in which sport fills me with gloom. Truth is though, sport done right is mesmerising – just like pizza, until someone engulfs it in pineapple. So, if I can fulminate about all which is bad, perhaps it behoves me to square the ledger, and spotlight what's a bit special.
I adore liniment, particularly how its vapours sting your nostril hairs. One waft of the tantalising aroma of Dencorub triggers thoughts of footy, played in a quagmire under leaden skies. If only Giorgio Armani made aftershave infused with the faint notes of liniment ...
Chris Rogers is brilliant. That he's at the peak of his powers at 37 is one thing; that he ever got there while being colour blind is astounding. It's a fiasco that the gimmickry of day/night Test cricket might prematurely kybosh Rogers' career, simply because he can't see a pink ball under lights. Who can!
As a fellow sufferer of the affliction, which means solo clothes shopping expeditions are out of the question, I've got immense sympathy for Rogers' predicament. For cricket's superpowers to meddle with the form of the game that matters most is one thing. It's another thing though to change the game in a way that plainly discriminates. But maybe that's an issue for another day.
I love that the ABC Charter still apparently requires its commentators to refer to ANZ and AAMI stadiums as the "Olympic Stadium" and "Multi Purpose Rectangular Recreation Ground", or whatever. To do so is confusing, and is about as purposeful as a Lleyton Hewitt Scandinavian hand gesture thrust with gay abandon at two sets down. But nonetheless, it's not without its charm.
I covet the barely restrained violence of Rory McIlroy's golf swing. I love it that Ryan Harris is flint hard, seemingly impervious to the pain generated because his knees have less cartilage than a small bowl of shark fin soup. I love it even more that Harris hasn't felt the need to holler his toughness by inking a sleeve.
I love it that cricket's not so strangled by political correctness that it discourages left arm wrist spinners being colloquially referred to as "Chinamen". The term has remained untouched for 80 years, first coined after Elliss Achong, the West Indian Test player of Chinese heritage, hoodwinked the English at Old Trafford.
I love it that, if you're fortunate enough to snaffle a ticket into Royal Ascot, you do yourself a ridiculous disservice by leaving before the singing around the bandstand after the last race. I love it that just about anybody can tee it up at the Old Course in St Andrew's and experience the twin forces of exhilaration and mild terror, which tend to engulf you just about the same time you try to keep your opening tee shot in bounds.
I love it that, if you've got the aim and your nerves aren't spent, you can win the world darts championships in your 20s, or 50s. I love it also that it matters not a jot whether a darts champion is possessed of the physique of Grimace from the 1980s McDonald's ads.
I love it that formula one's got the best collection of names in world sport: Jacky Ickx, Rene Arnoux, and Gilles Villeneuve. In F1, a good name counts. I love it that Bernie Ecclestone, the diminutive octogenarian with the haircut lifted from a Beatles record, still rules in the F1 universe after four decades at the helm. And I love it that F1 still rockets through the streets of Monaco each May, despite the very idea being ridiculously dangerous.
The American writer H. L. Mencken once wrote that he hated all sports as rabidly as a person who likes sports hates common sense. My word, he must have been a sensible, dismal sod.
Darren Kane is a Sydney sports lawyer
Twitter: @sportslawyer7
