When I was a kid, all my sporting heroes were volcanic individuals. I’d get up in the middle of the night and Greg Norman would be storming down the fairway like he was liberating Kuwait. He’d hit 11 birdies in a row, and then whack a regulation 7 iron into a carpark. A blank-eyed Gary Ablett Snr would run out, and you were never quite sure whether he was about to break records, inflict grievous bodily harm, or sulk in a forward pocket. Dermott Brereton would stand for the national anthem like he was posing for his own statue, and then run around as crazy as a crusader. Pat Cash was one of the most naturally gifted athletes I’ve seen, and also one of the most puerile and self-sabotaging. I loved all of them, forgave them a lot, and grew out of them later than I should have.
Our champions are far more stable, sober, polished figures these days. In team sports in particular, there’s little room for loose cannons. Most are process driven. They say the right things. They play in the right spirit. Most of Australia’s best sportspeople are women who, for many reasons, behave more sensibly than their male counterparts.
