Nick Kyrgios walks right up to the line. After grabbing a towel, he trades it for a tennis ball. He bounces it just once, an expression of his “crazy impatient” (his term) nature and his let’s-get-on-with-it-already mode of being. He starts his serving motion, a bit of muscle memory, both intricate and blissfully simple. A rock-back. A toss. A torque of his 6'4" frame. And then the liveliest arm in tennis cracking the ball.
And for a moment, anyway, it all fades. The pressure. The fierce and divergent opinions he triggers. More gravely, the domestic violence allegation, which has added a darkness to all the usual storm clouds.
It was the early rounds of the Citi Open in Washington, D.C., and Kyrgios, tennis’ enfant terrible … no, wait, its bold disruptor …. its deplorable bad boy …. or, no, its charismatic clown prince … was a point away from victory over Marcos Giron, a grinding UCLA alum ranked No. 53, ironically 10 spots higher than the star on the other side of the net.
