Street fighter Hewitt pulls no punches

Hewitt 6-4, 6-4, 6-1 Labadze

Stephen Moss
Friday June 25, 2004
The Guardian

A tall, muscular powerhouse bestrode Centre Court yesterday - and, not surprisingly, won convincingly. Anyway, that's enough about Amélie Mauresmo. What about plucky little Lleyton Hewitt?

Hewitt is the tug among battleships, the street fighter always in danger of being beaten up by the bigger kids. Yesterday, he was up against Irakli Labadze, a big, shaggy Georgian whose T-shirt was definitely XXL, but who was cut down to size as the Australian rode out 6-4, 6-4, 6-1 winner.

There is a theory that Hewitt was lucky to win in 2002 - that he somehow sneaked in between the end of the Sampras era and the beginning of the Federer-Roddick one. "He's a baseline scuffler," one distinguished correspondent told me. "He should never have won a grass-court title."

That, though, adds to his appeal. The stands filled up when he came on court; the youthful Aussies arrived in their war paint; the sun even came out. Hewitt - pint-sized, strutting, a bundle of nervous energy - is a star. In a world of outsized automata, he is palpably, red-facedly, a human being.

Labadze, who looked like an unmade bed, appeared to be wearing odd socks, or maybe it was a strapping for his left ankle which he carried a little gingerly. He is as wide as three ball boys and has a ferocious forehand, but little Lleyton was not in the mood to be intimidated.

The big Georgian, who is ranked No45 in the world, was slow out of the blocks and lost his opening service game, Hewitt returning superbly. The rest of the set was a baseline slugfest, with the cruiserweight always in control. Labadze rolled out a magnificent array of shrugs, groans and grimaces, but all to no avail. The kid was too steely.

There were few shouts of "C'mon Labadze". In fact, it was a tough day generally for those Centre Court egotists who like to offer banal encouragement to players. The earlier cries of "C'mon Wang" - to bolster the Taipei player in his match against Andy Roddick - had been a little tentative, and giving vocal support to Karolina Sprem against Venus Williams was fraught with danger too.

Hewitt's serve is a pop-gun compared with some of his top-gun rivals, usually clocking just over 110mph, a Ford among Ferraris. It was not threatened in the first set but, at the start of the second, Labadze was getting its measure and, with a little more control, would have broken. The Georgian's imprecations grew louder.

If the first set had been shadow boxing, this was the real deal, both players punching their weight. Labadze was smacking that forehand, hitting the line; Hewitt, the counter- puncher, was all wit and invention, playing the deftest of cross-court passes, trying to keep the big man moving.

Just as the match was getting going, the Duchess of Kent and her party left their nice, stripy seats at the front of the royal box. Tea? A fete to open? It was one of many mysteries that surround Centre Court. Why does the Duchess clap like a seal? Is that "celebrity" in the VIP box Richard Stilgoe or Robin Cook? Shouldn't the military personnel who patrol staircases be in Iraq? And why can nobody in the posh seats watch for longer than three-quarters of an hour without going out for a Pimm's?

The ninth game of the second set was pivotal: Labadze, serving erratically, was broken again and a round that the Australian had been losing on points was suddenly his by a technical knock-out. Two sets to love and the rest of the VIPs walked out as well. Maybe they were already thinking about England v Portugal.

The rest of the country, too. It has been a tricky opening for the tournament. Rain, Henman's uninspiring start, the rival attraction of Rooney & Co. At least the weather yesterday was marvellous - for yachting. It was so cold when play started at 11am that even the players were wearing anoraks.

The fans, happily, are undeterred. One man was parading round the outside courts draped in a Union Jack and wearing a toaster on his head. No one looked remotely surprised. By midday, Rusedski Ridge was full of people eating sandwiches. This is the only sporting event in the world where people queue for four hours to watch telly. On Centre Court, when it rains, the crowd applaud as the covers are pulled on. Every time! Are these people sane?

Hewitt usually plays on the edge, but yesterday he kept the histrionics to a minimum - just one net-distorting thump when he missed a volley in the decisive game of the second set. It was Labadze who proved the more volatile, erupting at a bad call at the beginning of the third set and throwing his towel at the umpire. Richard Stilgoe (or was it Robin Cook?) came back for the denouement, but by then Labadze really had thrown in the towel, sitting dejectedly on a linesman's chair as defeat approached. Hewitt had been too quick, too smart, too streetwise. Who says size counts?