Bullgoose cuts the racket to give tennis a kick in the balls

Having rescued, in a breathtaking series of reforms, the worlds of horse racing and cricket from depravity and lacklustrousness, I now turn my gimlet eye upon tennis in a sincere attempt to excise its more preposterous features.

I’m confining my reforms to the Australian Open. Let’s face it, only toffs stay up to watch Wimbledon.

First, Novak Djokovic. If infants school kiddies can get it, why can’t he? No Hat No Play, No Exceptions. “I don’t care if you’re the best hopscotch player in the universe, Novak. You’re not going out into the playground without a hat. Oh, you haven’t got a hat because when you were in Spain, when you said you weren’t, a dog ate your hat? I doubt that very much, Novak, but that’s OK; we’ll give you another hat. Now, are you going to wear it, or are you going to sulk? Yes, I know Mr Tennass said you didn’t have to, but Mr Tennass is a toady and you scammed him.  Now take the hat, or I’m phoning your father to come and collect you.”

Next, no ball stuffing.

Blokes with lumpy pockets full of tennis balls?

It’s a terrible look.

And I don’t know exactly where or how the women actually stuff them to defy gravity that way, but it’s just weird.

In fact, why all the balls anyway?

The poor little Ball Persons have to scamper around like Jack Russells in some perpetual emu parade fetching them, and it wears the assiduous munchkins out.

Haven’t you seen them there, squatting and panting like demented Cubs and Brownies in some moon-baying ceremony?

Have pity.

No, let’s go with just one ball for the whole match.

It’s fair.

It disadvantages no one except international rubber barons and ball consortiums.

It’s more sustainable.

It will make play more interesting.

Players will have to adjust their strokes to deal with the deteriorating ball.

And if the thing eventually falls apart you just play on with the largest surviving fragment.

Now that’s a real test of skill.

And let’s not stop with the ball.

Isn’t it sickening to watch a player smash their racket in a petulant frenzy?

We’ll soon sort that out.

One racket only.

For the whole match.

You smash it, you have to play on with it.

You chuck it up into the stands?

You’ll have to climb up there, wrestle it from the limpet grip of a memento-crazed grandmother or simply play on with your bare hand.

Do you tire of hearing, year after demoralizing year, about Australian players being bundled out of the Australian Open?

OK, let’s incentivise those little Aussie losers.

Literally bundle them out.

The moment they go down gamely they are to be set upon by a brace of enormous bouncer types who scruff them, give them the bum’s rush and toss them into the Yarra.

Nothing concentrates the mind more than a lungful of Yarra water.

Now, how about changing things up, service-wise?

What say we offer the receiving player a spicy alternative to trying to return a 576.5kmh serve?

What if they were to block it with a buttock, like a bunt in baseball?

How would this bum bunt be rewarded?

By declaring the serve to be a fault.

Radical, I know, and you’d need a lot of moxie (or some epically-upholstered glutes) to pull it off more than a couple of times in a match, but think of the psychological advantage and the spectator respect you could accrue by putting your arse on the line.

OK, now the controversial one.

I know the sad cases among you are not going to like this one little bit, but think of your country.

One-hour limit.

No match longer than an hour.

Whoever is in front after 60 minutes wins.

Why?

Productivity.

Look, covid has torn through the national economy like a dose of curried epsom salts.

The last thing we need is a nation of sleep-deprived tennis fans sleeping in, calling in sick or operating machinery with fast-spinning blades or high voltage.

No, let’s wind up each night by nine and we’ll all feel better about ourselves in the morning.

A lesson to us all.

Bullgoose