Philippoussis on track for success

When Mark Philippoussis shared a passionate underground car-park clinch with Anna Kournikova three and a half years ago at the Australian Open, he took the rap when surely he should have been taking the plaudits.

After all, it’s a short life.

Apparently, so said many in Melbourne, it was such incidents which were taking Kournikova’s mind off tennis and causing her to lose track of her tennis career, rather than the Russian temptress distracting Philippoussis from his profession.

They were the days when the tennis public was willing Kournikova to go for that elusive title, before the tide turned, her appetite for celebrity become apparently insatiable, and fans began to begrudge her even winning a game.

It has taken the Aussie quite a while to live down that kiss with the Russian bombshell, and even though neither claim they were romancing, there was nobody surprised by Philippoussis being side-tracked by a good-looking girl.

It was hardly the first time.

Money and fame at a young age make for a toxic cocktail, and many sportsmen and, to a lesser extent, sportswomen have succumbed to the lifestyle which comes with having more wealth than is decent.

Whereas George Best’s weakness was for alcohol and women, Philippoussis, young and at times carefree, had a fondness for fast cars as well as the ladies.

But in reaching the Wimbledon final, the player who was tipped by his early coaches to be a multi-grand slam champion has taken an immense stride towards fulfilling his vast potential.

And the key has been giving up those vices, trading in trophy women for the lure of tennis trophies, giving up the time he spent with his cars in favour of practice hours.

Philippoussis has sold most of his sports cars, given them up and taken up surfing seriously again.

Now there’s the true Aussie coming out of him.

His former coach Peter McNamara banned him in 2000 from adding to his fleet of motors, which he had trimmed from a greedy 20 to a more manageable number to fit the standard four-car garage.

McNamara, who Philippoussis referred to as ‘Mac’, told his charge that the next car would have to be a present to himself for winning a grand slam title.

Nowadays, he has little cause to refer to McNamara at all, having re-engaged the services of his father, ex-goalkeeper Nick, as coach. He treated Philippoussis to his first racket long ago, when his son was just six.

Like giving a pen to a budding infant writer and reaping the rewards when he or she becomes a best-selling author, it has proven a shrewd investment.

But try telling Philippoussis in March 2001 that he would be contesting a Wimbledon final and then, at the age of 24, he would have questioned your wisdom in actually believing he would swing a racket in anger again.

Nicknamed ‘The Scud’ because of those explosive serves which he powers down at helpless opponents, he had just got through the third operation on his troublesome knee.

A promising career looked to be nearing a premature and most unsatisfactory conclusion, potential unfulfilled.

Rather than sprinting to title after title, Philippoussis has limped through his career since, and the body has taken a hammering from persistent knee trouble.

Although at times it seemed hard to imagine himself gracing Centre Court or any court again, he was pushed back on several occasions by ‘Mac’ and dad.

Another key move towards a revival came during the winter when he sold up in Miami, the party town to end all such Meccas of indulgence, and bought property in the rather more sedate San Diego.

Now a resident of the relaxed beach-side town of Cardiff-by-the-Sea, where he can ride the white caps which roll ashore to his heart’s content, and where he blends into to the population of 60,000.

Despite his past fondness for the high life and glamour of the tour, Philippoussis has never been a good socialiser with his fellow professionals.

“I’ve always been my own person. I’m never going to change,” he said earlier this year in Melbourne.

Insisting he never became an outcast, the man born into a soccer family in Melbourne almost 27 years ago has few regrets about staying distant from his peers.

“I think in the past, Aussies, the guys have gone out, they’ve gone to dinner together, practised together,” he added.

“I just don’t do that.

“Doesn’t mean I’m not a nice guy. I just do my own thing, I have my own friends.

“On the tour, you know, I do my own thing. It’s as simple as that. I just do things my own way. I’m my own person.”

Should he come out on top in the final against Roger Federer, there will be no more deserving champion for one reason alone.

Philippoussis looked to be en route to the final and title in 1999 when he took the first set of his quarter-final against Pete Sampras, SW19 royalty, only for his knee to buckle early in the next.

He had to forfeit and has not been the same player since.

The fist-pumping, ace-firing Philippoussis can be a fearsome beast, but confidence is key to his game and when low, he becomes this player who approaches a match expecting to lose.

We’ve not yet seen the confidence-shy Philippoussis at Wimbledon 2003, and in his fabulous fourth-round tussle against Andre Agassi, out there on court was a true Aussie sportsman.

He proved himself rich in the sort of so-sure-of-himself belief which has characterised the careers of Steve Waugh, Pat Cash and Cathy Freeman, his been-there, done-that compatriots who have scaled the very heights of their professions, and won in five scintillating sets.

“God, it’s been so long,” he said, when reminded at Wimbledon that it had been five years since the only previous grand slam final of his career, 1998 at the US Open when an all-Australian battle went the way of Pat Rafter.

“After those three surgeries and stuff, it’s been a long, long trip back, a long road,” he added.

“It’s been just hard work and the effort into it and the hours rehabilitating my knee in the gym and on the court.

“You know, it pays off, and it’s all worthwhile at the end.”