Some of tennis's most successful players are surprisingly humble
This year is the 30th since Margaret Court, arguably the greatest female tennis player of all time, retired from tennis. She is one of only five people in history to have achieved the grand slam of major singles titles in a calendar year - the holy grail that even Roger Federer is finding elusive - but, surprisingly, remains little known outside her sport.
I met her at her church in Western Australia recently - the Reverend Margaret, as she is now, pastors a congregation of some 2,000 souls - and what struck me was not how much the game has changed since her time, but how little. She recalled leaving home at 16 to train in Melbourne, a city 2,000 miles away, a relocation that makes Andy Murray's training base in Spain look like a day trip. She spoke of travelling ten months a year, playing "week in, week out"; and of that feral beast, the British press, who put her off her game when she arrived at Wimbledon and helped manufacture the self-fulfilling prophecy that she could never play well there.
Most telling, however, was her assertion that she was never especially confident - an extraordinary admission for someone who pioneered the serve-volley game for women. In her 17-year career, Court won every singles, doubles and mixed doubles title available several times over and dominated her sport as no woman before or after. "My coach believed in me more than I believed in myself," Court told me. "I was my own worst enemy."
Tennis is a game that seems particularly contrary in respect of psychology. Although it has always brimmed with champions who play their best at the brink of arrogance - John McEnroe, Jimmy Connors, Boris Becker - some of its most successful players have been men and women of a self-effacing humility rarely seen in any form of sport. Take Federer, a man defending his Wimbledon title for the fifth time and slugging it out with Rafael Nadal not only for the top spot in the game but also in the all-round-nice-guy stakes.
Just think about the game: a chest-thumping, gladiatorial sport where competitors vie to establish dominance over each other from across a net. It seems amazing that there can be any room for humility at all.
When you're engaged in one-on-one combat, a big personality of the kind of, say, Martina Navratilova or Serena Williams ought to be a huge advantage. Yet no one could touch Pete Sampras, the man derided for being blander than a cup of herbal tea - even Andre Agassi, who had character enough for both of them.
Tennis fans love characters; and perhaps because we've been so fortunate in finding them, we are rather harsh on those who do the job less noisily. The complaint that has hung around women's tennis, particularly at times when the Williams sisters have been notable by their absence, is that it has no personalities. Somehow, the fact that Justine Henin has overcome bereavement, severe illness and a marriage breakdown to be number one isn't considered characterful; nor is it enough for Amélie Mauresmo to have overcome massive prejudice inside her own sport, because she doesn't choose to talk about it.
Court won everything she could, stopped to have a baby, then did it all again; but she remains far less talked of than her rival, Billie Jean King, or her successor, Navratilova. One of the reasons why sport is fascinating is that there's no one way to be a winner; perhaps, in an age where those who shout loudest gain most, it's nice to celebrate the quiet achievers.
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