Tears at bathtime
MICHAEL HENDERSON
definition of nationality can be a tricky business. Gustav Hoist was English, Vladimir Nabokov was American, and Wassily Kandinksy began life as a Russian, died a Frenchman and made his name as a German painter. So why are people so het up about Greg Rusedski, the Canadian tennis player, who declared himself British a decade ago, and who left Wimbledon last week a sorry loser, amid a cascade of abuse after he directed a barrage of obscenities at the umpire?
It is not as if we British have withheld shelter from overseas sportsmen (and women — well, hello, Zola Budd!) in the past. Albert Trott, the man who hit the ball over the Lord's pavilion, played cricket for England and Australia. Tony Greig, who captained England in the Seventies, was a fully paid-up South African, and now lives in Sydney. Allan Lamb and Robin Smith, who followed him here from the Western Cape and Durban, bolstered the England middle order in the Eighties. A fair few of 'our' finest cricketers had roots in other parts of the world. Basil D'Oliveira was a Cape Coloured. and Ranji, the star batsman of the Golden Age, was an Indian prince. Then there are those two aristocrats of the bat, Colin Cowdrey, born in India, and Ted Dexter, who took his first breath in Milan. Mike Denness and Tony Lewis, captains of England both, were born in Scotland and Wales. Clive Lloyd, who led the West Indies at their strongest, subsequently adopted British citizenship and lives in Cheshire.
Unlike those men and many others like them, Rusedski has failed to convince people that his heart is British, probably because it is not. Cricket is a team sport, and players achieve recognition by representing one country against another, which is why D'Oliveira, for instance, came here in the first place. He was an outcast in his own land, and had to jump ship to attain professional fulfilment. He represented Worcestershire and England with pride, too. 'Dolly' became a national treasure.
Not so Rusedski, whose verbal explosion lost him a few more friends. He came here, as Pat Cash, his former coach, explained, in order to boost his profile and make some brass. Unfortunately (for him) his arrival coincided with the emergence of Tim Henman, a homegrown player of some talent, and it is Henman, a well turned-out chap from Oxfordshire. who people have taken to at Wimbledon.
How Rusedski must rage when he hears the cheers for Henman! This wasn't what he had in mind when he traded in his maple leaf for the roast beef of old England. He has reached the final of a major tournament, too, the US Open, which Henman has never managed. Yet he is destined to be Guildenstern to Henman's Hamlet, the role that is allotted to Henman for two weeks of the year. Like Hamlet, though, Henman never quite makes it to the end of the drama, though he does handle Lucy, his wife, rather better than the prince treated Ophelia.
No, Rusedski is not really one of us, and his behaviour after his defeat said it all. First, he offered a dismal apologia along the lines of 'I wanted it so much', and then he started blubbing, which is no way for an Englishman to carry on. Had he behaved like that at prep school, he would have been told to pull his socks up because he was letting the side down. So goodbye, Greg. Apparently winters in Alberta are jolly cold.
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