How to avoid tennis's bad boys – switch off and go watch something less boorish instead

Does the top end of men’s tennis have a likability problem? There was certainly little to admire in Alexander Zverev going loco down in Acapulco, assaulting an umpire’s sacred highchair with his racket at the Mexican Open.

"You f------ destroyed the whole f------ match," he shouted at Alessandro Germani, to a chorus of boos. Perhaps he was crabby from a lack of sleep, his first round singles match on Tuesday finished at 4.55am which is an upsetting time for a raucous party to end, let alone some tennis. It is grim enough to be violently smashing rackets on an umpire's chair but where does it end? Will his next target be the bottles of orange squash?

There has been much angst about who will replace the golden boys of the men’s game’s finest era. Its waning protagonists will leave a talent drain but also, generally, behaved themselves with dignity. All would be ideal candidates to bring home for a family dinner.

Andy Murray: upstanding self-effacing gent, speaks up on the important issues, good feminist. Roger Federer: polite, well turned-out, worth using the posh crockery for. Rafael Nadal: seems nice, but bit weird that between each mouthful he fiddles with his boxes 47 times.

By contrast the current top four all have a rap sheet of some kind.

Novak Djokovic

Certainly entitled to bodily autonomy and his views, if perhaps not the amplification they receive. Whatever your take on his vaccine stance you cannot accuse him of jumping onto a fashionable cause, this is a man who has been preaching pseudoscience for years.

A doctor, and we use that term loosely, convinced him of his gluten intolerance by holding out his arm then pressing down on it. Then he repeated the test while Djokovic held some bread over his stomach. “I was noticeably weaker,” Djokovic later wrote. Case. Closed.

Would be regarded as a bit of a chump rather than an international supervillain in a less testy time, but certainly quite tough to root for currently.

Daniil Medvedev

A prolific arguer with umpires and guilty of a particularly caustic rant at this year's Australian Open when playing Stefanos Tsitsipas and objecting to some suspected in-game coaching. It is worth reproducing it in full and seeing its development from angry repetition to the sort of threatening chat that would get you thrown out of a pub:

“His father can talk every point,” he whinged to Jaume Campistol. “Are you stupid? His father can talk every point. His father can talk every point! His father can talk every point! Will you answer my question? Can you answer my question please? His father can talk every point! Oh my god. Oh my god, you are so bad. How can you be so bad in the semi-final of a grand slam? Look at me! I’m talking to you!”

Made it to the final anyway, then called the crowd idiots in his defeat to Rafael Nadal. Now probably about as popular in Australia as Djokovic or that sacreligious drum and bass remix of Men At Work’s Down Under.

Alexander Zverev

Zverev will undeniably face punishment for his transgression in Mexico but he is currently facing far more serious accusations. In 2020, former girlfriend Olga Sharypova said Zverev had left her with bruises on her arms and face, hit her head against a wall and engaged in a pattern of belittling and controlling behaviour which she described as “emotional violence”. Zverev has consistently denied all allegations.

Stefanos Tsitsipas

As may have been mentioned, “his father can talk every point”. Also takes cynical breaks to the next level, with more in-match trips to the toilet than the badlads who stormed Wembley for the Euros final.

No one is equating possible bladder issues with accusations of physical abuse but the overall impression is a nobility void among the sport's leading lights. The question is whether this is a problem or a virtue.

It is wrong to be too sanctimonious about spikiness in sport. We want a bit of bite from our stars and while the rants seem angrier, so is the world. John McEnroe was a lout in 1981 but “you cannot be serious” seems almost quaint 41 years later.

Current hyper-partisan tennis fandom can be poisonous, with a hostility to criticism rivalled only by fans of football clubs and Korean boybands. But in this climate shouting at officials, madcap trenchant views, galling gamesmanship and even violence (against inanimate objects) can become reasons to double down on your guy.

There is certainly more social media currency for those outbursts than permanently speaking in vanilla platitudes. Four Tim Henmans at the top of tennis would be as much of a problem as the current rogue’s gallery. Eventually though, puerile, infantile and nasty behaviour will become a turn-off. Fortunately there is an alternative.

Women’s tennis has rarely been more open. Its leading lights are not without spikiness but do not routinely force you to enjoy their sporting brilliance with a behavioural caveat. Ashleigh Barty is an altogether more agreeable world No 1 than Djokovic. And, most crucially of all, their matches never finish at five in the morning.