Channel hopper: Mac goes from superbrat to super chat

Published on Friday 3 July 2009 23:13

Wimbledon, BBC

IT REALLY is a pity it only lasts two weeks. No, not Wimbledon, the first week of which is enervating at best, but the ebullient commentary of John Patrick McEnroe. Couldn't we persuade him to stick around and offer pithy sound-bites on the Ashes, the Grand National and the World Cup? Mac's take on the ageing Italian midfield might not be as authoritative as his insights on Andy Murray's anticipation, but who would bet against them being thoroughly provocative and amusing?

On the assumption that you can never get enough of McEnroe, those in possession of a red button should search diligently for the visuals for McEnroe's stints on the Radio Five phone-in Six Love Six. Lurking behind some hospitality tent, and jigging around like they are hopped-up on something stronger than Pimm's, McEnroe and Tim Henman pace around under the weight of their headphones. Still feisty at fifty, McEnroe fields calls with the acerbic impatience of a shock-jock and the attention-span of a toddler on too many jelly babies. It's a brilliant demolition of the hypocritical politesse of Wimbledon tradition, and unmissable for the alternately aghast and envious expressions that cross Henman's face as McEnroe chops off another caller in mid-sentence, or destroys them with a pointed put-down.

McEnroe's punditry is an extension of his playing style, in that he doesn't worry overmuch about the shots coming from the other side of the net because he is too busy anticipating his own withering forehands. It might be regarded as insufferable egotism in a personality that was less compellingly brilliant, but instead you start to appreciate the restraint with which he interacts with his BBC colleagues.

It's not quite suffering fools gladly, more a case of cutting through the bland circumspection, and gently pointing out, for instance, when Sue Barker has miscounted Michael Jackson's children.

In yesterday's first semi-final Greg Rusedski wished Federer would play a few more volleys. "Yeah, maybe he'll win a couple of tournaments if he does," McEnroe drawled, passing Rusedski down the line and leaving the Canadian with no option but to laugh nervously at his own foolishness, while Federer coasted to victory.

McEnroe's bluntness was all the more appreciable because it was surrounded by the BBC's escalating sense of jingoistic hysteria about the progress of Murray. "He will make history," Sue Barker intoned, reaching for Churchillian portentousness. "He believes, and we believe with him." She made it sound as if Murray making the final would simultaneously refloat the stock market, end racism, and find a cure for swine flu.

Murray is not the Messiah, and still looks closer to the part of a very naughty boy with all that snarling and cursing, but he hits a mean backhand. So far that has been enough. As a nation we are generally ignorant of the finer points of tennis, and crave McEnroe's approval of our boy. As he was born without an ingratiating gene, any praise that McEnroe bestows is strong currency.

The BBC are saving his firepower for the final, so it was Boris Becker's turn in the commentary box yesterday. Sadly the old diving volley maestro and broom closet love-god is far less flamboyant behind a microphone.

His contributions veer from the banal to the sporadically bizarre. He tried to convince us it was interesting that Roddick lost his service after a bathroom break, but declined to elaborate. He lacks McEnroe's ability to be both technical and lucid. Instead he tells us the score, and wistfully observes that "Judy is clenching her fist", a redundant observation considering the cameraman had gone for a tight-focus shot of Murray Mum's white knuckles at that very moment.