McEnroe Is Still No. 1 Artist in Game of Tennis

John McEnroe might no longer be No. 1, but he still is the most compelling tennis player in the world. He might lack Ivan Lendl’s tundra-cold relentlessness and Boris Becker’s slam-dunk serve and Stefan Edberg’s effortless athleticism, but I almost would rather watch McEnroe practice than watch the others play. Such is the level of his artistry.

When he has a firm grip on his game, as he does more and more often lately, it is as though he is playing a different sport from the others. No disrespect intended, but they play a game that could be called, I don’t know, maybe bang-ball. It is not as substantial and not nearly as subtle, certainly less soulful. McEnroe, meanwhile, paints a game with an impressionist’s strokes.

If you want drop shots that die gently in the grass, or topspin lobs that dive sharply to earth, or volleys that always land in the corners, or a dozen different second serves mixed brilliantly, or first serves returned delicately at the other man’s feet, McEnroe is the one to watch. (He also is the one to watch if you want a player wandering around pulling out his hair and talking to private demons, but that’s another story.)

The other players, talented as they are, lack his shot-making skill. I admit I am rooting for him here. My motives are selfish. I just want to watch him play more; one day it may well be remembered as a privilege to have done so. It may be true he is now a watered-down version of his old self, 30 years old, a daddy, no longer capable of the rage that made him famous and loathed (and maybe No. 1), but even watered down he remains the sport’s only true virtuoso.

In his match with Australia’s Darren Cahill on Centre Court at Wimbledon the other day, he offered more breathtaking shots than did the rest of the field in all the first-round matches combined. (McEnroe never has been afraid to admit this, of course, modesty never having been a functioning component of his personality. He once said he had more talent in the tip of his pinky than Lendl had in his entire body. He could have been a little more gracious, but I have to agree.)

The Cahill match was not unlike stepping back in time. When he was at his peak, four or five years ago, McEnroe made shots that one never saw when other players were on the court. Against Cahill, there were dozens. McEnroe later said he did not think he had played particularly well, and even though he was indeed erratic in the first two sets, it all looked pretty good to me.

Reviewing my match notes, I find a number of points underlined for emphasis. In the fourth game of the fifth set, he hit backhand drop shots on consecutive points -- one he had to reach for, the other jammed him -- and both landed in precisely the same spot, just over the net. That’s the stuff of Amadeus. Six games later, he won two consecutive points with second-serve aces. Both were easily returnable, off-speed serves, but he froze Cahill with a delivery that disguised his aim.

There were many more points that brought roars from the crowd. But McEnroe’s real genius is his routine stuff, his fundamentals. His volleys always are forceful and deep. His feet are never out of position. His prescience is such that he almost never is fooled on a shot. His serve is never predictable. Of course, it was too unpredictable (16 double faults) against Cahill, a problem he must correct if he is to last long in this tournament.

Whether he is up to that challenge is the most interesting aspect of this Wimbledon. Even though he is on the backside of his playing peak -- he makes far more mistakes than he did in his prime -- McEnroe is playing as well as he has since he burned out in 1986 and took a six-month leave, forcing him to start over.

Playing as he did in the last three sets against Cahill, he is a threat to go far, particularly with a favorable draw that does not include a seeded player until the quarterfinals. But his mind is as volatile as always, his moods and motivation subject to change. He said he “didn’t feel at all (excited) for a while” against Cahill, “and that concerns me.”

If it concerns him, it concerns me. I want him in this tournament. Becker, Lendl, Edberg, Chang. You can have them all. I want McEnroe. I want to watch him play. Always have. One of my secret vices is that I long have rooted for him, trying to overlook his often-spectacular boorishness simply because his game thrills me. I don’t and can’t defend his behavior, but if I have to endure it to get to see his tennis, sign me up.

It is easier to root for him now, of course, for he seems to have gained as much control of his temper as he possibly can. He still bangs a few balls around and throws his racket occasionally, but what do you want from a man who hears voices? He doesn’t scream at linesmen or umpires any more, even when he doesn’t like calls. Twice against Cahill he disagreed with important calls and approached the chair, but he stopped short and settled for waving his hands in disgust.

This may be the reason the British fans, long the bane of his existence, finally have taken to him. Or maybe it is because they realize, as everyone else has, that their tournament is twice as interesting with him in it. He wasn’t here in 1986 and 1987, and the tabloid newspapers, with which he has had a long, running feud, started running “Come Back Mac!” headlines. Now, he is back. For a while, I hope.