Where's the next Kyrgios or Barty?

It's been a long drought since our last men's singles winner, with Lleyton Hewitt's triumph in 2002 feeling like ancient history. The women have fared better, thanks to the magnificent Ash Barty's victory in 2021. But her subsequent retirement has left a gaping hole in our national tennis psyche.

This year, we'll be reduced to watching Canberra's own Nick Kyrgios holding court behind a BBC microphone rather than on it. While his incisive commentary may well be a treat for viewers, I wish he was fit to play.

But as we complain about the state of Australian tennis at the elite level, it's worth remembering that the sport's true heart beats on suburban courts across the nation.

Take my weekly doubles match, for instance. Every Monday night, four of us 40-somethings gather to battle it out on the local synthetic grass court. We're a motley crew, each with our own quirks and limitations.

There's Andy, who refuses to replace his ancient racquet, despite the fact it's bent so far out of shape it looks like it's been run over by a ute. He claims he'll get around to it soon, which is code for "I'm too cheap to buy a new one".

Then there's Nick, our very own Aussie Greek to rival Kyrgios, nursing a rotator cuff injury that's been "just about healed" for the past three months. His inability to lift his arm past horizontal means every lob is met with groans from his partner.

Spence's footwork would make a statue look nimble. He plants himself on the baseline, swinging from the hip while not moving an inch. It's a strategy that produces some blistering forehands, while leaving his partner to run themselves ragged covering the 90 per cent of shots that are out of Spence's range.

And finally, there's yours truly. I spend more time researching used and sale racquets online than I do playing. My playing partners think I demo too many racquets and endlessly watch YouTube videos of obscure Eastern European players demonstrating how to use a semi-western forehand grip to produce more topspin.

Despite our limitations, we continue to meet each week, braving the bone-chilling Canberra winter nights. We're drawn by the camaraderie, the exercise, and the shared delusion that we're just one point away from playing like Pat Rafter.

Our commitment might seem foolish to our spouses and children, but we're far from alone. Across Australia, community tennis clubs serve as vital hubs of social connection. They're places where friendships are forged and middle-aged men and women can pretend they're still young and spry for a few hours a week.

These clubs are the lifeblood of Australian tennis, the grassroots from which our future champions will spring. Which brings me to a pressing concern: where are all the juniors?

For every court filled with creaky-kneed veterans like us, there should be four teeming with eager young players honing their skills. Yet every Monday night, we see the empty courts where there should be budding champions training late into the night.

If Australia is to reclaim its place at the pinnacle of world tennis, we need our young tennis players to get off their devices and on to the courts. We need them perfecting their backhands and developing a feel for the fuzzy yellow ball.

But for now, as Wimbledon unfolds, our hopes rest on the shoulders of Alex de Minaur. The speedy Sydneysider has shown flashes of brilliance, and at just 25, he's entering his prime years. Could this be the year he makes a deep run at the All England Club?

As for my own tennis exploits, last week's encounter ended in a thoroughly anticlimactic 6-4, 4-6 draw. There was 90 minutes of grunts and sweat, punctuated by the occasional flash of adequacy, resulted in honours even.

But that's the beauty of our weekly ritual - the score doesn't really matter. What counts is the laugh we share about Andy's panther-like agility at the net when he doesn't miss a volley, Nick's bung shoulder and Spence's abysmal footwork.

However busy or stressful life gets, for those 90 minutes on a Monday night, we're just four mates enjoying the simple pleasure of a hit and a giggle.