Giant Killer

John Millman had spent a decade in pro tennis barely eking out a living. Then, one hot night in New York, he showed the world what’s possible when you refuse to fold.

- Daniel Williams

THE FIRST SURPRISE ON meeting John Millman is that he seems to have been looking forward to our chat. Unless I’m mistaken, he’s almost excited. “Great to meet you,” he says, beaming in the Brisbane sunshine. It’s true that he’s not quite a superstar of the game, and therefore a detached arrogance would be out of place. On this sultry afternoon during the tour’s short off-season, his world ranking stands at 38. But he acts more like a guy who’s 1038. At his side is a gatekeeper of sorts who arranged this rendezvous via an exchange of emails. But Fee turns out to be Millman’s girlfriend, a sweet-natured German blonde.

The second surprise is how sinewy he is. Sure, a whippet-like leanness was conspicuous during his run at last year’s US Open. But in the flesh this quality hits you like a mild electric shock. Millman is every bit as sliced and diced as Novak Djokovic. Which is by design. “You see Novak without a shirt on, he’s strong but light and that shows in his movement,” says Millman. “He’s someone I try to emulate.”

Why am I here? Why seek out the 29-year-old Millman, a toiler who might already have experienced the apogee of his sporting life, rather than the more flamboyant and emotive enfant terrible Nick Kyrgios? Or the next Lleyton Hewitt, teenager Alex de Minaur?