Ever since Lleyton Hewitt appeared on Home and Away, and then the Logies (with identically-dressed soapie-wife and child in tow), the bogan’s love affair with him has dwindled. When he was smashing foreigners at Wimbledon and Flushing Meadows, the bogan was more than willing to overlook the fact that he was, by all outward appearances, a petulant tool. When he would bring vicarious glory onto the bogan by winning five-set epics on Spanish clay to prevent us being relegated from the world group in Davis Cup, the bogan, unaware that it wasn’t the Davis Cup Final, would sit back and bask in the sheer awesomeness of being Australian when there were people like Lleyton to win stuff on the bogan’s behalf.
But then, Lleyton realised that it was more fun to have a really hot wife and spend time with his kid than run around all day chasing a fluffy yellow ball. As his winning percentage fell, his relentless acts of wank lost their faux-rebellious lustre, and the bogan decided that it only liked Lleyton when he was being good at things on the bogan’s behalf. Never mind the fact that he’s still among the best 100 tennis players on Earth. The only way Lleyton would earn the bogan’s normally easily-won forgiveness would be an Australian Open win.
Hence, the bogan looked further afield for a tennis player through who to live vicariously. The pickings were slim. While the occasional Peter Luczak would grind out a gutsy win, he wasn’t good enough for the bogan to latch onto regularly. Alicia Molik, who the bogan found attractive in an odd, fear-induced way, retired at about the same time, and Bernard Tomic, while exhibiting all of Lleyton’s arsefaced traits, remained a minor, and wasn’t beating the big boys.
Someone once mentioned Sam Stosur. The bogan looked at her, saw that she had massive guns, and decided that she was not feminine enough to like. Male bogans were scared of her in a decidedly non-Molikesque fashion, and female bogans were intimidated by the fact that she was prettier AND stronger than them. They proceeded to ignore her.
She then entered the world’s top twenty players. The bogan paid no heed. She then entered the world’s top ten. The bogan was unaware. The bogan trashmedia reported nary a word. She went to Roland Garros, beat Justine Henin. Nothing. She beat Serena Williams in an epic three-setter. Some fringe-bogues’ ears perked up. Suddenly, she was in the French Open Final, the first Australian woman in decades to do so. She was now worthy of bogan love. She was bestowed the ultimate in bogan honorifics. She became ‘Ours’. She is no longer merely ‘Stosur’, or even ‘Samantha’, but simply ‘Sam’.
Notwithstanding the fact that if an athlete in their mid-20s suddenly became good enough to make a grand slam final, had enormous muscles, yet came from China, the bogan would automatically assume that the athlete in question was doping. But Sam’s an Aussie, so it’s down to the hard work and persistence that the bogan automatically attributes to itself that Our Sam got to the top.
Samantha Stosur is now the unambiguous property of Australia’s millions of bogans. She’s ‘ours’.