It's only taken me 14 years, but as the sun sets and the shadows start to lengthen on a storied career, I think I may finally be finding a soft spot for Lleyton Hewitt.
Anthony Mundine aside, it's hard to remember an Australian athlete that puts as many people offside as Hewitt does.
Since he burst onto the scene as a 16-year-old by beating Andre Agassi at the Adelaide International in 1998, there has been something distinctly unlikeable about the South Australian.
Perhaps it's the way he gracelessly reacts to an unforced error from an opponent with his signature cry of 'come on'.
Maybe it's the way he looks like he wants to maim his loved ones in the stand after winning a big point. Or it could be the way he shamelessly ripped off Mats Wilander's shtick with the hand – then tried to trademark the gesture.
Whatever it is, I've never warmed to Hewitt.
By contrast, I'd have walked to hell and back for Pat Rafter – and almost did on a couple of nights in July circa 2000/2001 courtesy of some blokes named Pete and Goran.
Hell, even The Scud with his medical journal of injuries and reality dating shows inspired more love in my household than little Lleyton.
I'd never heard of David Nalbandian prior to the 2002 Wimbledon, but he quickly became my man as he tried unsuccessfully to stop Hewitt from claiming the title.
Yet despite his prickly character, there is a lot to admire about a bloke who stands five foot 11, weighs 80kg and yet somehow managed to slug his way to the top of the tennis tree.
With little in the way of discernible weapons, Hewitt's heart and toughness carried him to a Wimbledon title and a US Open crown, and he was unlucky to run into an on-song Marat Safin in the final at Melbourne Park seven years ago.
He reigned as the world's best player for 80 weeks, won 29 career titles and was part of two Davis Cup winning teams - but in recent years his body has begun to betray him.
Hewitt is a lot like Whitney Houston – so far past his best it's almost painful for those who saw him at his peak to see how far he has fallen, yet still desperate for one last turn in the sun.
But surely, deep in his heart of hearts, he must know any chance of Grand Slam glory is beyond him.
So what is it that keeps him coming back for more? Back to take the slings and arrows of a country rabid for tennis success, whose media eat the sport's young for breakfast should their game or psyche show any signs of frailty.
Rather than a man bereft of ideas about how to spend his retirement, Hewitt strikes me as someone simply squeezing every last drop out of his professional life.
At his essence he is still a kid with a tennis racket, getting as big a thrill now walking out on centre court as he did when he took out Agassi in Adelaide all those years ago.
As he prepares for his centre-court clash with old foe Andy Roddick on Thursday night, Hewitt – who needed a wildcard just to play in Melbourne – will be aware the match could be his curtain call in front of his home fans.
Years of pushing his body to the absolute limit have taken a toll, and there cannot be many big efforts left in the Hewitt tank.
And with the Lleyton Hewitt ride just about over, one thing remains absolutely certain – love him or hate him, we'll miss him when he goes.