What is it with Tim Southee?

With talent to burn, the twenty-three year old could discover that he has a career on his hands that is positively teeming with adulation for many a year to come.

Yet, instead of making the most of his ability, he appears more intent on becoming a self-appointed verbal gangster for the Black Caps as he constantly sledges his way through bowling spells while interspersing this by sending down balls so wayward that instead of paddling their way into that famed corridor of uncertainty and detonating on opposing batsmen with lethal accuracy, they – and his mouth - both end up squirting out nothing more than minute doses of insignificant puffery that embarrassingly fail to hit the mark.

Like all gangsters, he is only as big and tough as he’s allowed to be in his current environment until someone with more ammunition enters the fray.

And that person came along in the form of Richard Levi. A hulking, powerfully built character, the South African responded to Southee’s childish antics by belting the Northlander over the fence on consecutive balls on his way to an outstanding century during last week’s second 20/20 encounter. And still the young New Zealander kept up the verbal barrage. Go figure.

Fort Knox would have presented more viable attacking options for any would be foe than what Southee’s bowling did to the health and safety of Levi’s wicket that night.

Not only did this oral diatribe fail as it fell on deaf ears, his bowling wasn’t up to much either. Maybe if he took the novel approach of concentrating on the task at hand (getting the batsman out, Timothy, by the bye) he might present more of a threat to opponents.

And, really, how many greats of the fine art of bowling have resorted to wasting extra breathe on discussing the intricacies of life with batsmen?

Certainly the great Richard Hadlee didn’t. Why not, you ask. Well, it’s simple, really. You see, throughout his test career, the great man had this method of taking a wicket every twenty-two deliveries. Something Southee has yet to master, it must be said.

Now, let’s be fair; Hadlee was one of the best in the history of the game.

Talent became him. Disdain for mediocrity was his constant companion as he methodically set about dismantling the techniques of the world’s best batsmen. No one is expecting Southee to emulate Paddles, just set out to take the same approach. There could be no better way of putting a halt to the wicked ways of a batsman than to send that little sphere hurtling into middle stump.

This means that he would be required to let his actions do his talking.

Now there’s an idea.

An injury free, fit Jesse Ryder is much like the Loch Ness monster; there have been many supposed sightings, but, in the end, they always turn out to be nothing more than a cruel hoax.

Five weeks after tearing a calf muscle, Ryder is back in the thick of the action in tonight’s 20/20 decider against South Africa.

Reputedly, he has never worked harder. Five weeks of blood, sweat and tears, and here he is, fitter and stronger than ever, keen to show his wares. He’s lost weight, and, in John Wright, gained a mate. An improved attitude has overcome the twenty-six year olds disposition, leading to a spiffy new clean slate.

Gone, it seems, are the bad old days, where, without a moments notice, an innocent window pane could have its confidence shattered in an unprovoked attack. Or that he would arrive at training inebriated from the effects of the previous night’s alcohol consumption.

Yes, the lad’s growing up. After having the hard word put on him from New Zealand Cricket, the penny finally dropped. If Ryder wanted to be part of the Black Caps, he had to shape up or ship out. Thankfully for fans of the game, the Wellingtonian chose the former before father time passed him by.

And, after all, everyone deserves a second chance in life. It’s not like he’s the only person to have made a mistake.

No one expects him to be saint.

Razor blade thin, he does not need to be. It’s not like cricket is played in countries where he is required to be the shape of a matchstick to slot through customs. There is no need for him to abstain from alcohol entirely, or from enjoying life. The only requirement needed is to conduct himself in the manner with which any member of society would be expected to. And remember that his income is derived from New Zealand Cricket who in turn gathers their revenue from sponsors, not to mention the paying public.

In other words, respect the hand that feeds. Which he now seems to be doing.

The thought of one so talented wasting an opportunity to obtain his plentiful potential does not bear pondering.

With this new attitude, now is the time for him to show his gratitude with a continuation of the hard graft, not to mention putting runs on the board. He has already showed he is heading in the right direction, having plundered some hapless provincial attacks over the last couple of weeks in the domestic competition.

Tonight, though, he’s back in the big time, up against the might of a South African side with some seriously heavy artillery to fire in his direction. But Ryder has shown in the past that he can handle the best of bowling attacks.

There is nothing he likes more than to erase his faminousness on a veritable feast of so called delicacies inhabiting the real or imagined armouries of the invaders of his sacred domain, cracking open the epidermis of the bowler’s mindset with his often thundering, intimidatory batting presence as he takes an intoxicating path towards redemption, scything his way towards the epicentre of his potential, cultivating a surreal sense of self-belief within his own mind.

And there couldn’t possibly be a better time to allay that hunger for runs at the top level, than at Eden Park, tonight.

If Martin Guptill’s form were a bottle of wine, then the 2012 year is turning out to be of a splendid vintage.

So nicely has it matured that he has now averaged 113 over his last six innings, courtesy of two not outs. That’s six consecutive scores of fifty or more.

What more could he possibly do?

Some will point to the obvious that five of those came against a Zimbabwean bowling attack that hardly strikes terror into the minds of batsmen. But, then, all Guptill can do is amass runs against whichever opposition is put in front of him.

And this he has done.

This just goes to show that you can’t please everybody. There’s always a few out there willing to whine and whinge no matter how much success one generates. Not that Guptill would be taking too much notice of such folk.

After all, he’s too busy scoring runs with the myriad of shots that he possesses in his batting armoury.

His latest innings of 78 not out also came against the might of South Africa in the opening game of the current series.

Sure, South Africa are not ranked as high in twenty/20 as they are in the longer versions of the game, but Mornel Morkel and his cohorts are hardly the easiest of foe to smack around the cricketing arenas of New Zealand. Or anywhere, for that matter.

Those doubters would also be delighted to bring to everyone’s attention Guptill’s seeming inability to go on to three figures. Of the two criticisms, the second does have some validity to it. Guptill would be the first to admit that, at this level, it is imperative, not to mention expected of him to go on with the job.

Still, his vein of form currently courses through him like a raging torrent of effervescent batting elan floating effortlessly and serenely above all as he confidently and elegantly paints a stunningly colourful vista of finesse filled shotmaking supremacy, putting a sword to the aspirations of an army of marauding, bloodthirsty wannabe bowling leeches who’ll stop at nothing to weasel their way into his spotlight, fending off their malicious and often dubious intentions all the while sitting firmly ensconced and residing in the upper echelons of the run scoring merriment that he has embarked on as he heads off in search of that holy grail of batting – consistency of runs.

Such is his form; nothing appears to trouble the right hander.

Most forget in time, but an unlucky few have the grave misfortune to remember everything.

Guptill has found such form, perhaps, through the ability to put out of his mind what has gone before him and concentrate on the now, unlike those who hold onto the past, no matter how recent or distant, letting it affect their ability to perform to their optimum.

The great thing with the Auckland born star is his form is not restricted to only one form of the game. He has scored centuries in both test matches and onedayers. And his current run of good form has been over all three forms of the game.

Which he will be hoping will continue for some time yet.

And teammates and fans alike will be hoping that this is not the last of the summer wine.

After a stellar rookie year, some stagnate into a vortex of expectation.

Then the second year blues set in.

Though, not for Shaun Johnson, we hope.

He has long since made his acquaintance with supreme talent. One could suppose that there could never be any reason for him to feel sad. After all, the twenty-one year old whizz kid is blessed with such a vast array of talent that bedazzles even the most ardent of critics.

The dreaded second year syndrome, surely this will not abound in his sphere of being.

Maybe it will, maybe it won’t – for now, we don’t know.

But the day is nigh, the day to soar, to aim high, bid for the sky, reach for the stars; to dutifully attend to embellishing further on what you already are – a star.

Dream long, dream hard, dream big – dream for all you’re worth; but, just do it.

This is exactly what he is doing. Having gained his opportunity midway through the 2011 season after the incumbent, Brett Seymour, relented to injury, Johnson hasn’t looked back. He has made every post a winner. Such was the success of his opening forays into the NRL, Warriors management moved with haste to re-sign the emerging superstar.

This they successfully did.

With a three year contract signed that sees him plying his trade in Auckland until the end of 2014, Johnson is hardly one that resembles a malady of cash strapped despair. With the paper work all sorted, there is no need to concern himself with money – only with improving his game.

For opportunities abound from lands afar.

And with Johnson, that usually means endless reasons to visit an opposition’s in-goal zone. He doesn’t just go on short trips, either. For there are plenty of long range tries scored that are his par.

That’s what one can do with speed. And he has it in bountiful measures; speed that sears with intensity; speed that seethes with unadmonished glee; and speed that strikes a dagger into the defensive heart of his foe, leaving them looking like a talentless cask of blandness sinking into a downtrodden quagmire of desperation and despondency while he continues on his way with a riotous riposte of rip-roaring attacking ingenuity.

It’s not fair is it? That one person can be so blessed with talent, that it mocks the rest of us into insecurity. Though, it’s one thing to be one of the lucky ones; it’s another to be able to take that talent through to its true destiny. But one gets the impression that the level headed Johnson has as much chance as any of achieving the ultimate.

You may be getting the impression, by now, that he’s solely an attacking player.

Not so, at all. Nothing could not be further from the truth.

He is the proprietor of a more than adequate long kicking game. If he can’t extricate his side from their own red zone with one of his specials, he can be counted on to generate a sixty metre clearance.

His short kicking game is regularly on hand to heap pressure on the opposition by forcing them into repeat goal line drop-outs. And, of course, there is his defence. Yes, that thing that his detractors proposed as the reason to hold him back for now. They said he would be targeted, and that he would be responsible for conceding more points in defence than he is worth in attack. If they had had their way, he wouldn’t have been there to orchestrate that remarkable winning play against Melbourne in the dying minutes of the grand final qualifier.

Well, those naysayers couldn’t have been more wrong. And thankfully so. In reality, his defence was solid and no more a hindrance than that of any other halfback in the competition.

So, even though he regularly appears to resemble a constant stream of unerring attacking notions transcending the corridors of the Rugby League’s attacking fraternity, which display a cautionary tale to the maligment forces that circle in eager anticipation, he sends those defensive frailties headlong into a cavass of the unending, deep dark recesses without so much as a glimmer of hope shining through the black hole that has sucked the life from them, not even spasmodically allowing them to escape the ravages of the dark menacing attacking force that Johnson is the keen perpetrator of - there is more to this potential Rugby League megastar.

Many said that the great Stacey Jones could never be replaced. Not only does Johnson have the potential to match the deeds of Jones, he could very well surpass them in a canter.

He really could be anything.

If he dreams long, dreams hard, dreams big – dreams for all he is worth; and, just does it.

Beware of the Djoker for he is on the loose.

Run, run fast, run like the wind, escape while you can, before it’s too late. He’s on the rampage, bringing a tonne of mischief with him as he takes a hew to any opposition that dare to stand in the way of his untoward intentions of securing yet another grand slam title.

Already, in 2011, the 6ft 2” extrovert had cut a swath through a bounty of do-gooders attempting to bring a halt to his fiendish ways. That he had introduced a plethora of hitherto unseen weapons has made for a mightily difficult job in arresting his devious methods.

He flattened out his groundstrokes. Gone was the excessive top spin. In its place were shots that had superior pace to them, not bouncing as high, and giving opponents less time to make a return.

Then there was the new gluten free diet that he undertook, which appeared to make him fitter and stronger with an added dose of energy. Nothing quite like a smattering of extra energy to keep at bay all those wishing to rein in the twenty-four year olds wicked form. Turns out he was suffering from celiac disease and can’t eat gluten.

Don’t you just bet his opposition wished the Serbian native hadn’t discovered this?

But he did, and what a year it turned out to be for Novak Djockovic. Three grand slam titles - to add to his victory at the Australian Open in 2008 – and his emergence as the number one ranked player in the world was a certainty. Not surprising, really, with a 70-6 win/loss ratio. Some claimed it was the greatest season by an individual ever seen.

Djockovic didn’t just find deeper reservoirs of physical reserves; he also played with a mental toughness that would be the envy of many. He had found the self-belief needed to consistently dismantle the best players to have competed in the modern era. Rafael Nadal couldn’t get a handle on him, and what was the best way to counteract Djockovic’s new found power. Never before had he encountered an opponent that would pound the ball to such an extent. He admitted as much too.

Andy Murray had even less luck dealing with the talented jokester, going down in three sets at last year’s Australian Open final. And then there was a chap by the name of Federer. Roger Federer, that is. Possibly the greatest of all-time, even the Swiss magician couldn’t pull a rabbit out of the hat in his quest to bring to an end the unmitigated destruction that Djockovic was heaping upon the enemy. Greatest of all-time; by the time the Serb is finished, Federer may not even be the greatest of his era.

Who would have thought?

As tough as teak, the Serb couldn’t be broken when it counted.

It hasn’t always been that way, though. There was a time when Djockovic had a reputation for being a touch on the fragile side. Occasionally thought to have feigned injuries in the past, when losing, and withdrawing unnecessarily, he wasn’t always popular with his peers. Add to this his propensity for doing imitations of other players, and his early days weren’t all plain sailing.

It can’t be easy growing up in front of millions of people, many of whom are more than content to bring the famous down, no matter what. He survived though, and forged ahead.

True champions find the humility within to realise what is required of them as they make the necessary adjustments in search of their true potential.

And that humility often comes as maturity arrives in their sphere of being.

It sure did with Djockovic. By 2010 the imitations had disappeared, and in its place was a man that was becoming a class act.

Maturity can’t be imitated.

Now acclaimed as the best in the world, Djockovic carries that mantle with aplomb. Nothing seems to faze him, and, as is usually the way, the more success he attains the more confident he becomes.

This is good for him. Not so good for his opposition though.

There are those amongst us that are unique.

No matter how hard they fight it, eccentricities engulf their minds like flames to a furnace.

It can sometimes be a road filled with potholes and obstacles for them as many of us are often all too quick to judge.

They need not the dubious gift of our disdain, only our acceptance.

It’s not that they deliberately set out to be different. They don’t. It’s not that they’re rebelling. They’re not.

To them their behaviour is normal. They know no other way. Try to direct them down our morally righteous path and they won’t understand where we are coming from.

And, really, why should they? They are who they are, and forever will be.

They harm nobody. Except, of course, the insecure and self-righteous, the intolerant and the judgemental. These folk will be offended, regardless. They can’t but help themselves.

This leads us to Rafael Nadal.

Without doubt, the Spaniard is a card carrying member of the obsessive compulsive’s club. His pre-match routine has become notorious amongst rivals.

Match after match, tournament upon tournament, there is a sequence of events that must be adhered to. However hard you may try to get him to change his routine, he persists. The drink bottles have to go in a certain place at a certain time. The same shoelace must be done up each time before the other. You get the point.

More than likely he is not all that interested in what others think of him. And good for him if that be the case. He merrily forges his way along the highway of life to the beat of his own drum. Mental toughness long ago met his acquaintance.

Here is a man who is far from encumbered by the few personality spasms that occupy his mind.

The reality being the twenty-five year old is one of the more level headed and well-adjusted individuals on the pro circuit.

Ranked number two in the world and the holder of ten grand slam titles, his breathless ability has helped to propel him to the dizzying heights of world number one in the past.

Nicknamed the king of clay for his exploits at the French Open, where he has won six of the last seven years, Nadal carries himself with the utmost dignity. Not for him to throw a tantrum when things don’t go his way. Lose and he’ll be mightily disappointed. But never are there tears to be sighted upon his visage. Excuses are not proffered. For he knows all too well that tennis is only a miniscule part of life, that another day will dawn, and another match will be there for him to partake in.

Such is his maturity that a win will be welcomed with a calm, sensible approach. Yes, he’ll celebrate, for sure. But always in his mind is to allow his opposition some dignity. Not for him to rub their noses in it, while they are down.

After all, he knows that with every win he is one match away from a possible defeat.

And it is this fullness of mind that makes Nadal not just a great player but also a great person.

Who would have thought that a shy small town girl from Czechoslovakia would one day grow up to be a tennis player of note?

Not just one of the pack, though. Instead, a star in its ascendency as her trajectory hurtles towards a date with destiny gracing the courts of the world as a fully fledged supernova.

And that girl is no longer a girl. Indeed, Petra Kvitova has blossomed into a 6ft Amazonian wonderland of athletic prowess on her way to a career of eminence as she tortures her opponents with thunderbolts that are fired off either wing.

Already number two in the world and the holder of one grand slam title, the left hander also possesses a deadly swinging serve from the ad side of the court.

Those are some handy weapons at her disposal, then.

With the rare combination of power and timing that the twenty-one year old has been blessed with, all that is required now is for her to discover the secret to mixing her unique talent with large volumes of consistency.

She showed what she could deliver in her victory at Wimbledon last July.

A talent had arrived. “I am woman, hear me roar”, you could almost hear her saying as the cub transformed into a fully matured lioness before the optics of an awestruck audience.

She hunted her prey mercilessly, then tore that foe to shreds.

Such was the exquisite power that she generated upon hitting balls that you could hardly blame her opposition if they had cawed in protestation at the annihilation with which Kvitova had forced them to endure.

Her theatre of dreams had turned into a boulevard of prosperity and dominance.

The Eastern European sporting princess had announced herself to the world.

Unintentionally, of course. You see, that’s the thing with Kvitova. One gets the impression that she abhors the attention that comes with her on-court success. That she is just a tad uncomfortable, and all she wishes for is to play the game without any of the peripheral distractions.

And it may be this reluctance to embrace stardom that causes self-doubt to rare its ugly head in her. Ergo, the inconsistencies that are there for all to see.

She had gone from Wimbledon champion to the ignominy of first round loser at the US Open. From the apex to the nadir in one fell swoop.

Kvitova consolidated, though. Slowly but surely she rediscovered her winning ways. By the end of 2011 she had added the WTA tour championship to her list of victories.

Talk about handling pressure. It's one thing to suffer a heavy defeat, and most would be shattered, but to fight ones way back into form so rapidly displays a maturity to her ways. Maybe Kvitova is beginning to adapt to the modern game and the pressures that go with it. But, a true champion does adapt, which she is undoubtedly doing.

And she shows signs of being one who is about to propel herself headlong into the chronicles of greatness.

So 2012 may herald the passing of a princess, and introduce the tennis world to a new queen.

One that laps up the pressure and dominates with a ruthless efficiency that deals to upstart subordinates that dare to challenge her power.

And one that looks set to rule with a long and distinguished career.

That queen, Petra Kvitova, is about to hold court. Quiet please.