The street where I grew up was teeming with kids around my own age, but just one of them was an only child. Stuart, as we'll call him here, was an OK sorta guy; he played pretty well with the rest of the local riff-raff most of the time, he had a good sense of humour and he was up for just about all the mischief we could conjure. Solid, was Stu.

But on Saturday and Sunday mornings, Stuey would morph into someone we didn't know: he'd stride to his parents' car resplendent in white shorts, shoes, socks and shirt ("Lacoste," he once informed me with a fixed stare - my first ever experience with wanky branding).

With his chin tilted skywards and without making eye contact with my bro and I, he'd heave his sports bag into the back of his mum and dad's Celica and off they would zoom - all with the same conceited look.

Tennis. They were all off to tennis.

After tennis - which is to say after lunch on weekends about half the year around - Stuart's disposition seemed to change; he was less inclined to share, he argued more and was famous for storming off home, literally taking his bat and ball with him.

Threats and curses were uttered under his breath. Back then we'd shrug and put it down to Stu's status as an only child.

Nowadays I look back at his spats and walk-offs and I blame tennis.

Having never played the game as an organised sport, I don't really know what goes on at junior tennis clubs but I suspect a whole lot of wicked behaviour is practised and encouraged.

None of my mates play tennis, OK? This isn't an accident - I just would never be friends with someone who did. Ergo after Stu and I grew up we didn't stay in touch.

But I thought of Stuart this week when Nick Kyrgios - the latest in a long line of Australian tennis-playing twerps - showed us what he's made of during his first-round clash with Diego Schwartzman at Wimbledon.

First up, Nick felt it was necessary to front the court with his head shaved into a Mohawk lest people didn't notice him. Then he argued a call and bitched about it to umpire Mohammed Layhani. When Layhani refused to reverse the decision, the "bad boy" from Canberra stomped his little tennis shoes and said he wasn't going to play any more until he got his way.

No kidding, his verbatim words were "I'm not going to play".

When that approach failed, Kyrgios skulked back to his end but not before muttering "dirty scum" - supposedly about Layhani.

Grilled at a press conference afterwards, Kyrgios expected the grown-ups to believe him when he said, "I wasn't referring to the ref at all!" with the dirty scum line.

"Yeah, I mean, it was towards myself'."

R-i-i-i-i-i-g-h-t. You contest a call, the ref says "Nup" and your response is to call yourself dirty scum? C'mon sonny!

I wonder what makes tennis players so susceptible to behaving like hungry, over-tired four-year-olds.

Out of all the solo sports that attract a crowd, tennis is way over-represented in the brat department.

I can't think of another sport that compares. Maybe golf, but nowhere near as bad.

You don't see golfers hit a nice drive, drop their club and start stabbing a row of fingers at their own faces ala Lleyton Hewitt.

I've never seen a pro-surfer paddle into the beach and refuse to compete any more because they didn't like the score on their last wave.

Racing car drivers, cyclists, skiers, triathletes et al - none of them carry on with half the bullshit tennis brats think is OK.

Nor do any of these other sports - golf aside - insist on complete silence while players get ready to serve.

I say that if you're getting paid millions of dollars to compete in front of a crowd, be prepared for some noise.

Imagine if a Wallabies goal kicker insisted on deathly quiet while lining up to boot a penalty to win the World Cup, or if Mick Fanning requested that the ocean tone down the noise a tad while dropping into a Pipeline mega-tube.

Harden-up you Lacoste-wearing, backhand grunting, high-maintenance, overly-pampered, overpaid, accountability-dodging, fist-pumping, tantrum-throwing, tennis racquet-tossing tossers!

Back in the day in the neighbourhood, when a post-tennis Stuart would blow up and walk home in a huff about some crap or other, the rest of us kids determined not to seek him out or speak to him; we realised the ball was in our court and that he was the one missing out.

I wish Australia could do the same to the Nick Kyrgios's of the world when they make an ass of themselves.