HE is Asterisk, the Gall.

He lives in a cave in Moodiesburn, its dank interior reeking of sour semmits, his cooking pot burbling as he prepares his nightly repast of toad, wing of bat and piri piri sauce.

He is my guru. He was once my gnu. But I bought a budgie. More practical. He answers all questions briskly, with a certainty that brooks no argument.

Once, bedevilled by inability to define precisely what constitutes sport, I took a bus to Chryston and found a guide who would take me to the interior for a winter coat, a bag of beans and a squeaky toy.

On arrival at Guru Central, I asked him: "What is sport?"

Picking the remnants of a Woodbine (it may have been a woodpecker) from his teeth, he replied: "It is not a sport until someone is calling somebody a ****."

He articulated the **** by making a clicking noise at the back of his throat, so earning his name Asterisk. The gall comes from the sheer effrontery of his answer.

He is, of course, correct. There has to be an element of personal confrontation in sport and that should produce both animosity and elemental struggle. Sport is never better for the neutral than when it produces a match-up between Good Guy and Bad Guy. It is never more entertaining than when one superstar is having a pop at another.

This is the only ingredient tennis lacks in its golden age of Big Four and Stan The Man. Tennis can organise extraordinary tournaments, it can conjure up brilliant contests but, frankly, it could not organise a fight at a Paisley wedding.

For example, Stan Wawrinka plays Roger Federer in a tough match at the world tour finals. Mrs Federer loudly calls Stan a cry baby.

Does Oor Stan give Roger a slap? Does he insert his racket in Roger's gub so the Greatest Player of All Time is condemned ever more to eat shredded food?

No, they have a quiet chat about it and win the Davis Cup together the next week. Very disappointing.

Similarly, there is a conspicuous lack of malice between the others. The worst that critics can say of Oor Andy is that he has a monotone voice. Rafa's major defect is that he has bought the winning Euro lottery ticket and a series of searches indicate he has put it where only a colonoscopy could find it. Djoko merely looks like Desperate Dan after a desperate diet.

It is, in truth, not much to inspire antipathy towards any of them. But once it was different. Once we had Jimmy Connors.

He is called to mind with the publication of a smashing book retelling the tale of the 1975 Wimbledon final when Arthur Ashe beat Connors in a remarkable contest.

The final was memorable for a series of factors. First, Ashe was the first black men singles champion at Wimbledon. Second, he was the underdog coming up against a gentleman regularly referred to as a punk. Third, it was Good Guy v Bad Guy on centre court.

Ashe's background was unique for a top-class tennis player. He rose from segregation to become a black champion in what was a white man's world. He was intelligent, articulate and reserved, even withdrawn.

Connors came from another world. He was initially and indelibly coached by his mum. His best lesson came when she told him of the time when, aged 15, she played her mum. She lost 6-0, 6-0.

Jimmy was similarly ruthless. He had as much time for reputations as a ravenous bear has for a knife and fork and a slow cooker. Jimmy was constitutionally unable to observe the niceties of life.

He faced an opponent in Ashe who was expected to fold before Connors' flat, powerful hitting. They walked on to centre court with a legal action pending between them. Connors was suing Ashe over comments the latter made about Connors' decision not play in the Davis Cup for the USA. Ashe, too, wore his Davis Cup jacket as he walked out for the final.

Ashe, who later died of Aids, almost certainly as a result of a blood transfusion, was never a personality who avoided reality. Asked about the grave misfortune of contracting his fatal illness, Ashe replied: "Being black is the greatest burden I have had to bear."

It is therefore reasonable to infer that he saw Connors, at most, as an irritant. This, however, does not mean the younger man could not annoy him. Ashe admitted once there was an occasion when he was tempted to "smash" Connors in the mouth.

This is akin to hearing that the Dalai Lama once itched for a square go.

This shows there was tension, even friction, at the heart of the rivalry and it was not only articulated, it was visible.

But as much as tennis needed the talent, the example, the generosity of spirit and the dignity of Ashe. It also profited from the aggression, the power and the sheer nastiness of Connors.

In 1997, four years after Ashe died, the United States Tennis Association named its centre court at Flushing Meadows, where the US Open is played, after him.

Connors had a comment. "I win the sonuvabitch five times and they name the stadium after him?''

This observation is not pleasant, hardly gracious. But Asterisk the Gall would recognise it as testifying to the validity of his definition of sport.

Ashe v Connors: Wimbledon 1975 and Tennis that Went Beyond Centre Court by Peter Bodo is published by Aurum at £16.99