Jordy Smith, Mr. Showtime, has arrived. Photo: ASP
The first time I crossed swords with Jordy Smith, he was drunk at a bar on the Gold Coast and demanding I buy him a drink. “Hey, Stab,” he yelled at me, replacing my name with that of the magazine I worked for at the time, “Buy me a drink!”
The arrogance nearly floored me. Myself, a 22-year-old skinhead from the most crowded beach this side of Rio, with metal plates holding my jaw together and a swollen middle knuckle, I was none too keen on the disrespect.
“You’ve got money. Buy me a drink, c**t,” I said as I watched him hurriedly stuff 20s into his pocket. Money was one thing Jordy definitely had. These were the months after Nike’s obscene attempt to court his signature. The one in which they’d offered him $5.3 million dollars a year; had their then golden boy, Mister (6)9-iron himself, Tiger Woods spend 45 minutes on the phone with him; had Michael Jordan email him; and sent him the shoe in which Brazilian futbol star Ronaldo kicked a goal in the World Cup final.
Jordy was but a 20-year-old when they came knocking, and they poisoned his mind with premature notions of greatness. It would prove a tough learning curve for the kid. His first year on Tour saw him strike a concrete wall of hardened Tour veterans who, far from buying the hype, wanted nothing more than to send the punk straight back to the MR Price Pro, Durban. They almost succeeded. Jordy finished 26th in his debut year, avoiding relegation to the WQS by a hair, in what also brought about the first major self-examination in his career.
The next time I crossed swords with him was the morning after his breakthrough World Tour victory at Jeffreys Bay. I’d actually missed the momentous occasion after taking too much acid and wigging out at a trance festival in the woods near the contest site. When I met him in the car park and requested an interview (to make amends to the publication I was working for), he courteously agreed and later that night gave me 20 minutes on the phone in which he spoke of the crushing burden of expectation he’d carried around with him since Nike heaped that steaming pile of hype all over him.
“Things don’t faze me as much as they used to,” he told me, when I asked what had changed since. “And (I’m) taking control of the things I can control and not worrying about everything else.”
As you’re no doubt now aware, Jordy Smith is the Billabong Pro Rio champion. It was his third World Tour event win and, notably, his first outside of South Africa. But it was the way in which he did it that is worth discussing. For all the money, pressure, media, coaches, fans and professionalism that have infiltrated World Tour surfing, Jordy reminded us what’s it like to have a showman in our midst. No matter the country or the cultural baggage they carry, surfing at its essence will always be just as much about style, grace, expression and personality as contest results. Watching Mister Showtime spin through a vicious frontside rotation, land, whip his hair out of his face and hold his hands abreast at the judges (an imitation of the famous Christ statue overlooking Rio) with a big toothy grin across his dial was the perfect way to ice a radical piece of flare.
There was much to take away from his performance. In a classic showcase of beachbreak surfing, in which the full gamut of conditions tested surfers’ every faculty, Jordy took the win with barely a single conventional turn among his scoring rides. The giant power swoops and big-man lazzas that have so far been his most potent scoring weapon on Tour were replaced by snap punts off quick-fire sections, and a mesmerizing display of tube wrangling. But it was his temperament in times of extreme duress that spoke volumes for this guy’s current headspace.
The arrogance and ignorance of his youth seems to have long dissipated, replaced by a quiet confidence so vividly captured in his ironic mad-swaggerish, post-wave celebrations. So he should feel confident. He has begun to achieve things in this sport. With Dane Reynolds having faded into competitive obscurity, Dusty nowhere near consistent enough, and Julian, at least in this event, short on the razzle of Mister Showtime, Jordy has become the figurehead of his generation. Things are equally strong in his personal life. He’s got the blonde bombshell he always dreamed of, along with the pimp pad in Cape Town, and has now surrounded himself with a solid support crew – including former Australian World Tour surfer and one of the more astute thinkers you’re likely to come across in surfing, Jarrad Howse. This team gives it to him straight. It’s a great time to be a surf fan when the lost art of showmanship is making a comeback (big ups to Seabass Zietz whose break through World Tour performance also contained plenty of flare).
But he was pushed all the way by the Brazilian contingent and boyo, what a statement they made. Adriano’s runner-up pushes him to outright ratings leader, Rookie Filipe Toledo – who few believed would his place on tour – now moves to 7th, and Gabriel Medina now sits in outright tenth, one place above Ace Buchan, the aggrieved party in what was one of the most farcical administrative errors that surfing has seen in a while.
