Peter Calder: Poker faces only in the press box, as the crowd enjoys a laugh

The rowdy exuberance of the crowd, like these Andy Murray supporters, is a natural part of major tennis tournaments. Photo / Getty Images

It's not cool to get excited in the media seats. I'm still smarting from the bollocking I got from some po-faced Pom in a linen jacket and Panama hat who shooshed me during the women's tennis at the Sydney Olympics in 2000.

Venus Williams had just delivered a particularly brutal double-handed backhand volley - the style was more of an axeman at one of the old A&P shows of my youth than of a nice young lady which is what Venus was in those days - and I let forth an involuntary "Yes!". The glare from the man a few seats along from me in an almost-empty media section would have chilled a cucumber sandwich.

I haven't been shooshed at Rod Laver arena this week, where I've been a cuckoo in the media nest for the second week of the Australian Open.

I'm surrounded by hardened hacks who were around when Pete Sampras won his first Grand Slam tournament (1990, I discover, but you already knew, I bet) and who have unforced-error figures at their tongue-tips. And so far nobody is laughing at me just because I'm only here to enjoy the tennis.

But neither are they cheering. And part of the fun for me is looking around the media section when the stadium erupts in a roar of appreciation at some piece of on-court brilliance. I can hardly hear myself think and all around me are stony-faced aficionados whose only sign of life may be a three-character annotation in a worn notebook.

An elderly Japanese gent in front of me was the best of these, recording every single point with a complicated code of his own devising (a triangle for an ace; a filled in triangle for a double fault).

"It helps me concentrate," he said gloomily when I asked him why. "Hello!" I thought. "You're watching Novak Djokovic dismember Tomas Berdych 6-1, 7-6, 6-1 at the Aussie Open and you need a system to help you concentrate?"

Mercifully, there are exceptions. At the Nadal-Cilic quarter-final, I sat next to a group of jovial Spaniards who gorged on plums while bellowing such encouragement as "a puntilla, matador" (the call with which a bullfight spectator urges the matador to finish the beast off) and waving a flag at appropriate moments.

It reminded me that the Spanish word for fans is "fanaticos", but the reason for their uncharacteristic behaviour on the media benches soon emerged: most of them were gatecrashers and security moved them on.

But elsewhere in the stadium, enthusiasm is unbounded. Australians being the ebullient sports fans they are, they need to have a reason to make a noise and the early exits of local heroes Lleyton Hewitt and Samantha Stosur had removed the logical candidates.

No matter: a quartet of youngsters in white singlets had decided Andy Murray was their man and in his quarter against Austrian Jurgen Melzer, they occupied each change of ends with one of two chants on high rotate. My favourite: "Andy Murray is a leg[end], E-i-e-i-o. With a drop shot here and a drop shot there ...". You get the idea.

I caught up with them outside afterwards and asked them whether they were all of Scots descent. "Nah," said one, in an Ocker accent as wide as the arena. "It's just more fun if you're behind someone."

The wittiest line of the week was delivered as Roger Federer sat on 6-1, 6-3, 5-2 in his quarter-final demolition of compatriot Stanislas Wawrinka. A thin and plaintive wail came from one of the back rows: "Roger, don't give up!"

As a weekend warrior with a preternatural talent for double-faulting, I couldn't help wondering whether the barracking ever hampered the players' concentration. Nadal, the world No 1 and top seed, who had been in ominous form all week before his injury-affected loss, had been a prime target, even having to endure calls of "I love you Rafa!" during his interminable pre-serve ball-bouncing.

"No, I feel fantastic," he said when I asked him about it in one of the post-match press conferences. He doesn't try to block it out. "I heard everything," he said with a shy shrug. "But it is nice."

What about when the girls whistle when you're changing your shirt?" a young and pretty French journalist asked. He fixed her with a mesmerising smile. "That's a very good feeling."

As the tournament entered the business end this week and the semifinalists emerged, Melbourne was on its best behaviour.

The searing heat that can make playing here as much a test of biomechanical competence as of tennis prowess did not put in an appearance, although forecasts for the weekend are well into the 30s. In the (fortunately shaded) media section, I shouldn't suffer too badly. Hell, I might even allow myself the exertion of a cheer or two.

* Peter Calder is an Auckland writer and tennis enthusiast.