Tribute to Andy Murray
It was during the purgatory that falls between Queen’s and Wimbledon. The year was 2008, and I was having a heated debate with my two closest friends about the best British tennis player of the modern era. By this point, Andy Murray, the British No1, had defeated the likes of Roger Federer, secured tour titles and made significant inroads at grand slams. Aged 21, his career trajectory and skillset were self-evident.
But, ever the loyalists, the Tim Henman kool-aid still ran thick through my friends’ veins. For them, Murray was a sometimes petulant firebrand who had yet to develop the discipline necessary to compete consistently with the top players. Nor had he matched Henman’s achievements (Tim was a four-time Wimbledon semi-finalist and winner of the Paris Masters).
That year’s Wimbledon saw Murray step up a level. No true Murray fan of a certain vintage could forget the five-set epic against Richard Gasquet on Manic Monday at the All England Club, where he recovered from two sets down and hit a backhand winner about 10 feet off the court before geeing up the crowd with his mouth agape. Or the way he revealed his tensed bicep after winning the match, a rebuttal to those in the press who said he wasn’t strong enough for the physicality of top-level tennis. It was classic early-day Murray: dogged, abrasive, forthright. I remember it all too well because I had tickets for centre court the next day — my first visit to Wimbledon — and was desperate for the match to stretch into a second day.
Murray atoned for his subsequent quarter-final loss to Rafael Nadal by beating the Spaniard at the US Open two months later. Federer, at his imperial best, swept him away in the final, Murray’s first at a grand slam.
The young Scot’s professionalism stood out early on. His depiction in the press gradually softened as they realised they were dealing with a person of tremendous talent and a man of great feeling too. I held back tears while listening to his speech after losing the Australian Open final to Federer in 2010. I failed to keep myself in check during the gut-wrenching scenes on centre court after the 2012 Wimbledon final, where Murray bared his soul, winning over the last of his sceptics, after another devastating Federer loss.
To have then defeated Federer on the same court weeks later, winning the first of two Olympic gold medals in the process, was arguably his greatest feat of mental strength. This was followed swiftly by winning his first grand slam in five excruciating sets. I celebrated with far more exuberance at home than the modest and reserved Scot mustered in Flushing Meadows.
Murray never had the calm temperament of a Federer or the sheer brute force of a Nadal. Prone to spurts of self-beratement, he could often be his own worst enemy.
While his talent was undoubted, he squeezed every inch of ability he had within his reach. His movement and return of serve — matched or bettered only by Djokovic — did not happen by accident. Sometimes, his mind got the better of him. But there was no doubt that he had left everything out on the court.
So, thank you, Andy Murray. It’s been a source of great joy watching you on the court and seeing you grow in stature off it. A better role model it is difficult to imagine.
You leave tennis perhaps not as you entered it — with few detractors and admirers from all walks of life.
