LONDON— For 73 years a
cloud has hung over this island. But this most celebrated island, a civil isle at the heart of civilization, the home of Shakespeare and Churchill, that once created a vast empire, could not even rule its own lawns. The brave people who in war rebuffed an evil European foe, fell in sports time and again to Yanks, Croatians and Spaniards. True, Englishmen collected grand wins on the soccer pitch and in heavyweight arenas, but in 73 years of Wimbledon not a single British fellow reached the final of this most prestigious Grand Slam.
Never mind that this land invented modern tennis. Forget that a leafy enclave in Southwest London quietly boasts the most famous sporting lawn in the world.
So what.
Yes, the island once ruled the mighty seas, but not a single Brit — not Mike Sangster, Roger Taylor nor Tiger Tim Henman (who reached the semis four times) could navigate his way to the finals.
Enter Andy Murray — the free-moving Scot with the Tiger Mom and Spanish training, the lanky lad with the sweet backhand who put on muscle and gained moxie and built a (“I was once No. 2”) resume that boasted three Slam finals in distant ports and heady runs to three Wimbledon semis. Still, he’s the product of a culture that relishes, with a certain zeal, its losing; a dreary happening that time and again is celebrated in London’s papers.
After yet another Henman meltdown one headline suggested, “Extreme Ironing, Anyone? (It’s All We’re Good At).” Another suggested, “Never Mind: There’s Still the Olympics for Us to Lose.” And then there was our favorite: “Cheer Up, England Are Still Champs (at Bog Snorkeling).”
Still, Brits display their celebrated pluck. And, as blue skies held still white clouds over Centre Court and old war veterans with their gold buttons, red unies and black caps watched courtside, hope —eternal hope — again filled British hearts.
After all, their man Murray had a fine clay campaign that brought him to the French semis and he won the Wimbledon warm-up on grass at Queens. Those who read the tea leaves (and there are plenty of such sages in these parts) suggested that the once so sullen and twitchy lad who time and again crumbled like an English biscuit was now ready to prevail.
Finally at ease with the invasive media and, for that matter, increasingly comfortable in his pasty skin, Murray joked that Rafael Nadal wasn’t much good at PlayStation. Now, 24-year-old Andy was more calm, quite composed and rather mature. Headlines again stirred emotions: “Surely, this has to be his year to win?” asked one. “Murray Bids to Unite the Nation,” suggested another.
No wondered fans squealed in the first set of Murrray’s semi against the defending champion Nadal. To their delight, the Scotsmen unleashed his nasty double-fisted backhand, penetrating forehands, ran like a Highland breeze and finally induced four Nadal groundie errors to claim the first set of the semi 7-5.
Eager, yet still refined voices sounded loud, many a flag – the Union Jack and the blue and white Scottish banner – flew in celebration.
But then — some way, somehow — their on-court crusader descended from the Highlands of down-the-line winners and Brave Heart aces to the lowlands of timid attacks, untimely double faults, rebellious overheads and a devastating forehand which was overcooked to a wide open lawn. Disaster!
For across the court was no “Deliciano” (Feliciano Lopez) but the singular Spanish Bull who had won 19 straight Wimbledon matches, was hoping to reach his fifth Wimbledon final and (for just three more days) was the No. 1 player in the world. Intense as always, oblivious to his foot problem, Rafa broke Murray’s serve early in each of the next three sets. Hitting his heavy forehand, flashing his stunning athleticism, furious will and (reared on clay) drop shot, Nadal began to punish the Scot, who simply went off the proverbial boil. Still, adoring fans who had yelled out “Andy we love you” in the first set, now changed their tune, pleading “’C’mon, lad” or “You can do it, son.”
But Andy couldn’t.
After Nadal, who offered just seven errors in the match, hit a forehand winner to score his convincing 5-7, 6-2, 6-2, 6-4 victory, the packed Centre Court throng briefly went mute, licking yet another open wound. Their man – the loyal Scottish lad, who just eight days ago had bowed to Prince William and his bride, now bowed his head in defeat before playing his dutiful role as a caring subject of the Kingdom. The noble son of a noble culture offered a noble wave, a sporting loser on this grand isle that so adores their plucky, but not so lucky, losers.
