By Bill Simons
One headline asked, “HE’S TOUGHENED, HE’S IN FORM, IS THIS ANDY MURRAY’S MOMENT?” Another was simple and to the point: “SCOT DEALS WITH TIDE OF EXPECTATIONS.”
No kidding.
Never before had a nation focused so dearly on a single athlete. Never before had a modern British tennis player climbed so high. Now, the sweet, glorious summit, beaming bright, was in sight. The ascent was treacherous, but do-able. Rarely had we seen such an arc, a progression which was trending towards triumph. A British man had not won Wimbledon since 1936, a lifetime ago.
More than a decade ago, it was clear that something, anything, had to be done. Enter “Tiger” Tim Henman, a kind of glorious loser, who formed the mold of the aspiring British lad lifting, and then ruthlessly demolishing, the frenetic hopes of the sporting nation. A singular tease, Henman reached the semis four times. Bravely coping with dashed hopes became a kind of national religion: “Not to worry, we lost an empire, we can handle and deal with a lost tennis competition.”
Then, in Tiger Tim’s considerable footsteps, came a talented lad who’d survived a ghastly mass shooting at his Dunblane primary school, who’d been shipped to a Spanish tennis factory, who’d endured a tough parental divorce, and who’d slogged his way up the ATP ranks. Often he seemed to be coached by a committee, and like Henman, time and again, he lost deep into the Wimbledon fortnight.
Still, Murray is a tough Scot. He hired one of the game’s most fierce icons, Ivan Lendl, to be his no-nonsense coach, and promptly battled to last year’s Wimbledon final, where, after his loss, he began his fabled concession speech by saying, “This isn’t going to be easy, but I’m going to try.” He wept, won the hearts of the nation, then 29 days later on the same court, took the Olympic gold. Later that summer, he claimed his first Slam, at the US Open.
What other tennis player has navigated the ranks with such intention, with such agonizing progressions?
But this upward arc, the painful losses and many wins, meant little in jolly old England. Here, Wimbledon is tennis and tennis is Wimbledon, end of discussion, and no Brit had won The Championships in 77 years.
In this land, there are zillions of terms for rain. Similarly, the phrase “Come on, Andy” may be said in countless ways. When Murray struggles, there’s a deep, scolding tone, a command to do better. There’s also a high-pitched plea of desperation, or a certain unfiltered ecstasy. At this Wimbledon, the “Come on, Andy”s were cascading loud as the 26-year old came back to beat Fernando Verdasco and Pole Jerzy Janowicz to set up yet another final encounter with the No. 1 player in the world, Novak Djokovic, who had narrowly prevailed against the near-heroic Juan Martin del Potro in a classic, the longest semi in Wimbledon history.
Maybe Murray and Djokovic lack Federer’s dazzling grace and Nadal’s charismatic muscularity. But clearly—except when Rafa’s on clay—they are the two best in the game, and their final had London in a tizzy. “We have the best tournament on the best court in the world, with the best British summer weather today [and] the best players in the world,” noted former pro Ross Hutchins.
While fans were looking for omens—a Brit hadn’t won in 77 years, and today was 7/7; this is Murray’s seventh year as a pro, and he and Djokovic were born just seven days apart—the headlines played with the moment. “It’s Amazing That the Country’s Fortune Lies in a Scotsman’s Hands,” said one. A fan pronounced, “He’s going to make Great Britain great again,” while another countered, “Why does someone else’s performance make us better?”
Who knows? What tennis wonks wanted to find out was who had the upper hand. After all, there was little to distinguish between the two power baseliners, who both possess superb two-handed backhands, deep returns, great wheels, and an uncanny ability to turn defense into offense. Djokovic was No. 1, had a winning record over Murray, and had recently beaten him in the Aussie Open final. But he’d suffered many crushing losses since his sublime 2011 season, had endured that grueling semi, and would be going against the tide of history, the upward arc of Murray’s career, and a frenetic crowd.
“Come on, laddie,” called out one Centre Court voice. “Laddie, come on.” And the Scot did.
Twenty minutes into the tense battle, on his seventh break point opportunity no less, Murray shoveled a sweet backhand to an open court to break the Serb and go up 2-1. Djokovic quickly broke back. But in the seventh game, on Djokovic’s serve, Andy scored with a brilliant backhand and then gladly watched as Novak donated three groundie errors. He soon used his potent serve to close out the first set, 6-4.
Ladies in cream-colored summer dresses and gents in straw hats roared. There were hopes their man could sweep to victory. But Nole is Nole. A sublime game manager, limber in body and mind, a tough competitor with the best return of serve in tennis, the Serb rarely goes away.
Djokovic promptly stepped up his game, took the initiative, attacked Murray’s serve, and prevailed in many long, captivating corner-to-corner points as he swept to a 4-1 second-set lead. It was, at times, modern tennis at its best.
But just as the Serb raised his level, so too did the Scot. With a strong return of serve and a brilliant crosscourt forehand, he earned yet another break point, which he converted thanks to an inexplicable Djokovic double fault.
This would be a match characterized by sublime movement, and gritty battles within the overall war, but little momentum. Deep in the second set, Murray again pulled away at crunch time, blasting a 125 mph ace to go up 6-4, 7-5.
Suddenly, one sensed that the tide of this fierce battle had turned, that a critical mass had at last been reached, that all of Henman’s collapses and the nation’s decades of sporting mediocrity could be put aside, as Murray’s slow, often painful rise would at last yield a sublime Wimbledon triumph.
Surely in tennis heaven (if there is such a thing), the ever-irascible Fred Perry had to be offering a wry smile. For after just two hours, a Scotsman, apparently on a date with destiny, seemed to have the match firmly in his control against a foe who was playing sub-par ball. Maybe Djokovic’s frequent errors, hazy intent, and suspect decision-making (for a start, he relied on his drop shot too often) was due to fatigue from his marathon semi, or the 100 degree temperatures. Or maybe no single soul, not even a fierce gluten-free Serb with a penchant for Buddhism, can turn back history. Then again, maybe Andy Murray—with his crafty coach, dedicated team, wise mother, upbeat girlfriend, and the support of an adoring nation—was a man ready for his moment.
It certainly seemed that way when he continued his winning ways in the third set to go up 2-0, 30-0. But Djokovic countered with three inspired groundie winners, flat and lethal. Then he prevailed in athletic scramble points and broke twice to lead 4-2. But Murray was now brimming with belief. His storm of intent in full force, he raced back to win three straight games and reach the tipping point.
“Murray, Murray, Murray!” chanted the throng, including a Scot in a red-and-green kilt. Andy responded with a brilliant sprint and took advantage of Novak’s errors to gain three Championship points. Bliss!
But wait, remember Murray’s mantra from last year’s Wimbledon: “I’ll try, but this isn’t going to be easy.” It never is with Andy. So one-two-three, he promptly squandered his trio of Championship points.
“Oh no, not now.” You could feel the collective fear.
But Murray later explained, “I always said winning Wimbledon is the pinnacle in tennis … [And] the last game almost increased that feeling. If I had closed it out at 40-love … I worked so hard in that last game. It’s the hardest few points I’ve had to play in my life.”
Murray also said the key to his success is to persevere through high expectations and low losses, much like his nation. Both man and nation were now on the brink of history. Murray, running with a confident muscularity, blasted a dashing forehand winner to gain his fourth Championship point. And then the Serb blinked as a simple backhand drifted into a welcoming net.
An almost otherworldly rush of triumph—stunning and disorienting—swept across the dazed Scot, the stunned stadium, and the relieved land. Seventy-seven years of futility were washed away by a man’s brilliance. It was a long journey to a fated moment. From Centre Court to Henman Hill to delirious pubs in Dunblane, Scotland, wide-eyed youths and bemused elders alike knew that an indrawn, at times sullen Scot and his 6-4, 7-5, 6-4 win had brought the kingdom joy and redemption. And what could be more odd and quirky, at this most odd and quirky of all Wimbledons, than an actual victory for a land that had so long endured defeat and worshiped loss?
