inside the mind of Andy Murray
Andy Murray's hopes of lifting his first major were thwarted by defeat yesterday in the last 16 of the US Open to Croat, Marin Cilic.
I like Andy Murray. I don't think he's a dour individual. I think he's a very talented tennis player who is focused and determined. I admire the fact he coped with being sent to live in Spain at the age of 15 to improve his tennis.
Occasionally, I have even stalked him by scanning his Twitter stream. Yes, it's genuine.
I'm not a pathetic 'Little Englander' who hates Andy Murray simply because he once said 'anyone but England' on radio 5 during the 2006 World Cup. I thought it was a funny response during an amusing exchange of banter with the interviewer, fellow Scot Nicky Campbell, and his English friend, Tim Henman. Each and every one of my Scottish friends would have said precisely the same thing.
Since my own lad started playing junior tennis at a competitive level, my admiration for what Murray has already achieved (No.2 in the world) has increased ten fold. However, the real reason I believe Andy Murray will win a major tennis tournament in the not too distant future stems from an incident a couple of years ago.
I was watching my son play in a junior Surrey tennis competition held at the National Tennis Centre in Roehampton. I was walking around the 22 courts, admiring the excellent facilities and killing time before he played his first match.
I walked along a balcony overlooking four, immaculate indoor courts. Andy Murray was warming up with his coaching team. They were playing keepy-uppy with a tennis ball and generally messing around. As word got round the complex that Murray was present, a small crowd of aspiring young tennis players and their doting parents gathered to watch.
I was surprised at the sheer number of people in the Murray entourage. After ditching Brad Gilbert, Murray now employs Miles Maclagan (coach), Matt Little (strength and conditioning coach), Jez Green (physical conditioner) and Andy Ireland (physio).
Once the warmup was complete, the laughter stopped and Murray started doing serious tennis drills. He was rallying from the baseline with his coach. I watched in awe as he repeatedly and monotonously hit shots from the baseline low and hard over the net.
Each shot was powerful and landed just within the baseline or even on the line. I soon realised that that's why tennis players knock up (or 'hit') with fellow proferssionals. Most mortals or even decent club players would be incapable of taking part in this drill.
Murray continued his exercises. He didn't acknowledge the people watching. In fact, I'm pretty sure he wasn't even aware of our presence. He was solely focussed on hitting that ball.
Another rally started. Murray continue to hit ball after ball low and hard over the net. Occasionally, he'd readjust his position to reach to a shorter or wider shot but he kept on returning the ball. Slowly but surely, the pace of the rally and the variety of shots increased. Now Murray was exerting himself but he kept on hitting balls back like a machine - low and hard, each shot just skimming over the net at great speed.
Finally, the rally came to an end when Murray netted a baseline shot. He shouted 'Oh - for fuck's sake. COME ON !'.
Some of the parents assembled on the balcony looked aghast and told Jocasta to shield her ears from such Scottish profanity and gently suggested it was time to get a drink while I just continued to watch on in admiration.
why Rugby Union is a complete joke
I like most sports but I hate rugby union with a passion for the following reasons:
At (Grammar) school, I was forced to play rugby because it was somehow viewed as 'character building'. On a cold, wet autumn day, a sports master took one look at me and grunted 'You. Second row'. I then proceeded to grab the crotch of the boy in front of me while a boy behind me grabbed my crotch. I then had to insert my head between the thighs of two boys in front of me.
If the scrum didn't collapse, which meant we had to start the prolonged mating ritual all over again, eight lads would eventually extract our body parts and look across the wet, muddy field in the hope that someone was running somewhere with the ball. Of course, this never happened and the sports master would be screaming 'Scrum it down, 'ere' so we would have to run to the prescribed point (the only exercise we got all afternoon) and start all over again. Brilliant, 'character building' stuff.
At University, the Union Sports bar was notable for one thing only. It was only hostelry out of the 27 available that was open during the early afternoon hiatus between 2pm and 4pm. Consequently, we spent a lot of time there - not because we played any competitive sport representing the University but because we liked to drink all day long, if at all possible.
Our long, wide ranging philosophical discussions were often interrupted (particularly on a Wednesday) by people standing on the tables, singing bawdy songs, loud and out of tune. As the afternoon proceeded, various items of clothing would be discarded until they were fully naked, singing their stupid, crude rugger bugger songs while we discussed urgent, pressing, important matters of global interest (which bar should we adjourn to next). That was just the women's first XV - things only got worse when the blokes arrived fresh out of the showers,
And the final reason that rugby union is a complete joke - the disciplinary code
- Spear tackle (holding someone upside down and smashing their head into the ground which could potentially kill them) - no action.
- Eye gouging (twisting your fingers hard into someone's eye socket which could result in the loss of an eye surprisingly enough) - 8 week ban.
- Feigning injury to seek a tactical advantage - 4 month ban for player (reduced from 12 months after digging the dirt), 3 year ban for coach, 2 year ban for physio, £260,000 fine for club.
grunting at Wimbledon
Sorry but I just can't help myself.
Wimbledon match report
On Friday, Norman Junior III and myself loaded up our picnic hamper, packed the cool box with brightly coloured Bacardi Breezers and set off for SW19.
We had been lucky enough to get tickets for Wimbledon tennis in the public ballot last year but, thanks to the English weather, we only saw grey skies and 63 minutes of play. It was scant consolation that we saw Maria Sharapova in the flesh. OK, I'll admit it - that was a massive consolation !
This year, we applied again in the public ballot and we got lucky. Very lucky. We were allocated Centre Court tickets for Friday 4 July, the day of the Men's Semi Finals. Or as those posh stewards from the Wimbledon Championships prefer to call it, the 'Gentleman's Singles'
We used my own private and exclusive 'Park & Ride' scheme which entails parking on a residential road and walking through Wimbledon Village, admiring the beautiful people, en-route to Wimbledon Tennis Club on Church Road.
After clearing security, ('No sharp objects just ham & cheese rolls') we wandered around the outer courts which were hosting doubles and junior matches. We saw the world's sporting journalists and TV crews setting up in the media centre, had a look at Aorangi Terrace - sorry 'Henman Hill' - sorry 'Murray Mount' and gazed at hundreds of people, soaking up the sun and the atmosphere, preparing to watch matches on a very big screen.
Norman Junior asked why Wimbledon was charging a staggering 85 pence for a Toffee Crisp and £2.60 for a bag of Maynard's Wine Gums. I told him it was so the LTA can pay off the rest of Brad Gilbert's contract and finish the retracting roof.
At 12:30, we took our seats on Centre Court and were delighted to discover we had brilliant seats on row 10, to the left of the umpire's chair, bathed in brilliant sunshine.
Roger Federer against Marat Safin was the first match and Federer did indeed look impressive in his cream cardigan, with five gold embosssed buttons (signifying the number of his Wimbledon triumphs). Federer beat Safin in straight sets and he's an awesome player. It must be soul destroying to play against Federer as the guy never seems to make a mistake and barely seems to be exerting himself. Safin tried manfully but rarely looked like breaking Federer's serve and, after losing a second set tie-break and smashing a racket on his chair, Safin understandably lost heart and Federer triumphed 6-3, 7-6, 6-4.
After a quick break to play 'Spot the Celebrity' in the Royal Box (Prince Michael of Kent, Des Lynam, Michael Parkinson and Trevor Macdonald), it was time for Rafael Nadal. When Norman Junior III asked me for my prediction, I loudly said 'It will be close but I'm going for Schuettler in four sets' which drew some puzzled looks from our immediate neighbours.
Nadal is a big man and taller than I imagined. He is very strong, athletic and muscular. In fact, I think he has muscles on top of his muscles. Nadal swept into an early 3-0 lead after breaking the serve of the German, Rainer Schuettler. The game looked like it could be an embarassing, one -sided affair but credit to Schuettler who actually broke Nadal's serve and was on top in the second set. Nadal came back though and levelled to take the set into another tie-break. Inevitably, just like Federer and like a true world class sportsman, Nadal went up a gear and won the tie-break (and the match) easily.
We finished our cheese and cucumber sandwiches, drained our flask of tea, cracked open our packet of Wine Gums (60p from Asda), took some more photos and watched one set of Mixed Doubles (Jamie Murrary) before making our way home to try to (successfully) spot ourselves on the TV highlights.
Obligatory photos (with captions) here