MY EARLIEST memory of cheering for Andy Murray was in 2010. It’s unclear to me how I became a fan and why it happened at that point. He was only ranked 4 in the Men’s Singles Rankings, and a far No. 4 at that, coming after Novak Djokovic, Roger Federer, and Rafael Nadal.
That season also saw the likes of Thomas Berdych, touted as the next hottest tennis player, and John Isner, who figured in an epic 11-hour match at Wimbledon. Besides, Murray was portrayed as miserable and obnoxious, a dour fellow. The joke was, Murray is Scottish when he loses, and he is British when he wins. (He got the ire of English sports fans when he was barely 20 years old. He was asked who he would be supporting at the 2006 World Cup, a question meant to tease him because Scotland was not part of the football finals, and he replied, “anyone but England.”) Not a lot of love was thrown his way.
In a sense, my choice for a tennis idol went against the norm. Unusual though it may seem, it made for many thrilling moments in my life.
Tennis can never be boring. For the spectator, different senses are employed, from seeing the outfits and the aces to hearing grunts and curses, head turning left and right in every rally, hair tingling at the first sign of victory. There’s jumping and screaming, lots of “let’s go Andy!” but also standing up and standing in a corner, eyes closed as if in a prayer. Even at dawn (in Manila) while everyone’s asleep, you feel alive.
You also feel the weight of the game. Out there in the clay, grass, or hard surface, singles players are exposed to injury and mental strain. If they lose, they cannot just retreat to the locker room and hide. Instead, they are called to the center, to face the hostile or home crowd and explain why their opponents played better.
As a Murray fan, those emotions hit even stronger. Andy was temperamental in court. He was not consistent. His matches stretched to five sets and tiebreakers, sometimes lagging at two sets down. There were long rallies and matches ending at 4 in the morning (in real time). It seemed that he could win only by doing it the hard way.
The thing is that’s probably why I got hooked on him. He was tough. He was persistent. He was a realist. He endured the doubts and accepted the pressures of the Big 3 and the ghost of Fred Perry. He survived. He won. And along the way there was plenty of magic.
I can never forget the last thirty seconds leading to his first Wimbledon title. Or his Wimbledon runner-up interview the year before it. “Charming, articulate, and gracious.” For an athlete who was branded as stoic, Murray connected with the public. His love for the game, his pain and even his childhood trauma in Dunblane, his appreciation for his team and the people watching, these were fully revealed, and he was embraced for it. Even his sponsor took a shot for him. After he won the 2013 BBC Sports Personality of the Year, Adidas released a tweet, “not bad for a man with no personality.”
Did I feel vindicated? Perhaps, but the sentiment was so much more. Being a Murray fan in the era of Roger and Rafa evoked a different sensibility. There was pride in believing despite the odds. There was a bit of masochism for the torture that came when seeing him play.
Now that Murray has retired, what’s next? Once he finished his last professional match (at the 2024 Paris Olympics), he was quick to describe himself as “I played tennis.” Recently, he added, “I now play golf.” Classic Andy. That mix of self-deprecation and openness to possibilities. As for me, I think it would be hard to enjoy tennis without him. It’s a sport celebrating the individual, and it won’t be so simple to find another player I can be curious about. Still, the future need not be so dreary. I can learn from Murray and follow his lead: I loved tennis. Now I can look for the next thing./PN
