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Of all the sports writing I've devoured since Andy Murray's triumph at Wimbledon, Barney Ronay's article in The Guardian has perhaps best encapsulated the giddy height of his accomplishment...
"It is a genuinely gold-standard achievement for the man from Dunblane, given weight not just by the burden of history and the folkish annual summer romance of Wimbledon itself, but by the fact he is competing in one of the great periods of elite men's tennis."
Indeed, Murray has won the most coveted prize in tennis at a time when, as Billie Jean King recently put it, the sport boasts possibly the four greatest players ever to grace the game - Nadal, Federer, Djokovic and Murray himself.
Yet, despite this undoubtedly remarkable feat of sporting excellence, it is the reference to a 'folkish summer romance' I find particularly interesting.
For isn't it true that the annual fortnight of lawn tennis at the All England Club brings with it a very peculiar strain of English behaviour? It cultivates a quasi-religious fervour in those who have barely a passing interest in tennis for the remaining 50 weeks of the year.
For isn't it true that the annual fortnight of lawn tennis at the All England Club brings with it a very peculiar strain of English behaviour? It cultivates a quasi-religious fervour in those who have barely a passing interest in tennis for the remaining 50 weeks of the year.
On the eve of the final they find themselves inexplicably queuing overnight, not for tickets, but for the chance to perch on a proximitous patch of grass, officially called the Aorangi Terrace but also taking on the mythical monikers of Henman Hill or Murray Mound (I prefer to call it Bates' Barrow, a tongue in cheek reminder of the desperate era when Jeremy Bates was our great British white hope - Bates never progressed passed round 4).
So why this bizarre form of mass hysteria?
So why this bizarre form of mass hysteria?
In clement weather the All England Club takes on a guise of the ultimate garden party, with those lucky enough to attend initiated into an intimate other-world, replete with sporting colossi and celebrity glamour but also stamped with Royal approval. It symbolises a very English sense of propriety and privilege, the grounds dressed in politely disarming whites and greens but also purple - the colour of Royalty.
For so many in the middle class majority, it seems Wimbledon allows them to transcend the divide between their own social status and that of the elite.
As much as I love the BBC, it portrays and fuels this same self-aggrandisement delivering a relentlessly gushing celebrity sycophancy, punctuating the pauses in play with shots of the rich and famous.
It's part of a somewhat callous mystique that surrounds Wimbledon, pervading the general discourse continually. You can hear it when your mother calls the evening after the final, conversation momentarily happening upon the sporting prowess on display before quickly turning to an in-depth sartorial analysis of those in the Royal Box.
It makes its voice heard again when 'Beeb' presenter John Inverdale remarks on ladies champion Marion Bartoli not being the best 'looker'!
It veritably screams at you when, following Murray's final victory, the headline on the front cover of the Daily Mail reads not "Champion" nor "He's done it!" nor even a histrionic "Our hero" but instead opts for the following... "Now it'll be arise Sir Andy". How galling that potentially being bestowed a Queen's Honour is given more import than the skillful artistry of the sporting achievement itself?
It veritably screams at you when, following Murray's final victory, the headline on the front cover of the Daily Mail reads not "Champion" nor "He's done it!" nor even a histrionic "Our hero" but instead opts for the following... "Now it'll be arise Sir Andy". How galling that potentially being bestowed a Queen's Honour is given more import than the skillful artistry of the sporting achievement itself?
Yet, even though I suspect he would accept such an honour gracefully and is certainly happy to channel the heady energy of the Centre Court crowd to his own advantage in a match, what makes Andy Murray such a fascinating character is that he always appears one step removed from the madness around him.
Of course, the clambering English public disliked this fact initially, they want to submerge him in all that Wimbledon represents to them, they want him to get recklessly caught up in the hazy summer vibe, to ultimately validate their own sense of occasion.
Indeed Murray's tears after last year's final loss to Federer temporarily gave them the chink in the armour they craved. Suddenly the relationship between player and public thawed. However, that outpouring of emotion was momentary, no longer relevant after the claiming of the US Open confirmed that Murray's career need not be defined by Wimbledon alone.
To Murray's credit he seems aware of the ongoing circus surrounding him, batting away the wild interview questions with a disregarding pragmatism. Some still choose to interpret this as a stereotypical dourness but it's nothing of the sort. He simply won't play their games nor pander to their pandemonium.
It is that feature of his personality which allows him to shed the burden and, despite overwhelming pressure and expectation, find a way to win.
Of course, the clambering English public disliked this fact initially, they want to submerge him in all that Wimbledon represents to them, they want him to get recklessly caught up in the hazy summer vibe, to ultimately validate their own sense of occasion.
Indeed Murray's tears after last year's final loss to Federer temporarily gave them the chink in the armour they craved. Suddenly the relationship between player and public thawed. However, that outpouring of emotion was momentary, no longer relevant after the claiming of the US Open confirmed that Murray's career need not be defined by Wimbledon alone.
To Murray's credit he seems aware of the ongoing circus surrounding him, batting away the wild interview questions with a disregarding pragmatism. Some still choose to interpret this as a stereotypical dourness but it's nothing of the sort. He simply won't play their games nor pander to their pandemonium.
It is that feature of his personality which allows him to shed the burden and, despite overwhelming pressure and expectation, find a way to win.
For Murray is, undoubtedly, a winner, and though in many ways the English love him for ending 77 year wait for a British male champion, there's a small but significantly dark corner of their collective psyche that resents him a little too. It suggests that he'll always be somewhat of an outsider. After all, winning just isn't English is it? Then again, neither is Andy Murray.
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