'%20x='0'%20y='0'%20height='100%25'%20width='100%25'%20%0A%20%20%20%20%20%20%20%20%20%20xlink%3Ahref='data:image/jpg;base64,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'%3E%3C/image%3E%3C/svg%3E)
13th March 1996 - The quiet Scottish town of Dunblane.
Thomas Hamilton walked into the Dunblane Public school with two 9 mm Browning HP pistols, two Smith and Messon M19 .357 Magnum revolvers and 743 cartridges. He made his way to the gymnasium and opened fire on a Primary One class of five- and six-year-olds, killing or wounding all but one person. Fifteen children died together with their class teacher, Gwen Mayor, who was killed trying to protect the children. Hamilton then left the gymnasium through the emergency exit. In the playground outside he began shooting into a mobile classroom injuring a further eleven children and three adults.He returned to the gym and with one of his two revolvers fired one shot pointing upwards into his mouth, killing himself instantly.
Trending
Meanwhile, an eight year old Andy and his older brother Jamie, were on their way to the gym. Having heard the gunshots, they hid under a desk in the headmaster’s study, in a room adjacent to the one where the shooting took place. They were perhaps too young to understand the whole event. But, Andy remembers being devastated. He remembers being told how lucky he was. As he would later put it, he could easily have been one of the seventeen victims.
Little would you imagine that a kid once spared by destiny would one day be marked for greatness…
5th August 2012 - The quiet English town of Wimbledon.
The Center Court at Wimbledon is a heady place. There is the Champions Locker room still rich with the memories of John McEnroe, Jimmy Connors, Pete Sampras. Then, there is the walk from the locker room; the corridor lined with framed photographs of all former champions, the trophy cabinets displaying the symbolic equivalents of victory and defeat, and as if to maximize the intimidation, right at the entrance, over the doorway are the Kipling’s famous words
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same.
But Andy Murray wasn’t willing to take advice today. It was barely a month ago that he had played his heart out on the very same court and yet at the end, met the wrong imposter. He knew exactly what disaster felt like and he knew he couldn’t treat it ‘just the same‘. Sport in a rare gesture of generosity had given him a chance to right his wrongs and he wasn’t ready to squander it away.
So he played, played like a man possessed by the scent of victory, unflinching in his focus, unremittingly aggressive, refusing to let the action be dictated by his superior opponent. The pressure of the occasion that would consume him before propelled him today. In front of a vociferous English crowd (there was one confused fan waving a Brazil flag in the front row though) he smothered Federer, never gave the Swiss an opportunity to sneak back into the match. There are times in tennis when the final score is deceptive, when it makes a hard fought match look like a meek surrender. This wasn’t one of those. When the scoreboard read 6-2, 6-1, 6-4, it pretty much told the story. This was Andy Murray at his brutal best.
For a tennis fan though, more than the gold medal itself (this would eventually end up on the neck of his rather amused pet dog), this match offered glimpses of a player who had finally broken through, proof that the agitated outsider had finally found his peace. Here’s why I think we have discovered a new champion.
The mind set. For years he was the embodiment of a chippy Scotsman, grouching and grumbling his way through the tournament when he was not clutching some body part in agony. He would often border on disinterest, generously throw slangs into the open air and at times of desperation shout at the players box as if his team was supposed to fetch that cross court forehand. But at the final, there was composure. He did display frustration a couple of times, admonish himself now and then like he does ever so often, but never lost sight of the end. The irritation of a bad shot didn’t spill over into the next point. He bent his head and started fresh. Now, considering that a majority of Murray’s problem was with his attitude on court, this sure is a sign of brighter days ahead.
His game itself. He always had amongst the best backhands in the game and possibly the best backhand slice. His second serve was a potent weapon and his court coverage was good enough. But, what he did not have was a brilliant first serve and the confidence in his forehand. His forehand would breakdown often and on many occasions was the prime suspect in his faltering at the big stage. When he came into the Wimbledon final, he brought an advanced version of his earlier game, Andy Murray 2.0, if you may. His forehand was largely improved and he was using it with greater authority than ever before. He still didn’t have the best first serve in the world, but was clocking numbers that were good enough to win against the best. At the Olympic final, he looked refined.
Purpose. For a long while Murray gave the impression that he played the game only as an obligation towards his outrageous talent. The game was great, exceptional even, but the fiery eyes of Nadal, the absolute focus on Djokovic’s face or the assured confidence in Federer’s demeanour, that was missing. He came across as a restless young man constantly in a battle with himself. He was confused when he said he would support anyone who played against England at the World Cup. Now, he seems to have found his peace. He seems to have come out of the state of stern non revelation that he maintained. When he cried in front of the English crowd in Wimbledon after the heartbreaking final, and thanked his fans with all sincerity, he seemed to have found a worthy enough reason to play the game. At the Olympic final he was the picture of a man who knew what he wanted. The medal should strengthen his resolve.
When all is said and done, it’s only upto him where he goes from here. It is possible, especially when the breakthrough has come after such a long struggle, that he might a get a false sense of having achieved his quest and in a moment of relaxation slips quietly back to his old self. It is possible that the Grand Slam might elude him eternally, that he will still falter on the big stage and retire a great talent who never lived his destiny. But I for one wouldn’t be putting my money on that.
