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In the space of 12 months we have witnessed the nation’s greatest Olympics, its first ever winner of the Tour de France and now, in Andy Murray’s crowning as Wimbledon men’s singles champion, the greatest hoodoo of all blown apart in glorious, giddy style.
London 2012 gave us Super Saturday, that dizzy procession of Olympic golds that might never be topped. This was Surreal Sunday, a day many thought they would never see and one that seemed scarcely real even as it was unfolding.
Men have lived and died waiting for a British man to win Wimbledon, so let us note for posterity how it finally came about — a forehand from Murray deep into Novak Djokovic’s backhand corner, a weary reply into the Centre Court net.
After 77 years of waiting, no one knew quite what to do. So long has this moment been dreamed of, so often has it seemed impossible, that the magnitude of it all threatened to overwhelm both Murray and his adoring public.
This title has been the lost ark of British sport, the holy grail thought gone for good. For it to be reclaimed in straight sets, just as it had last been won by the great Fred Perry, was the final bewildering twist in a tournament where so much made such little sense.
Neither, despite that seemingly straightforward 6-4 7-5 6-4 scoreline, could the ending be anything but tortuous. At 40-0 in the final game Murray lost first one championship point, then another, then another. — BBC Sport.
Online Reporter