The time I was death stared by retiring Wimbledon champion Andy Murray - Britain's greatest-ever sportsman
It’s the least surprising announcement in the entire history of everything, but still has the power to stop me in my tracks and spark a reverie of reminiscing.
And that includes the time I was death-stared by Andy Murray – Britain’s greatest-ever sportsman – who has finally called time on his brilliant career.
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Hide AdIt’s a girn Murray displayed often, usually directed at his box, but really aimed at himself, and will almost certainly have featured in his 2012 Australian Open semi-final, a five-hour, five-set defeat to Novak Djokovic.


Just a few days later we met in Edinburgh when he and brother Jamie were helping their mother Judy launch a sports initiative based on the indoor fun ’n’ games she dreamed up for her sons in childhood – essential for a puddle-soaked country such as Scotland with its heavily-cratered courts where tennis dreams are often only that.
How can I put this? Murray was still growing into his looks. How I put it that night was he was a dead-ringer for Napoleon Dynamite, the bed-headed, gangly geek of that cult movie who trumps his school bullies with his insane body-popping at the end-of-term show. Murray didn’t know the film, but long-time PR Matt revved up his phone for a clip. That’s when I was treated to the scowl.
It didn’t last. The banter between the Murrays was fast, funny and, really, just lovely. Andy played down any suggestion he was one of these annoying all-rounders. “I can’t swim,” he said, to Judy’s astonishment. “Or at least I swim a bit like a seahorse, legs at right angles to the rest of me because all my weight’s in them and there’s no fat.”
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Hide AdAs we parted, I asked which infernal saga would conclude first – Hibs, for whom he’d been a ballboy, finally hoisting the Scottish Cup or him at long last triumphing in a major. He replied: “The latter, I think, and definitely this year.”
He wasn’t wrong, keeping us all up to 3am to watch the doing down of Novak Djokovic – his sometime bully, or at least the opponent most likely to deploy dark-arts gamesmanship – at the US Open. Then quickly Murray beat him again at Wimbledon, the hoodoo-smashing victory I watched at my in-laws in south-west France where all the expat English preferred Tim Henman for his pressed whites and good manners and simply didn’t get Murray’s sardonic wit (fools, all of them!).
In 2016 I was at Wimbledon for his next Slam. Journalism isn’t a job on days such as these, but a privilege. Murray was magisterial and magnificent and, as he concluded that year as world No 1, we wondered how many more majors there might be.
I was at every Wimbledon after that. I winced as his racket had to become a crutch. Feared the end must be nigh. Marvelled at his comeback. Contemplated his obit – as a towering competitor at least – following another relapse.
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Hide AdI laughed at the knockabout entertainment of “Murrena”, the dream doubles with Serena Williams. Marvelled – again, and even more this time – at those 5 per cent robot displays with the metal hip. His last, great hurrah in SW19 was in 2021. His matches were scheduled for primetime TV, every one a blockbuster.
Late-night deadlines were nearly missed as almost every shot – for him, never a sleek swish and always a superhuman effort – dangled us over the precipice. But Andy, it was an absolute honour.
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