Ode to a Grouchy Scotsman
I watched Andy Murray from the bunk bed of an AirBnB after I had moved to Kuala Lumpur in Malaysia.
I watched him on my phone in Uni lectures, and listened to commentary in the library when I should have been studying.
I watched him at home in Aberdeen and Edinburgh and Manchester.
I watched him on holiday in Italy and Cornwall and America.
I watched him win his second gold medal against Juan Martin del Potro in a pub round the corner from my flat.
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I heard confirmation of his first Grand Slam triumph on the way to swimming training at 5 in the morning.
I stayed up too late and got up too early to watch him.
I watched him on trains and hotels on work trips.
I watched him cry when he’s won and cry when he’s lost, with a metal hip and without a metal hip, as an angry young man and a slightly less angry older man.
I watched him beat Novak Djokovic, beat Rafa Nadal, beat Roger Federer, and watched him be beaten by them.
I watched him win three Grand Slam finals and lose eight more. I’ve watched him as the best in the world, and as a creaking man in his late thirties, losing comprehesively to men half his age, playing on only out of a manic love for the game.
I watched Andy Murray for more than fifteen years, and that’s more than he needed to give me.
