An Ode to Andy Murray

Andy Murray is the Wimbledon champion. He is an Olympic gold medallist and the reigning US Open champion.

He is a hero. He is a fighter. A brave warrior returning with the spoils of war. A triumphant boxer with arms aloft. The victor astride his vanquished foe. He is Muhammad Ali. He is Obi-wan Kenobi. He is Joan of Arc and John McClane.

He is Scotland. He is kilts and Irn Bru. He is Mel Gibson. A golden eagle soaring majestically above the rain-soaked meadows of our adoration. He sees us all. And he knows.

He is Great Britain. He is the Queen and Winston Churchill. He is Freddie Mercury. David Beckham’s right foot. A large pitcher of Pimm’s.

Andy Murray is the smell of freshly cut grass. He is the first delicious sip of ice-cold pear cider in a beer garden at 5:30 on a Friday evening in June. He is the breeze that gently caresses you as you wade through the dense summer heat. He is the low B on a five-string bass guitar.

He is the final word of the essay. He is the joy of popping bubble wrap. He is a single blade of grass bursting out between two concrete slabs. He is the triumph of life over adversity. The first daffodil of spring and the last leaf to fall in autumn.

He is a half-remembered childhood friend. An old, tattered picture book that smells like stale biscuits and Ribena. He is a simpler time. An elegant weapon for a more civilised age.

Andy Murray is an enigma. He is an ill-advised adolescent haircut. A long-forgotten, half empty bottle of Lipton Iced Tea left to languish under the passenger seat of a 1998 Ford Ka. He is the housemate that never leaves their room. The ever-growing mountain of washing up. The unidentified smell in the corner of the kitchen when you return after the holidays. The mystery stain on the ceiling.

He is a small child, leaping between the sofa and the chair – like a strutting male mountain goat bounding from rock to perilous rock – avoiding the sizzling lava carpet below as if it were social normality and he, Boris Johnson. His blue-grey eyes dance with a simple, carefree joy as his tousled, mouse-brown hair waves excitedly at the plastic chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and for a moment, just for a split-second, he is flying. Everything is possible. He is an immortal in a world of his own creation.

His mother, as ever, watches on from a distance.

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