karlpejera: Andy Murray thrills late-night Wimbledon crowd by beating Baghdatis

Sabado, Hunyo 30, 2012

Andy Murray thrills late-night Wimbledon crowd by beating Baghdatis

Late-night Wimbledon crowd behave as if they are in the mosh-pit at a Take That concert as they see Andy Murray win

We'd been here before with Andy Murray, these late-night sittings. Stanislas Wawrinka 2009, Ivan Ljubicic 2011: we'd held his hand as the evening stretched out ahead of us, requiring epic concentration from him and, from us, a little tighter bladder control.

So the fans on Centre Court knew what was expected of them. As the roof folded back across a purpling sky, they pulled out bobble hats and hoodies. They checked the last train home. And some of them decided to miss it anyway. Even a number of those who'd sat out the Cilic-Querrey epic headed straight for the resell booth to get in on the action.

Murray's match had begun in a rather jaunty atmosphere; at 9.30pm it took on a strained, more serious tone. The lights expose and harshen the scene, and the roof does something to those famous Centre Court sounds ? amplifies them, traps them, darkens them. Even restrained applause sounds like hailstones on the windowpanes of a stately home; once Murray was closing in on the match, his eyes steely and his body sensing the kill, the noise was utterly raw.

We knew we were in for a spectacle from the beginning. Murray's very first point against Marcos Baghdatis was a stunner of volleys and impossible retrievals; the first game had lobs, drops, 360 degree turns on the baseline; the first set, everything in the sweetshop. This wasn't the grinding out of points, this was play. It was dance. The players were peppering the ball back from all over the grass. One rally, at 2-2 in the second set, segued into a short tennis game of ever more cleverly spun drifters. There was sliding, skipping, rolling around on the floor. Ilie Nastase, in the royal box, must have been thrilled, but you felt for the poor groundsmen who have to tidy this place up for the Olympics.

Baghdatis had smiled a lot. Murray smiled less, but, well, he's Murray, and to be honest when he flashes the gnashers it's sort of scary. And it felt, somehow, that he, and we, had grown up. He has pecs, for a start. We've started referring respectfully to Kim Sears as his 'partner', rather than his girlfriend. We've stopped shouting 'C'mon Tim!' when he plays (I've been told there are even websites where you can post pictures of offenders and out them, to their eternal shame).

And we no longer hang our hopes on his coathanger shoulders, in near-hysterical fashion, as if nothing but a Wimbledon champion will make our lives complete. Maybe it's the after effect of the Jubilee or the anticipatory thrill of the Olympics. (Witness the generally fair-minded and rational response to England's exit from the Euros. No national flagellation, no inquests.) Considering the surplus bunting currently available, you'd have expected Centre Court to be decked out like Margate High Street: but there were only a couple flags draped round shoulders, and that looked like it was for warmth. Everything just seemed less, well, fraught. One woman in the crowd was even knitting.

That was before the roof. It changed the complexion of everything, even the royal box. It had sat relatively empty at the start of the match ? a group of panama hats occupying the chairs as if their wearers had been disapparated, Harry Potter style, where they sat. But as the match proceeded, some of the box's clutch of sporting legends returned ? which had included Jack Nicklaus, Dame Kelly Holmes, Ryan Giggs ? and remained fixed points, revelling in the combat.

Baghdatis took the second set. Murray looked wilder. He yelled. He pointed at his own head and screamed. At times it felt like things were getting out of control, becoming almost surreal, like when the ball kept hopping in and out of Murray's pocket. By the end, the two competitors were slugging at each other, their groundstrokes hit with desperate ferocity, and what had seemed like play was becoming a deadly duel. The crowd's handclap, when Murray called for Hawk-Eye, sounded like bloodlust. Baghdatis was still smiling, but it was a weary smile. Murray went 3-1 up, 4-1, 5-1, and suddenly it was 11pm, and the umpire was agreeing to one last game, and the sound that went up from the crowd was like something from the mosh pit at a Take That concert.

Of course, this being SW19, it was also a self-policing sound, and was soon overtaken by a wave of "shhhh" as their champion stood to serve one last time. By the match-winning point, the scoreboard couldn't keep up. It didn't matter. The crowd had had their day ? and so had Murray.

Emma John