An amazing day; or, Andy Murray makes a nation swoon

Today, Andy Murray won Wimbledon.

I shrieked, I yelled, I swore all over my Twitter timeline, where every shot was greeted with howls of anguish or whoops of joy. Stanley the Dog yowled and barked and leapt in the air and all but hid his eyes with his dear paws.

The level of skill from both players was sublime, but the fierce heart of the Scottish lion prevailed in the end. No-one, I wrote, with my fingers shaking, no-one deserves this more.

People from other nations must be slightly baffled that dear old complicated Blighty took such a long time to take such a stellar, gutsy, determined sportsman to her heart. I don’t fully understand it myself. He is adored now, no question, and he should be, but it’s been a rocky road.

Four years ago, I wrote a long blog about Murray, before one of his dogged, failed attempts at the Championship. I’m too worn out with emotion now to write a blog, so I thought I’d put this up instead.

From 1st July, 2009:

The currently agreed narrative on Andy Murray is to do with his Scottishness. Last year, he was excoriated in the press for being a ‘sour-faced Scot’; worse than that, he was, apparently, dour, petulant, chavvish, and petty. Oh do grow up, the columnists and message boards shouted with one voice. Now, there are the tiny green shoots of a wary liking for him, the tentative possibility that he might be a True Brit after all.

It turns out that whole supporting ‘anyone but England’ remark about the World Cup was a joke. It took a very long time for anyone to believe this, despite Tim Henman and the journalist who asked the question patiently explaining it a hundred times. The belief that Murray had no sense of humour was so strong that no one could credit the idea that he might have a capacity for irony.

Still, the Scots/English divide dies hard. No one much likes to talk about it in daily conversation; ‘remember the clearances’ is not going to lead to happy chat around the dining table. But the moment a sporting event takes place, all the old prejudices put on their glad rags and go out on the town to do the fandango. ‘I see the chippy Scots are out in force,’ remarked one contributor to the Guardian comment boards this week. (The Guardian! What happened to their bleeding hearts?)

Despite the fact that the knockers are conceding that Murray has grown up, cut his hair, and learnt some manners, the Scottish thing lingers, like a pea under the mattress of every princess. According to the papers, the moment he loses, which could be in under three hours from now, he will be a Scot again, his honorary Britishness swiftly revoked. Everyone will mutter clichés under their breath and start talking of the West Lothian Question.

Well, I live in Scotland and love it so much that when I am away from it I miss it like a person. One of the men in my local butcher does give me a funny look when I ask for neck of lamb, but I choose not to believe it is because I do so in an English accent. I resist patriotism as the last refuge of the scoundrel, but despite this, every time Murray wins a match there is a tiny cheer for Scotland in my heart. Yet it is more than sheer chauvinism that makes me love him, and love him I do.

I think the reason that people did not warm to him for so long has nothing to do with him being a Scot, that was just a convenient basket of bigotry in which to carry their dislike. I think they did not like him because he did not need them. He refused resolutely to resort to charm. Almost everyone now in the public eye attempts a little bit of charm, so when none if forthcoming it can come as a jarring shock. 

There was a hint of the Susan Boyle phenomenon in the early days: Murray did not look the part. Compared to the smooth Tim Henman, Murray was all rough and no diamond. Newspapers called him ‘snaggle-toothed’ with casual cruelty, complained about his hair, his skin, his general gawkiness. When the absolute fury that he directs against himself when he plays a bad shot leaked out into on-court swearage, he was accused of throwing tantrums. He was not sweet and beautiful like Beckham, or courtly and polished like Steve Redgrave. He did not tick any of the sporting hero boxes.

In my cussed way, I find all the things that people dislike in him only add to my love. I like it that his will to win is so extreme that he can think of little else. (Interestingly, it is this that makes other tennis players admire him; ‘he just really wants it,’ said John McEnroe last week, with a doff of the cap from someone who really knows about tantrums and desire.)

I like that he does not schmooze and oil up and read from the prescribed script. I am in awe of his work ethic: he practises for hours on end; runs, pumps weights and does mad feet-off-the-ground press ups to build up his physical fitness; he plunges himself into terrifying ice baths for a reason I cannot fathom. His dedication to his game is complete. So what if his after-match interviews are not festivals of schmooze?

Oddly though, away from his playing persona, a completely different Murray emerges. I saw a clip of him being interviewed on Jonathan Ross; he was laughing his head off, not a hint of dourness in sight. At home, he likes playing frisbee with his dog (massive points in my book, due to incurable canine bias), has a steady girlfriend for whom he buys presents on impulse, and goofs around with his coaches.

Despite his reputation for rudeness, he took the time in the middle of one of the most high pressure tournaments of his career to send out a little tweet thanking the staff at his local Pizza Express for staying open late on Monday night so they could cook him a pizza. I call that both thoughtful and polite. ‘He is our hero,’ said the pizza man, with staunch lack of equivocation. (When this was reported by the Associated Press, the writer could not resist observing that it was a plain old Margherita, appropriate for a man ‘who has been criticised in some quarters for lack of personality’. Go get your own damn personalities, I say to those quarters.)

After his victory at Queen’s, the first thing he did was not preen for the crowd or pose for the cameras, but run over and give his mum a big kiss on the cheek. Petulant, schmetulant. He is also endearingly self-deprecating, a trait the British are supposed to adore, but seem to have overlooked in this case. When asked about the letter of good luck he received from our great Britannic Majesty, he did not showboat about it. ‘That was very nice of her,’ was all he said.

Still, even if he were the dour, awkward chap of popular myth, I think I would still like Andy Murray. When he plays one of those impossible cross-court running forehands, it comes as close to poetry as sport ever can. Even I, knowing nothing of tennis, can see the beauty in it. I think he puts every atom of energy he has into his game, so there is nothing left over for playing public relations.

He likes the crowd, but you suspect he can do without it. There is a sense of self-containment about him, as he stretches himself to reach the heights he craves. I think he is a purist, and whether he wins or loses this afternoon, I salute that in him.

The absolute absolute glory of Sprinter Sacre.

Would really love to write a whole blog about this glorious day, but I am so wiped out, from emotion, and from cantering about Prestbury Park like a wild pony, that I have no strength left in my typing fingers and no coherence left in my addled brain.

It was lovely.

My friend Emma who runs HorseBack laughs every time I use that word, and we have a pact that each moment I chance it in serious HorseBack UK literature it must be stricken from the record. But today, it is the very mot juste.

I did win some more money, which is always handy, and would make my dad laugh, from his spot in the grandstand in the sky. I had Sprinter Sacre in a variety of doubles and trebles with Quevega and Hurricane Fly, so both the Irish and the English did me proud.

But, as always, it was not that which made me cry and brought me joy. It was, as I said to someone earlier today, the beauty.

Sprinter is a very beautiful horse, huge and gleaming and bonny and astonishingly well put together. He is getting the look of eagles, which my mother always says the great ones have. But even that is not quite it. It’s not just that he is magnificent to observe, walking quietly round the pre-parade ring, or cantering down to the start.

It’s the beauty of what he does on the course. It’s the wild, glorious, effortlessness of how he leaps over those fierce obstacles, as if they were nothing. It’s how he cruises past really good horses, making them panic and struggle and look second-rate.

I can’t remember who first said he was like a big black aeroplane. Barry Geraghty, perhaps, who has the keen privilege of riding him. But whoever it was, they were right. He does not run; he soars. He flies like a bird in the sky.

And that is why I clapped and cried and yelped, and turned round to complete strangers and said, Oh, oh, was that not beautiful?

And the complete strangers smiled and nodded, and said: Yes. Yes, it was.

Sorrow and glory and all the emotions in between

I wake, and think: it’s Frankel day. Of course, in my mind, every day is Frankel day, but today we shall see him out on the downs at Goodwood, with only the plucky Farhh willing to take him on. Farhh is not a mug, but it’s a long way from the Thirsk Hunt Cup to tackling the best in the world. He’s a good, tough horse though, and a trier, and his heart has not been broken by Frankel, as I suspect Excelebration’s has been. It’s very sporting of his owners to run him, and he’ll chase the champion home with gusto.

Every time I write of Frankel, I try to express why he thrills me so. Today I think: it’s the purity. There is no weak spot, no caveat, no question mark: there is just sheer, untrammelled glory. Even the best horses have off days; Frankel never does. He is never, ever less than blastingly brilliant.

He has never been beaten in his life; he does not know what defeat looks like. He is beautiful and mighty, every inch of him speaking of power and grace. His dancing stride is the most astonishing thing I have ever seen on a racecourse. Crowds stir and murmur when they see him, awed in the face of magnificence, and then explode into cheers of acclaim. His jockey, Tom Queally, says that he has never sat on a horse who wants so much to win. I hate to use the word machine about a delicate, complex thoroughbred, but Frankel is a pure racing machine. It is a privilege to be alive to see him.

This afternoon at 3.10 he will complete his latest victory lap on the rolling green turf of Goodwood, and if Shakespeare was a racing man he would say that gentlemen in England now a-bed shall think themselves accursed they were not here.

As for my own dancing champion, she is as happy as a nut, because her back has been soothed, and the nicest woman in Scotland arrived to fit her saddle. The moment the perfect bit of kit went on her, Red breathed out a sigh of relief, and came the nearest that horses ever can to a smile. Life lesson, because she always teaches me life lessons: attention to detail. The small things can make a huge difference. ‘How lucky you are in your work,’ I said to the saddle fitter; ‘you go about the country making horses happy.’

Out on the water, two great women won the first ever British gold medal in the women’s rowing, soaring away from the field and winning in a hack canter. I felt again the absurd national pride; I felt proud too that it was women who got the first gold for Blighty. Mrs Pankhurst would be happy, I thought. (The mazy wanderings of my mind are often not really fit to go out in public.)

Suddenly, this morning, I missed my father so much I did not know what my name was. I don’t know why, but he is with me a lot at the moment. Perhaps it’s all the equine life. Perhaps it was watching Tina Cook yesterday, and knowing how she lost her own father in February, and how proud and pleased he would have been to see her win a silver medal on her lovely horse. Perhaps it’s just what happens.

I am not sunk in melancholy, I am mostly fairly cheerful. My heart is filled with wild, untamed love for my mare. The family are gathered; both brothers here, which never happens. The garden is blooming. I have Frankel to watch. But sudden, swamping tears came in the field this morning. I had to walk away from the mare. This is not her stuff, I thought; I must not dump on her. I have a strong feeling that one must never demand of horses what they cannot give. They do not exist to please or fix humans; we are here to care for and tend to them. But she was particularly sweet and affectionate after I recovered myself, and even though that was probably coincidence – when she has her sweet moods, they are quite entrancing – I felt passionately grateful to her. I really wish my father could have met her. I think he would approve.

And now I return to the glory part of the day. If there were a racing Olympics, Frankel would win all the golds. Horses may not be here to please us, but this one has the capacity to lift the most burdened heart. His great, galloping hooves will leave imprints on the memory of everyone who watched him. He is the essence of greatness, distilled in gallant equine form.

 

Today’s pictures:

I love Red when she has this slightly wild aspect:

And the Pigeon, all grace and stillness:

The hill:

And the mighty champion:

Lovely photograph sadly uncredited.

Frankel

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

I am going to attempt a little mobile blogging, because there shall be so much to tell you. Sadly, no pictures though. You shall just have to paint mind pictures of Red and the Pigeon until I return to my desk.

I sit in the lovely London flat of a generous relation, hardly able to believe that only fourteen hours ago I was sitting with my mare in her damp Scottish field. In my absurdity, I had to rush up to say goodbye before catching the train south. She was lying down when I arrived, dozing. I know I bang on about it all the time, but horses are flight animals; it is very, very rare for them to lie down in the presence of a human. Often, they do not lie at all, but sleep standing up, their heads lowered, one eye flickering, just in case of predators.

I walked in very softly, not wanting to disturb. She was not disturbed. I sat down next to her in my London kit, and gave her some nuts, and stroked her dear white face. She was still lying there, contemplating the universe, when I left.

Tomorrow, there shall be another wonder horse, of quite another kidney. Frankel is so wild and majestic that he has been known to trash his box, pulling the manger off the wall, turning his rug inside out. Someone has to go and check on him at ten at night, to make sure he has not been up to his emperor's tricks. No dopey lying down for him.

I've written about Frankel so often that I scrape the barrel for superlatives. His bald figures are enough: never beaten, top-rated horse in the entire world. The not being beaten thing is extraordinary enough on its face. Even the best horses have an off day. Sometimes they don't get the luck in running; the ground might not be right; the jockey may make a tactical mistake. The mystery of the thoroughbred is such that racing people have a good, honest expression for it. They say: he just did not run his race. No one knows why.

Frankel always runs his race. He runs it with such power, such exuberance, such glory and joy that he puts himself into a category all his own. His dancing, raking stride eats up the turf, making fine horses look ordinary. He has a singularity, a fired determination, a straightness in running that makes watching him feel like poetry. It is elemental, and beyond mere prose.

Tomorrow is the first time I shall see him in the flesh. It is the first time I shall hear the roar, sense the crack of electricity in the air. Usually, when a horse I love goes out to do his thing, I hedge the race about with caveats. Anything can happen in racing, I say. This time, I have no caveats. If Frankel gets beat tomorrow, I shall eat my hat. Which shall be fatal, since I only have one hat.

He is the reason that I have travelled five hundred miles, even though I hate to travel. He is the reason I have left my dear little Pidge with The Mother, and left my gorgeous mare dozing in her field. He is the reason I shall put on my damned hat.

I am very, very lucky to be alive to see him. He is one of the few we shall all remember, when we are old and crabbed.

If you are near a television at two-thirty tomorrow, switch on BBC1. Unless something very terrible happens, you shall see history. You shall see a king, in all his glory and pomp. Let us hope the hat goes in the air, where it belongs.