By Blair Henley

Photo Credit: Murray Sanders

(July 9, 2012) -- I’ll admit it: As Andy Murray gave an incredibly articulate, heartfelt, even humorous speech after losing to a seemingly impenetrable Roger Federer in the Wimbledon final, I cried. I cried because, as an athlete, I felt his pain. And I cried because I felt guilty for staunchly refusing to cheer for him in his quest to capture a Grand Slam title. I felt guilty for assuming that his perpetually sour expression meant he was a perpetually sour person. And I know I wasn’t alone.
 
The fact is that with his inspired, gritty performance over the past two weeks at the All England Club, Murray accomplished one of the most difficult things in sport -- he managed to sway popular opinion in his favor.
 
That’s not to say that Murray was without fans. He is a hero in his hometown of Dunblane, Scotland, and he’s certainly popular with the many British folks who see him as their only hope (by default) for any semblance of tennis glory.
 
But throughout his seven-year professional career, Murray has had a knack for looking defeated before he actually is. The frequency with which he appears injured on the court is always in direct proportion to how badly he’s losing. Loser’s limp, if you will.
 
Take last month’s quarterfinal French Open loss to David Ferrer as an example. Murray looked positively tortured during the match, at one point exclaiming, “I’ve tried my tits off!” He repeatedly grabbed at his oft-injured back before finally submitting to Ferrer’s clay court supremacy.
 
Performances like that have tainted the public’s opinion of Murray. It certainly hasn’t helped that he’s not a particularly smiley fellow, and that his llama-like physique (thicker on the bottom, long neck, tiny noggin) makes him somehow seem fragile.
 
Instead of focusing on how well he must consistently play in order to even occasionally be mentioned alongside three of the game’s best in Novak Djokovic, Rafael Nadal, and Roger Federer, I fixated on his seeming inability to get the job done.
 
But as he took the court against Federer Sunday, I began to realize just how difficult, perhaps even unfair, the 25-year-old’s lot in the tennis world has been. He’s unfortunate enough to play in the same era as the Big Three, but he’s also missing, by no fault of his own, the natural magnetism that those top three players possess.
 
He’s not Roger Federer with every lock of chocolate brown hair tucked perfectly into place. He’s not Rafael Nadal with biceps and brawn. And he’s not Novak Djokovic with inexplicable bravado.
 
Instead he’s a deceivingly good athlete who, despite looking like he just rolled out of bed, wants to win just as desperately as the rest of them.
 
It’s fitting that Andy’s new coach, eight-time Grand Slam champion Ivan Lendl, was also misunderstood in his day. Earlier this year U.S. Davis Cup coach Jim Courier poked fun at Lendl’s lack of humor and questioned his motives for returning to the game. Whatever his reasons, Lendl has undoubtedly helped his charge toughen up.  
 
It’s funny, then, that Murray endeared himself to the world at the moment he surely felt the least tough and the most vulnerable. After failing to become the first British man to win Wimbledon since 1936, Murray tearfully thanked his family and the crowd, the pent up emotion of a pressure-packed, two-week tournament overflowing.
 
“Everybody always talks about the pressure of playing at Wimbledon, how tough it is,'' he said. ''It's not the people watching. They make it so much easier to play. The support has been incredible, so thank you.''
 
I’m not sure any of us (except, perhaps, Tim Henman) can understand what it has been like to walk in Andy Murray’s Adidas shoes. The burden to prove himself would no doubt suffocate most of us. But after his performance Sunday, I’m confident he’ll get that Grand Slam eventually. More importantly, when he does, he’ll have the whole world cheering him on.