Ladies and Gentlemen, it is that time of the year; Wimbledon. So hunker down, grab a liberal lashing of strawberries and cream and welcome to centre court the competitors for our first match of the day.
First, please, a round of applause for Great Britain’s Andy Murray.
Twenty-five years old and ranked number four in the world, Wimbledon 2012 is his time.
Long anointed as the best player to have never won a grand slam event, the 6ft 3” lion-hearted talent from Glasgow is ready to propel himself into the dressing room of champions.
With millions in prize money up for the take, one would imagine that oysters and champagne will be the order of the day. All that money, that is what matters; after all, it is what makes the world go round.
At least for most it does.
Twenty million in career prize money, he is made. That Andy lacks for nothing goes without saying. A condo here, a condo there, all that hard work, it sure paid.
Not for Murray the trappings of obscene wealth. There has to be more, for he is no fat cat.
Financially set up for life, there is plenty of time to enjoy the spoils. Those spoils, though, would taste decidedly better accompanied by a host of grand slam titles, particularly that local delicacy the British have not feasted on since 1936; Wimbledon.
But now is the hour and after a seventy-six year odyssey, the British - having done battle with the tennis gods of faraway lands that are the breeding grounds of the wicked - have sent the chosen one.
With a ready supply of heavy artillery available to bombard anyone foolish enough to block his path into greatness, nothing can stand in the way of the best of British. It is not just a case of assault and battery. For sure, if Murray wishes, he can use the weaponry at his disposal, but unlike many a modern day player who know no other way than to belt the cover off the ball he also has the capacity for the deftest of stroke making.
His foe could be sent this way or that, usually the opposite to where the ball is at.
Oh so infuriating it must be for that field of pretenders to know that they are up against a Tennis genius. One that will pull out shots that will rescue the day whenever is required.
A talent for sure, he’s a fighter too. In it till the end, he is the fiercest of competitors. No matter the dilemma put in front of him, Murray will battle to find a solution. Sure, it will not always go his way, but champions are fighters and fighters are champions. That is what they do; fight, come what may.
And now, would you please extend a warm welcome to his competitor, Scotland’s Andy Murray.
Yes, it may take him awhile to get to his courtside seat as he slowly slouches his way onwards due to an ongoing battle with a troublesome back. But do be patient with the Scot, for life has never been easy.
Twenty-five years old and ranked number four in the world, Wimbledon 2012 more than likely will not be his time.
The talent is there, but which will win out? The breathtaking talent he so clearly possesses or the demons that swirl around in his head which seem to regularly supersede any valuable commodity in the form of a stoic mental outlook.
Those said demons might go some way to explaining the three grand slam finals to his name, and yet not a set won.
Not his fault, mind, as there are a multitude of reasons for things to go wrong; racquets, balls, weather conditions and the like.
But support is what a twenty-five year old desires.
Which is why, in his courtside box, he has brought with him a welcome party of extras that include his Coach, person trainer, doctor, physiotherapist, masseuse and, of course, his Mother.
And what normal adult doesn’t need his mother at his side. Along with a record number of others, it must be very helpful to have such good people in one’s camp, to search out in between points for reassurance. After all, why do your own thinking when you can lean on another’s expertise continuously. It is much easier that way. You see, taking responsibility for oneself is a novel concept in today’s society.
And why should Andy be any different? If it is good enough for others to avoid the real world, why shouldn’t he? No need to stand tall, battle on and think on one’s feet as he maturely attempts to fight the ravages of his given situation, when it is so much easier to sulk around the court muttering and cursing darkly to himself on the desperation and unfairness of his lot, feeling sorry for oneself and blaming everyone else.
So, who is going to win out?
Will it be the angst ridden Scot or will that Scot transcend into the free flowing Brit who has the world at his feet with his vast array of limitless shotmaking possibilities that he parades before an adoring crowd who cannot help but roar their approval.
I have no idea. How about you?