Another year has come around and the kids down my street are already belting illuminous balls at anything and everything……It must be time for Wimbledon!
Wimbledon is now embedded within the psyche of this country, as a place where hopes and wishes are placed on someone who is statistically incapable of making the final.
This year is different, very different. Andrew Murray is Henman 2.0! he has a fighting chance, of meeting the demands of a wishful nation and have strawberries and cream raining down on centre court.
I must admit that I’m not a huge tennis fan, however when Wimbledon appears on my screen and Sue Barker is looking exactly how she did one year previous.
Boris Becker et al will no doubt analyse and reminisce over tournaments from here and now, hinting to Murray’s potential without suggesting blatent bias.
I have no doubt that by the time the weekend comes I’ll be fixed to the television, and my online tennis revision will be reiterated amongst friends and different pubs.
That’s how it should be, I can’t swing a racket, let alone run around in the debatable English heat. Nevertheless, my appreciation will grow for the sport until the replays at 2 in the morning will become a must, despite the busy day ahead.
The newspapers will ripple with optimism and speculative hope, shifting the football transfers to the inside of every broadsheet. Tennis will rule over all sports on every news channel. Essentially the whole country will go nuts for a couple of weeks and the likes of Andrew Murray will be shoved to super stardom until of course the inevitable poor performance will be broadcast live and then thats the cue for us to pounce.
Synicism will then arrive on a bullet train of media hatred bringing the crowds the pound of flesh that they require, the crowd whom a day previous were considering to name their unborn child Andrew, or at best Murray.