Authors: Andy Murray
I was there when he earned his reputation for being anti-English
and it was a complete joke. In both senses. It was during an interview
with a journalist at Wimbledon 2006 when England were preparing
to play Paraguay in the World Cup, and the whole thing was just
good banter. We were laughing and giggling. I was teasing him about
the Scots not being there, and when the journalist asked Andy who
he would be supporting, Andy said: 'Anyone that England's playing.'
Before you know it, someone's picked it up as though he was being
serious and that kind of thing is a pain in the arse. It's a joke. Why
can't people take a joke?
I don't need to tell you that that sort of thing is where the press
can shoot themselves in the foot, because all of a sudden a player like
Andy isn't going to give as much, especially when things like that keep
happening. He'd been through it before in Adelaide that year when
he said after a match that he and his opponent had been serving 'like
women'. He meant they had both dropped their serves a good deal,
which happens in women's tennis. It was a joke, no more than that,
and suddenly they're having phone-ins on BBC Radio.
In 2008, he was taking flak again for pulling out of the Davis Cup
tie to Argentina. That was a little bit different because I thought it was
just badly handled. If Andy's knee was bad, then his knee was bad and
that should have been the end of the argument. However, at the
time, his brother didn't know anything about that and that was rough.
At a slightly different level, when Federer and Nadal pull out, they
say straight out: 'I'm not playing' and that's their prerogative. That's
not to say I necessarily agree with their decision – I played for twelve
years before I pulled out because my body was falling apart – but it
is still
their
decision to make. They say: 'No, it doesn't fit into my
schedule' and that's that. Andy's entitled to say that too. If, for
whatever reason, he doesn't want to play, he should say so and let
the right people know in time. I thought the way the whole story
unfolded became a bit messy.
You do have to remember, though, that he's twenty. I was in
exactly the same boat regarding public relations at his age. Would a
better relationship with the press have made me a better tennis
player? No, so I wasn't interested. Could it have made my life a little
bit easier? Yes, I think it could. But you don't see that at twenty.
You're not interested. That's why I think it's important for the people
with experience around you to guide you. They don't have to change
him, but a little guidance at this stage can go a long way. I'm talking
with hindsight, though. At the time, you go with what you think is
best. It's only later, maybe ten years down the line, you think: 'Maybe
I could have developed things differently,' but you just don't know it
at the time. Isn't that life?
Likewise, Andy would be naïve and silly to think he knows everything
about tennis already. I look at his game and I see some things
he is doing so well now and I think: 'Brad Gilbert told you that twelve
months ago.' I look at his serve. He's standing up to the line, cracking
it into both corners and that's a huge weapon. Brad was keen on that,
but for whatever reason it took its time to get through. That's the
reality of dealing with a strong-willed kid.
I remember myself at his stage. It's very difficult when you've gone
from being 800 in the world to 400 to 150 to 29 to 17 and then
people come along and tell you to do things differently. You think:
'Hang on a minute, I'm not bad the way I am.' You look at your
progress and say: 'If it ain't broke don't fix it.' Andy's listening to
people telling him what to do and he's saying to himself: 'I rate myself.
I think I'm pretty good and those results aren't bad either.'
It's tough for a coach. Dealing with your own children is hard
enough, but dealing with someone who is not only young but also
one of the best players in the world is never going to be easy. Maybe
that's why I won't go into coaching. Maybe. But never say never.
I wasn't surprised when he split with Brad. It was a huge clash of
personalities. It was unfortunate the way their relationship was
managed because Brad is one of the best coaches in the world, no
doubt of that. His knowledge of the game is second-to-none, but his
personality is sometimes not that easy to gel with. The fact they were
spending so much time together – breakfast, lunch, dinner 24/7 – was
difficult. It's hard enough with your wife, let alone your coach. When
you've got personalities that different, there was never going to be
dull moment – but to focus on the positive, look what they did
together. In eighteen months Andy's game came a long way, he had
a string of great results and he reached the top-10.
It has all happened so fast and he hasn't even learned to play
backgammon properly yet. He's rubbish at it.
And
he's a little slow in
paying his debts. It's true, the tale he tells about the backgammon set
I wouldn't buy him for his birthday. I'd seen it – a small wooden travel
board – in a shop and I was going to put a card in with it saying: 'Get
some practice. You need it!' But when I went in to buy it, I was told
it cost £500. I thought: there's no way I'm spending that on him, I'll
get a plastic one. I don't mind spending £500 on the right person, but
not some whippersnapper.
But I have to admit his potential as a tennis player is enormous. The
way I look at it now, Federer, Nadal and Djokovic are the top three
players, in the world but then there's the chasing group and Andy
pretty much heads that. It makes me laugh when people say
accusingly that he hasn't yet won a grand slam. How many has he
played? He'd been in eight up until the start of 2008. Look at Federer
and how long it took him. He played seven before he reached his first
quarter-final. He played sixteen before he had his first win at
Wimbledon in 2003.
Patience is a word that people are not very keen on, but I don't
have any worries about Andy's future possibilities. He beat Federer in
Dubai in early 2008 and a reflection of how well he served is that he
did not face even one break point. That tells you that you're serving
pretty damn well. He's so good when he's proactive like that rather
than reactive. He can react as well, because he's a very good athlete,
but if the ball's there to be hit, hit it. He is doing it more. The modern
player, someone like Jo-Wilfried Tsonga who beat him in Australia,
possesses the fire-power to hit you off the court so you can't keep
running and running. It's hard if you haven't got the artillery to
compete, but Andy's got it. He's got all the shots. So why not use
them? I have no doubt that with (his) time and (our) patience, he'll
learn to use his game to maximum potential.
I'll watch him with interest. You won't catch me at the French and
US Opens, but I am sure I will be at Wimbledon in future to see him.
I'll sit in a comfortable seat on the Centre Court and just be grateful
it isn't me out there any more. I had no idea how nice it would be to
get away from it all. In all those years I played Wimbledon I never felt
there was a burden on my shoulders, but after my last professional
match, the Davis Cup tie against Croatia at Wimbledon, I went for a
long walk with our dogs, Bonnie and Bumble, and I felt a weight had
been lifted from me after all. I was so relaxed. I'd never known life
without it before. It was the absence of weight I was feeling.
I cannot tell you how much I have enjoyed life after tennis, being
at home with my family, playing golf, having a few holidays, without
looking over my shoulder at the next training session. Everyone said:
'Oh, just wait, you're going to get itchy feet,' but I have to report it's
not happened so far. Maybe it will, but all I feel now is this real sense
of freedom. It might be normal to most people, but I'd had such a
structured life – tournament, practice, dinner, match, hotel, flight for
thirteen years – it was unknown to me.
So that's why I was so happy to hand over the baton/flag/crown,
whatever it was, and he can count on my whole family to be
some of his best supporters. My oldest daughter, Rosie, knows who
Andy Murray is. She remembers when he twisted his ankle at
Queen's. She was very upset at the time for him and whenever she
sees him now, she says: 'That's Andy Murray. How's his ankle?'
If Andy ever does win Wimbledon, it won't be a bitter-sweet
moment for me. Good luck to him. I've had my time. If he wins a
grand slam, it won't make me a worse tennis player. There are a few
guys I would rather didn't win because I don't like them, but I'll always
support him. We still text message each other all the time, especially
when Greg Rusedski was performing during the winter of 2007 in
ITV's
Dancing On Ice
. Andy and I are pretty united in our certainty that
we would never, ever appear on a programme like that. Put it this
way, there's as much chance of me writing an autobiography as doing
that.
There is no final piece of advice I'd offer Andy, unless he asked me
to. It is his life, his career Anyway, how can you improve on what I've
already told him. 'Keep your head down and enjoy it!'
It was probably a bad idea when I opened my mouth after a
tennis match and said: 'I think we both played like women.' I
just didn't realise how bad at the time. This was the start of
2006, my first full season on the tour, and I was excited by the
possibility of building on the achievements of the previous
year. I was not far off the World Top-60 in the world, the
Australian Open was coming up and I was playing a warm-up
tournament in Auckland, with a first-round match against
Kenneth Carlsen of Denmark.
I'd never experienced a match like it. I haven't since. It
was unbelievably windy and we just couldn't hold serve.
There were seven, maybe eight, consecutive breaks before I
won 7–5 6–2. Immediately afterwards, I was asked if I would
do an on-court interview and I didn't think anything of it.
'What was going on with all those breaks of serve?' the
interviewer asked me and out it just came: 'Yeah, it was
tough, really windy. I think we both played like women in the
first set.'
It was one of those comments you just throw out there. The
crowd went: 'Ooooohhha-ha-ha', the sound of mock-shock
turning into a laugh. I finished the interview and was
applauded off the court. It was all fine.
The next thing I know, I am being woken up the next
morning with phone calls from radio stations demanding to
know if I'm sexist. People were now reporting that I'd been
booed off the court when it couldn't have been more the
opposite. The crowd had been laughing with me and they
certainly clapped me off. There were guys from the British
press there who saw and heard the whole thing. They knew
what had really happened and yet the reports continued to say
that I'd been booed. It was lies, complete lies.
I couldn't believe it. I'm not sexist. I just made a little joke.
It wasn't meant to offend anyone. And, anyway, it was a fact.
Girls do get their serves broken more than guys. It wasn't
saying it was a bad tennis match. I was saying we both had our
serves broken a good deal, which happens in women's tennis
because they cannot serve as hard as the men.
It wasn't in the same league as Richard Krajicek, the
Dutchman who won Wimbledon in 1996 and scandalised
women's tennis by saying: 'Eighty per cent of the top
hundred women are fat pigs who don't deserve equal pay.' He
corrected himself later after an outcry: 'What I meant to say
was 75 per cent.'
I was beginning to learn that telling one of my little jokes
didn't always have the right effect. For some reason, the world
thought it was a big deal. I didn't know what to do. Perhaps I
was too young at eighteen to understand what was happening.
I couldn't really work it out. I thought what I'd said was quite
funny and yet some sections of the media thought that made
me a sexist. How can I be a sexist with a mum and a gran like
mine?
I suppose I was learning all the time about the way fame
works. Everything is fine for the first few months when you
burst on to the scene. Then it suddenly twists and people are
trying to find an angle on whatever you say. Your opinion
starts to matter on things, even if you're a teenager playing
tennis matches with no idea of any another agenda. A couple
of things can be said and blown out of all proportion.
Suddenly, you're portrayed as a really controversial person,
just because you tried to have a little bit of fun.
Maybe not surprisingly, I lost in the next round against
Mario Ancic and then my coach and I moved on to Australia.
I didn't arrive in the best of moods. I was still upset and
mystified by the way I'd been treated in Auckland and the next
thing to happen was a press conference to discuss the Open
draw. Not much could go wrong there, I thought. I hadn't
played a match yet. I was wrong again.
In the first round I had drawn Juan Ignacio Chela, the
Argentinian ranked eleven places higher than me, but all
anyone wanted to talk about was Lleyton Hewitt, the local
hero, who I might have to play in the second round.
Hewitt was a fantastic player and former Wimbledon and
US Champion, but I couldn't understand why I was being
asked about something that clearly might not – and did not –
happen. 'So it's Lleyton in the second round?' 'So how do you
feel about playing Lleyton in a night match?' everyone seemed
to be asking. I felt like saying: 'What are you talking about?
Chela is an unbelievably good player. I'm not even expected to
win that match and you're all talking to me about Hewitt!' I
think I did say something like that. My mood was now even
worse.
Then I went out and got killed by Chela. I played really
badly and lost 6–1 6–3 6–3. Looking back, I am not at all
surprised. I was still worked up about all the sexism business
in Auckland. I didn't know if I could trust the press any more
and then I felt they had unreasonably expected me to win
against a player as good as Chela.
It wasn't their fault I lost the match and if you look back at
what I said during my post-match press conference, I didn't
say it was their fault. What I did try to express was the
difficulty I had with unreasonable expectations. I said: 'If you
guys expect me to play well every single match and every
single tournament, then it's not going to happen. You guys
are expecting me to win matches like this. The guy's ranked
nearly twenty places in front of me. He is a much better
player than me. It is difficult for me to go out there and try to
perform to the best that I can when I'm expected to win all
these matches.'
It wasn't a rant. It was a plea for a little understanding.
Someone pointed out that I'd had nothing but good press since
I had arrived on the circuit. I thought about all the criticisms
about my fitness after Wimbledon, all the coaches who had
queued up to say I wasn't so good after all and the recent fuss
in Auckland, and found I couldn't really agree.
'Well, if you think that, then I'm obviously going to disagree
on something,' I said. 'If you guys don't think you're putting
pressure on me, then that's fine. I'll forget about it.'
I received some bad press after that, but I think they
understood me a little more. I do not look down on other
players. I do not get ahead of myself. I've noticed I don't get
asked about future opponents any more until I've actually won
my matches. With hindsight, it was probably wrong, what I
did. I shouldn't have said all that. But it was honest. That is
how I was feeling at the time, especially after the injustice of
the things that had been written in Auckland.
None of the press ever apologised to me for the lies that were
written about that incident. That didn't seem right to me
somehow. If I do something wrong I hold my hand up and say:
'Look, I'm sorry. I was wrong to have said it is difficult to play
when there is so much expectation on me.'
It was such a shame, in a way. To me, at eighteen, it was
hard to discover in Auckland that if you try to be yourself,
show a bit of personality and make a little joke, some people
will try and make you look like an idiot for it.
That was when I stopped speaking to the press as freely.
When I first did press conferences, I used to enjoy them. Later,
I felt they could be a trap. There are not many other walks of
life where you are expected to sit in a room full of people
immediately after some major event in your career, sometimes
a miserable one, and answer any question on any subject.
Lawyers don't have to do it after a bad loss in court. Journalists
don't have to do it when they get sued. Basically, no one is put
through the same thing. Even footballers are protected by their
managers, and if they do meet the press it is usually just to
answer one quick question and then they're free to go. Tennis
players do it after every single match. I reckon in any one year,
I have to give a hundred press conferences.
I now realise you have to be so prepared. The only thing I
can do if I want to make a little joke, is crack that joke
about
the journalist who is asking the question, which the other
journalists might find funny. Then it's all kept between four
walls.
Tim Henman led the way. I absolutely understand why he
behaved like he did with the press. It was a wise move. It's just
so much hassle if you make a flippant comment and it gets
blown into a huge story. It's not fair. That might seem a
slightly childish thing to say, but if people had to watch their
own innocent remark being turned into a global news story,
they would might be a little bit more understanding.
It is a bit of a shame that I have to sound more boring than
I really am, but if it saves me hassle that's fine. Sport is not a
popularity contest and if it means that I can concentrate more
easily on playing well, rather than constantly explaining
myself, I'll do it. Once a story is written you can't change it.
Better not to give them the story in the first place.
I don't want to sound as though I don't realise the media
have a job to do. I do get on well with quite a few of the British
tennis writers. It just seems to me that some of them take their
job to a different level, and that they have no sensitivity as to
how it hurts people. It would definitely affect me – if I was
going to tear someone to pieces in the course of my work, I
would feel horrendous. I wouldn't be able to look them in the
eye. I'd never speak to them and I'd go out of my way to avoid
them through sheer embarrassment. However, what seems to
happen is that they write their piece without any warning and
when they see you the next day, they say: 'Hi, how are you?'
as though nothing at all has happened. Perhaps I am being
naïve, but that doesn't seem right to me.
I suppose this horrible start to the year could have derailed
me for quite some time. Instead, something that went way
beyond my immediate ambitions caught me by surprise. I think
it caught everyone by surprise: my coach Mark Petchey wasn't
even there.
Just a couple of days before I was due to go to San Jose for
the start of the American hard-court season, Mark said he
couldn't come with me to California. So at the last minute I
asked my girlfriend, Kim, if she could come instead – and that
explains the famous 'kiss' pictures that were splashed all over
the newspapers when, still aged eighteen, I won my first ATP
title. At least, it was a good story this time.
The tournament was being held at the home of the San Jose
Sharks ice-hockey team. I remember it because, just as you
walked on to the court, there was a big sign that read: 'Hard
Work Beats Talent When Talent Doesn't Work Hard.' It was a
lesson I had long-since absorbed and one you can never afford
to forget.
I didn't play like the guy who would win the tournament in
the first couple of games of my first-round match against the
American, Mardy Fish. I went 0–2 down really quickly. I was
a little bit uptight because Mark wasn't there. But from then on
I started to play really well and winning 6–2 6–2 made me feel
so much more relaxed. Now, everything seemed to suit me. I
often played late matches well into the night which meant
having room service with Kim and a late wake-up call. I am
more of a night than a morning person. I felt wonderfully
chilled all week.
The exception came in the quarter-final when I played Robin
Soderling again, the Swede I had beaten at Wimbledon and
later in Bangkok in that landmark match when I finally
reached the World Top-100. You couldn't call it a grudge
match, but we don't really get on very well and things became
argumentative. Both of us received a warning from the umpire
and it was a little bit ugly for a while.
I should have lost, that is for sure. I was down 4–6 and then
1–3 and as I was fighting to turn things around we had this
massive row about a line call. He hit a ball down the line and
the line judge mistakenly called it out. Then the umpire overruled
and we had to replay the point. I could see why Soderling
was angry because his shot was on the line, but I had been in a
really good position to play a passing shot, so I was a little bit
annoyed as well.
He went up to the net to argue with the umpire: 'How could
she call that ball out!' I walked up to the umpire and
complained that it was a tough place to over-rule because it
was on the back edge of the baseline. Soderling turned on me:
'What the fuck are you complaining about?' That started the
row, and it was the best thing that could have happened to me.
I was really fired up and then channelled the adrenaline to
mount a comeback. I am sure that's why I went on to win the
match. That was a satisfying victory.
In the semi-final, I was playing Andy Roddick, who was
ranked third in the world at this stage. By coincidence I had
practised with him for the first time in my life the day before
the match. I had never seen his famous serve first-hand before.
I wasn't terrified because my return is the best part of my game.
It took me a little while to get used to it but I learned how to
handle it pretty well. The method wasn't complicated: just take
the sting out of it and put the ball back in the court.
I wasn't nervous. Why should I be? He was third in the
world, I was ranked 50-something. I wasn't expected to win.
Five or six games into the match, I felt just like I had against
Nalbandian at Wimbledon the year before. 'OK. I know how
to win this match,' said a voice in my head. Against
Nalbandian my body didn't hold up. This time it did. I won
7–5 7–5 and did not once lose my serve. I think Roddick was
shell-shocked. Put it this way, he broke a racket in the locker
room after the match.
This was my first win against a top-10 player and now I was
playing in my first ATP final, against Hewitt, the opponent-that-never-was
in Australia. He wasn't as huge as Roger
Federer or Tim Henman in my mind, but I still felt a little
strange to be playing him and I started off pretty badly. It
wasn't that I thought I didn't deserve to be there, but there was
still something of a fantasy about the whole situation. I lost the
first set 2–6 in about twenty-five minutes and he must have
thought the rest of the match would follow that easily.