You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.™
Breakfast at Wimbledon.
I’ m watching the Roger Federer versus Andy Murray finals and the pressure is palpable.
Roger Federer is the favorite. He is a champion many times over. He is expected to win.
He is a classic Maserati, tracking down the course at high speed, gravity trying to pull the car off the turn, but the car sticking to the asphalt, zooming at unbelievable speeds through the corner.
Andy Murray is the Brit, the under dog, the fan favorite. He is a Volvo, boxy and safe and full of seat belts. He is not flashy, he is not well known, outside English tennis circles.
But on this day, of strawberries and cream and center courts, Andy Murray is King of England. He is more talked about than one of Princess Kate’s recycled dresses.
It’s been 3/4 of a century since an Englishman has won a Wimbledon Championship. More Englishman have won smile of the year than won a Wimbledon championship.
On this Sunday, there are a lot of crooked smiles in Great Britain.
That’s because native son, Andy Murray is fighting for a piece of history.
People lucky enough to have tickets to Center Court are wearing British flags on their heads and wrapped around their waist. They clap when he hits a ferocious ace. They exalt when he blasts a back hand over the net. They explode when he hits a forehand winner by the amazing Swede’s head.
Those not fortunate to be court side are somewhere in front of a TV watching and praying and hoping that the impossible might happen.
A nation of crooked teeth, fish and chip loving Brits are hanging on Murray’s every ground stroke.
The crowds are filling the pubs waving the Union Jack and thrusting signs before the cameras.
People are gathered at the All Lawn Tennis Club, not at the match, but in courts adjacent to the stadium where they awkwardly watch on monitors above the stands. They just want to be close to the action in case history should erupt like a tennis volcano.
Andy Murray winning a Wimbledon Title? It seems unlikely. A good party topic a week ago. Now it’s within the grasp of a nation.
It’s been a century of stoic English frustration waiting to raise the championship trophy at this most prestigious of all tennis events.
On Saturday, a Polish woman loses to a steam roller with a racket named Serena Williams. She is a 5 time champion who is arguably the greatest female player of this generation. The match is exciting and the crowd enthusiastic. But this match is just a tennis game. The mostly British crowd cheers politely and enjoys its crumpets and tea in the appropriate British fashion.
Murray Versus Federer is life. This match is about national pride and about history.
If Murray wins he will be forever celebrated in England. He will be the Beatles and Prince Harry and Elton John all rolled into one.
If he loses, he is just another polite Englishman who played adequate tennis in a world dominated by foreigners.
How important is this match? No Brit has been this far in the tournament life time of practically anyone alive.
So when Murray wins the first set, the crowd cheers enthusiastically, but with reserve knowing that Federer only gets stronger as the minutes tick by.
But then the English rains come. The umbrellas come out, the tarp stretches across the worn grass and there is a 39 minute rain delay.
Finally they close the roof and the stadium becomes a massive echo chamber. The pause gives the 6 time champion time to catch his breath and remember he is the greatest in the world. The rain delay also gives the Englishman too much time to think and feel the steady weight of a nation on his shoulders.
The match continues and the fary tale begins to unravel.
Federer wins in 4 sets. He falls to the ground triumphant. People in pubs across the soggy isle gag down more fish and chips and warm pints.
Murray has nothing to be ashamed of. He played like a champion. But on this day he loses to a Swedish God.
A Maserati will always outclass a Volvo.
And that is crazy.™