As a Clevelander, nestled in an overstuffed couch with a cup of coffee, fighting off that morning after feeling that follows a wedding reception on what would serve to be the hottest day (and night) of the entire summer, I found it very easy to openly root for Andy Murray. This, within an event to which I am completely indifferent. Wimbledon to me is about the spectacle; the shear beauty of the world’s best playing on the world’s biggest. But on this day, it was all Murray, all the time.
I’ve always been a big fan of the underdog and the under-discussed. I was the kid with the Cal Ripken affliction when everyone else was going crazy over Canseco and McGwire; more Magic than Michael; more Ultimate Warrior rope-shaking and face paint than Hulk Hogan air guitars, leg drops and hand-to-the-ear. With Murray, however, this wasn’t a case of a Cinderella making a run in one of the greatest sporting events in the world — the George Washingtons and Virginia Commonwealths don’t hold a match-lit candle to the just-turned 25-year-old Murray. With Murray, it was the feeling of understanding and the relation that I instantly felt to the large faction of people to whom this individual meant so much. Heroic and encased in celebrity, Murray made an entire nation embrace one another as one of their own was on the cusp of achieving a sport-related triumph that had not happened in almost 80 years. Swap any Cleveland-based team in for Murray, replace the Wimbledon Championship Trophy with any of the big three domestic versions 1 and I would assume similar emotion and narrative. [Read more...]
___________________________________
- Commissioners, Larry O’Brien, Vince Lombardi…take your pick [back]
