Sue Mott's Blog
Murray still misjudged...
Wednesday, September 12th 2008
It’s funny...the more Andy Murray wins, the prettier he gets. At the start of the year, he was this weedy, obnoxious, grunge-wearing brat with Scottish nationalist tendencies who had let down the British people by refusing to play Davis Cup. By Wimbledon, courtesy of a death-defying five-set, fourth-round victory against the Frenchman Richard Gasquet, he was creeping into the nation’s affections.
But, post his fabulous run in the US Open, thrashing the world number one Rafa Nadal and only losing in the final, with some gallantry, to no less a god than Roger Federer, we are beginning to seriously appreciate his virtues. Never mind his dress sense, what about that forehand slice?
The British number one is not weedy any more. He has biceps. He has a following. He - the crux of the matter - has a serious possibility of being the first British male to win a Grand Slam tennis event since 1936. In the circumstances, the nation is willing to overlook his unapproachable personality.
This is an irony. He has a lovely personality, something few have been able to detect given the fractured and fractious nature of his relationship with the media since his arrival on the scene, aged 17. For various reasons: part-stitch up, part-bloody-minded teenage awkwardness, the best of Murray’s nature has yet to be revealed. His immediate post-match speech in New York provided a clue, paying homage to the victor, honour to the crowd and, rather sweetly, saying it had been the best week of his life.
Sooner or later, those firmly grounded in the antipathy brigade will put aside their dislike of his sideburns, baseball cap and aggravated suspicion of fame, and see the charming young man he is. This will be when he wins this first Grand Slam. So 2010 at the latest.
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No defence this time...
I never thought I’d say this. Please, Arsenal, be less beautiful. The joys of an eight-goal collision at the Emirates between the two North London rivals, featuring a "Superman" goal, scoring centre halves, capering keepers and as preposterous an ending as a Marple rewrite was hard to appreciate in a liberal, even-handed sort of way while screaming with rage into a cushion.
Arsenal 4 Tottenham 4 was both a travesty and entirely predictable. Arsenal were the better team, of course. They played the better football, of course. And yet they conjured a draw having led 4-2 in the 89th minute because...they defend like the cast of the Nutcracker. Come to think of it, Darcey Bussell is better in the air.
By the final whistle Arsene Wenger was crouched like a frog in his technical area - a literal not a racist observation, by the way - unable to bear the sight of his naive, innocent and bumbling defenders giving the game away. But, in a crucial way, he carries the responsibility.
It is all very well creating a team that dance like motes of light across the field of his dreams. Yet what use is all that quick-stepping glory and forward thrust, if the back line can’t kick a ball out of the danger zone. A rival arrives in their half and they welcome him, like a maitre d’ with a napkin over his arm, to help themselves to the goal area. "A 40-yard volley, Sir? Lovely. Will that be with a garnish of a Gael Clichy slip and deftly prodded equalizer off the goalpost? Certainly Sir. Coming right up".
Aged Arsenal supporters are beginning to fantasize about George Graham’s defensive drilling. When the back four were knowingly drained of whimsy and individuality and bloody well stuck to their task. Do not mock. Wenger won his first Double with that defence.
Arsenal’s current manager, a sage and prophet of the glorious game, seems philosophically - even spiritually - unable to embrace such grim task mastering. All his defenders go forward. Two centre backs, Gallas and Silvestre, scored half the Arsenal goals on the fateful night. But in terms of locking the gates, manning the barricades, fending off the hoards they are utterly and totally hapless. It confounded their season just gone, having led the Premiership by miles at Christmas. It threatens to engulf their progress this season. You fear a time when the best footballing team in the country do not make the Champions League because of this strange, aversion to calculated defending.
Can Wenger change? Can we buy a ball-belting, order-bawling, commanding defender with no ambition to score the goal of the season? Please, Arsenal, for all the beauty, can you not become just a little crude and cynical again.
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