Andy Murray: Trapped In a Shell Of His Own Creation

Hopefully this does not need much reaffirming. Andy Murray is not Tim Henman; it has been many a rally since the Scot grasped one of the most poisonous batons in tennis, flew in the face of one-fortnight-a-year flag-waving patriotism, prefaced his first name with the words “Come On” and surpassed his compatriot in titles, major finals (3-0 Murray and counting) and talent.

And that talent is yet to be maximised.

It is not to denigrate Henman, always a thrilling competitor who made the most of what he had (wondrous volleying, sharp movement) in the absence of what he did not (reliable serve, piercing groundstrokes). In another time, what he had might have been plenty. He certainly can’t be blamed for running into Pete Sampras repetitiously.

By the time he had seen the pistol off, half the tour had armed themselves with Kalashnikovs. Worse still, Roger Federer had one in each hand. It was a testament to Henman’s classical excellence that he remained potent at least, even if a major title would elude him.

While the Dunblane man could teach Henman more than a thing or two, he would do well to engage with a touch of his predecessor’s game. That he has the ability to carry it out is beyond question. On the seldom occasions it is seen, Murray’s forecourt play is sublime. He can certainly place himself among the very best in the world.

While a full-blooded net game is an anachronism even on grass courts these days, variety still holds weight. As tennis increasingly recedes into itself, players preferring to close their eyes and hit, then hit it harder, the ability to give yourself options in points appears to have grown in relevance again.

Witness Alexandr Dologopolov’s marvellous run to the quarterfinals in Australia, full of chicanery in the pace, flight and spin he put on the ball. The Ukrainian mesmerised Robin Soderling, perhaps the blueprint for the contemporary sledge-hammer player. By the end of their fourth round match, Dolgopolov had managed to bring to the surface many of the demons the Swede had subdued for two years while rising into the Top 10.  

It is also evident in the women’s game. Is it a coincidence that Francesca Schiavone elevates her position in the game with age? Or that the craftiness of Kimiko Date Krumm still has superior athletes half her vintage tearing their hair out? Meanwhile, the likes of Ana Ivanovic punch themselves out and wonder what can be done when the lines are no longer being hit.

Watching Murray play Novak Djokovic in the Australian Open final was at the very least frustrating. Occasionally, it was torturous. You have to re-check with yourself sometimes that he is a player of great versatility as the gifts he possesses so rarely come to the surface.

Murray spent too long writing his own obituary, engaging in draining points that he appeared in no shape to handle. There were extraordinarily long rallies aplenty, but many should have been curtailed by the World No 5. Often he had Djokovic stranded at the back of the court, with no option but to slice a return into mid-court. Time and time again, Murray failed to move forward and finish the job.

Djokovic was playing well enough that he could wear down his opponent with consistent groundstrokes, before eventually opening his shoulders in a manner that his opponent could never bring himself to.

It could be argued that Murray was already putting pen to ink on route to the final. An easy Andy Murray match is a rare beast, even when the scoreline may suggest otherwise. Murray knows his game is sound enough that it will eventually squeak the pips of his opponents. It is good enough most weeks on tour, it is often good enough to win Masters 1000 events. Seven five-set matches is a slightly different proposition.

A recent Paul Annacone musing on the difference between Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal can easily be adapted for Murray. He often plays brilliantly, but his kind of brilliance demands much greater toil.

While we are now used to Murray looking like a lost traveller in the Sahara by the second game of a match, his movement in the final was evidently sluggish in comparison to the rest of the tournament. A legacy of his rigorous style? Never in possession of Federer’s natural athleticism or Nadal’s sheer brawn—highlighted by his almost farcical cramping fits in his early career—Murray has been painfully manufactured into what he is today.

Still, he experiences bizarre physical flat-spots such as his match with Stan Wawrinka at last year’s US Open. Perhaps it’s time for him to acknowledge that grinding opponents down might give you many good victories, but it may also be a harbinger of the most painful defeats.

It has been raised by many a respected viewer that Murray’s ability to play within himself and remain dangerous is a great weapon. And so it is. Anyone you can name in the higher reaches of tennis have fallen victim to his optimum game. But that had been left in the changing room against his Serbian rival. 

Murray appeared to accept that. Djokovic evidently had the form; his glorious semi-final win over Roger Federer was evidence enough. He might have had the answers to anything Murray threw at him. Unfortunately, we will never know because the important questions were never asked. Even Murray’s beloved drop shots were notable by their absence.

For a player to acquiesce without a single change of tack is meek - Mats Wilander reminisced in commentary that even Rainer Scheuttler charged the net in the 2003 Australian Open final; such was Andre Agassi’s superiority. For Murray to surrender when plan A was not working, even though he had a marvellous plan B in his back pocket, wrapping still on—not just the baseball-hatted desperation of a grinder—was foolish.