Andy Murray tribute: I've covered you for 20 years and tennis without you seems unthinkable

I’m going to miss him. We all are. For the last 20 years, Andy Murray has been as much a part of the Ramsay household as my close family members and the cat.

For those of us who write about tennis in Britian, Murray has been our job from the moment he won the US Open junior title in 2004 until now, the tournament when it all ends. Life is never going to be the same.

We have watched him grow up from the teenage prospect with the unusual game to the heartbroken serial Grand Slam runner up and then on to the three-time major winner, the double Olympic singles champion, world No.1 and Davis Cup winner. It has been a hell of a ride.

Andy Murray arrives for a practice session on day one of Wimbledon 2024 at the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club. (Photo by Adam Pretty/Getty Images)

Even in those early junior days, Murray was different. Most juniors do what they are told: relentless hitting from the back of the court, the product of endless training drills, but little idea how to construct or conduct a match. Not Murray – he was that rare thing: a junior who could think and play at the same time. And, yes, that world famous lob was very much in evidence in those days, too.

Like the rest of the Big Four, Murray emerged almost fully formed onto the senior circuit. His first outing at Wimbledon came in 2005 where he took David Nalbandian – then the world No.19 – to five sets in the third round. It was only his seventh tour-level match and yet he had come within touching distance of the second week of a grand slam.

At the time, he was ranked No.312; by the end of that year he was No.64 and had narrowly lost to Roger Federer in the Bangkok final and had beaten Tim Henman on his way to the Basel quarter-finals.

Ah, Tim. In those days, Murray was often compared to Britain’s No.1 – and in the eyes of his critics, it was not a favourable match up. Henman was portrayed as “Gentleman Tim”; he never said or did anything controversial and was the perfect English gent.

Andy Murray with his coach Ivan Lendl in 2016. (Photo credit should read GLYN KIRK/AFP via Getty Images)

Murray, on the other hand, was a proud Scot who spoke his mind when he felt the need. To the predominantly English press, this was easy pickings if they wanted to try and knock the youngster down a peg or two.

Yet what those critics never acknowledged was that one of Murray’s greatest supporters was Henman. He knew better than anyone what the pressure of being the great British hope felt like. He also recognised instantly how good the young Murray was and how much he could achieve.

Back in those days, I spent most of my time defending Murray to those around me. Living in the south west suburbs of London, my neighbours would grudgingly confess to admiring what he had done – he had only been on the tour for nine months when he won his first title in San Jose – but they did not like him. Try as I might to explain that he was very bright, very funny and a really nice guy, they would not have it. That would change in time.

It was, of course, the tearful “I’m going to try this and it’s not going to be easy” speech of 2012 that won everyone over. He had reached his first Wimbledon final – the first Brit to do so in 74 years – and then Federer beat him. As he tried to explain how much the crowd support had meant to him and how it lifted him, he could not stop the tears.

Andy Murray with the trophy after winning his second Wimbledon in 2016. (Photo by Julian Finney/Getty Images)

Ladies of a certain age wanted to rush down to give him a hug while normally reserved blokes wanted to take him down the pub and buy him a pint. Suddenly everyone realised just how much Murray cared about his sport and just how much he wanted to repay all those who had cheered him on.

Those were the first days of the Ivan Lendl era. Murray was the first of the Big Four to get himself a celebrity coach and a large team of experts to focus on each area of his career. But when he appointed Lendl, there was much scratching of heads.

Those of us who remembered Old Stoneface from his playing days recalled a cussed character, one who regarded interviews and press conferences as a blood sport. He didn’t speak, he didn’t smile – why had Murray picked him?

Aside from the fact that Lendl also lost his first four grand slam finals before he finally won one, he was – like Murray – very bright. He was – like Murray – obsessed with minutiae of many sports and he was – like Murray – very funny: very dry and sarcastic. They were, in many ways, the perfect match.

When Murray came back to Wimbledon four weeks later and beat Federer to win his first Olympic gold medal and then went on to win the US Open five weeks after that, his choice of coach proved itself to be inspired.

That, though, has been Murray throughout his career: always looking for that extra edge, that little something that could give him an extra percentage point or two as he chased Messrs Federer, Nadal and Djokovic around the major tournaments of the world. If he thought it would make a difference, he tried it.

He is driven but not to the point of self obsession. He has put himself and his latterly fragile body through the mill time and again to make himself the best he can be. As sports fans, we do not know the half of it yet we take whatever Murray does for granted, little knowing how much effort – and sometimes pain – it takes.

Although he has lived his adult life in the media spotlight, he does not seek it out. His wife, Kim, never wanted any part of the fame game and he himself is essentially a private person. That said, after a scratchy start to his dealings with the media, he has developed an extremely good working relationship with the domestic press and with journalists from around the world. Intelligent, thoughtful and informed, he is the “go-to man” for a quote on any subject of note.

Tennis without Andy Murray seems unthinkable but probably not as unthinkable as life without tennis seems to Murray at the moment. It has been an incredible 20 years. Dammit, I’m going to miss him.