For a genius, achieving greatness is soothing.
For the artist, completing magnum opus is perhaps more relief than pleasure; something which had to be finished.
With a tennis racquet in his hand, Andy Murray is a genius; an artist at work. Last night, in Arthur Ashe stadium, Andy Murray finally experienced the blessed relief of realising true talent.
By defeating Novak Djokovic in an enthralling five set thriller, 7-6 (10) 7-5 2-6 3-6 6-2, Murray at last experienced the absense of pain at the end of a major tennis championship.
There is sweetness in pleasure delayed. For Murray; for Scotland; for Great Britain.
Plus, the method, the majesty, and the drama, of his Final victory over another master craftsman of equal and opposite proportions was mesmerising. Special. Spectacular. Breathtaking.
Maybe there aren’t words to do it justice after the event.
At the end of almost five hours of tennis, it was a shame, almost, that modern protocol following such events asks players to speak to the amassed crowds through a microphone. They had already expressed themselves more than enough on court. There was, perhaps, nothing left to say.
This time, Murray, at last, was just too gutsy; he was just too good. Just.
But what a match!
If you added up the talents of Djokovic and Murray, and placed them onto imaginary weighing scales, a cigarette paper would tipple the balance one way or the other. This pre-match conundrum, added to by a gusty wind, developed into a match of incredible peaks and troughs from both players, who, for their part, seemed to rise as the other dipped in as absorbing a waltz as you will witness on any stage.
Djokovic, who destroyed Murray in the Australian Open Final to say “not just yet, friend” this night finally had to concede to his equal, as Murray joined the quadrumvirate at the head of men’s tennis. Despite rallying from going two sets down – following some hard-hitting and utterly astonishing rallies – the Serb’s legs finally seemed the weaker of the two men’s only in the fifth set.
When the moment eventually came, Murray was ready to grab it. He did not falter. His serve, which had dipped in losing sets three and four suddenly returned as the Scot smelled victory, which, when available, he grabbed with an air of relief, before, at long last, getting his hands on a Major trophy to call his own.
For those who were there: a night to remember, and treasure. For the millions more who watched on television: the same. For Andy Murray, the soothing calm of knowing that, at long last, he is finally where he rightfully belongs: etched into history. There is justice in that.