I love Wimbledon and not just because of the recent exploits of the pride of Dunblane and Scotland.
As a lad I lay on my Grannie’s carpet watching the great Pancho Gonzales, former champion of the world but never of Wimbledon, beating Charlie Pasarell. Pancho was aged 41 and grumpy but raised himself from the tennis dead to beat his young American compatriot 22-24, 1-6, 16-14, 6-3, 11-9.
The match stretched over two days. Overnight he had been two sets down, and altogether he played for five hours and 20 minutes, and for a total of 112 games. On the first day in fading light the greying Gonzales was booed by the crowd as he complained bitterly about being forced to play in semi darkness. However, I was firmly in his corner.
It was late June 1969 and I watched every ball as if transfixed. In all honesty I can’t remember if the school holidays had started or whether I developed a sudden and convenient asthmatic wheeze. However, by day two I was in position again in front of the small black and white screen with a bottle of lucozade to sustain me through the unfolding drama.
The jeers then turned to cheers as Pancho dragged himself on to a level above his craft of tennis. He was so tired that he could scarcely hold his racket but he saved no less than seven match points to win a contest in which talent triumphed over age. It was the greatest act of sporting willpower that I had ever seen. If I had had a stars and stripes to hand I would have waved it at the television.
In contrast to Gonzales, Andy Murray is in the prime of his career and the fittest player on the tour. However, two years ago he had his own mountain of pressure to climb. The first UK player since Fred Perry, and the first Scot since the 19th Century, to win the singles crown at the home of the All England Club. It was an achievement of generational significance.
This time I was not lying in front of the television but sitting in the Royal Box of the Centre Court. The All England Club committee are among the nicest hosts imaginable. Behind the scenes the organisation is both cultured and impeccable.
Not one of them raised the slightest objection to me hoisting the saltire to celebrate Andy’s triumph. That dispute was entirely the manufacture of the London press corps. That disreputable bunch of journalists had spent years kicking lumps out of Murray for his jokes about the English football team when he was a lad. They have now had to come to terms with his genius and were busy looking for other targets.
Oh and if I were still the First Minister and if Andy wins again then the saltire would be hoist again in the Royal Box.
As it is, on Sunday I fully expect to be lying in front of the television, Lucozade and saltire at the ready.