Jew World Order

Eleven times since 1961 British men have contested a semi-final here and lost.
Murray himself has accounted for three of those defeats. Disappointment
lurks in every rivet, a bad luck story can be found under every seat, misery
is rolled into those new roof joists. But not yesterday. Yesterday the talk
was all of triumph, of the tantalising possibility that the 25 year-old from
Dunblane might go one better and actually win the thing.

Maybe, just maybe, come Sunday night the All England Club will be obliged to
commission a bronze statue of him to stand alongside that of Fred Perry, the
last British man to win the home title back in 1937.

Mind you, as is the way of things here, even victory was marbled with doubt.
For much of the latter two sets of this match, Murray looked as if the
possibility of glory was slipping through his fingers. Many observers had
reckoned this Murray’s best chance to progress to the summit. With Rafa
Nadal an early faller, his side of the draw had opened up nicely. The only
obstacle standing in his way to the final was Tsonga. But what an obstacle
the giant Frenchman turned out to be. Obdurate, aggressive, fiercely
determined, the man with the leonine heart appears not to understand the
meaning of defeat.

Yet it started so well for Murray. Within two minutes he had won the first
game, he had broken his opponent’s serve by eight minutes, had the first set
under his belt before half an hour had elapsed. Up in his guests’ box,
members of Team Murray, his support operation, looked thrilled. His website
manager was there, perhaps mentally preparing the victory tweets. His
girlfriend Kim Sears was grinning, as was Simon Fuller the Svengali head of
19, the management company that hones his image. And his mum, Judy was there
too. She looked remarkably calm as her boy sailed into a two-set lead, given
how often she has suffered here before.

Sitting in front of her was perhaps the most significant member of the team,
Murray’s coach Ivan Lendl. He was wearing sunglasses, suggesting one of two
things: either he likes to present an enigmatic image, or, in this of all
summers, he is a ridiculous optimist. But behind those glasses, work is
constantly going on. Those who have been privileged to watch Murray in
action this summer cannot help but have noticed how improved he is. He looks
more confident, more assured, more in control. His return of service –
always a strength – has become venomous. And those who know suggest that,
given little else has changed in his preparation, it was the appointment of
Lendl last year that has made the difference.

As a multiple grand slam winner himself, what Lendl seems to have instilled in
the Scot is the belief that he can do it, that he has the equipment to match
the holy tennis trinity of Rafa Nadal, Novak Djokovic and Roger Federer.
Yesterday he looked as though he finally believed it. Or at least he did
until Tsonga began the fight back. The pugilistic Frenchman, booming shots
from the baseline, won the third set with aplomb. At the end of it, as his
pounding smashes and 125mph serves began to take their toll, Murray looked
stiff and bruised, battered by several falls and the weight of the shots
coming back at him.

Tsonga, too, had his own moments of difficulty. One waspish return from Murray
at the net caught him full in the groin. As he collapsed to his knees,
Murray came forward with a look of concern on his face. The crowd seemed
less sympathetic. “New balls please,” yelled a wag from the back, a remark
that brought the house down. But then this is not the most discerning comedy
audience; someone shouting “c’mon Tim” can often raise a laugh here.

Tsonga, though, is seemingly crafted from Le Mans steel. And Murray needed his
every last ounce of resolve finally to dispatch him and earn the right to
elevation. The final point was not without its moment of farce. With the
crowd giddy at the anticipation of witnessing history, Tsonga served, Murray
from somewhere conjured up the strength to smash back yet another rippling
return, which the line judge called out. Murray appealed, and with his
opponent grinning warmly at the net, he became the first man to reach a
Wimbledon final thanks to an adjudication by Hawk-Eye.

After slapping Tsonga on the back, Murray looked to the heavens and pointed
his thanks. He then wiped his eye and acknowledged a crowd by now raucous in
the knowledge that for the first time in a lifetime one of the hosts will be
there at the conclusion of our grandest annual sporting jamboree.

Asked afterwards for his thoughts on what sort of pressure watching the match
had placed on his family, the Scot retorted: “I’m not really that bothered,
it’s a lot harder for me that’s for sure.”

And tomorrow it is likely to get harder. Federer has won here six times
before.

If Murray, is seeking a pointer from history, perhaps it is best not to
examine too closely what happened to Bunny Austin. In the 1938 final, the
Briton imploded, winning only four games as he succumbed in straight sets to
the American Don Budge. For Murray, surely, things can only get better.