Earlier this week, Russell Fuller, the BBC’s tennis correspondent, pegged Murray as “the new king of clay.” Having watched the Scot limp past Czech qualifier Radek Stepanek in the first round of the French Open, though, I don’t imagine any of his more trophied rivals felt particularly threatened. With a gameplan erected on the hopeful assumption that his opponent would randomly start missing easy balls, this was Murray in “lamb’”mode–too submissive in rallies, too tentative on the overheads, too polite on the second serve. While Stepanek was busy engineering crafty angles and piercing groundstrokes, Murray himself was barely visible beneath an orange ash cloud marking his movements at the rear of the court, the dust usually hovering somewhere in the vicinity of that ubiquitous Rolex clock.
Playing second fiddle to a more cavalier brand of tennis has become something of a Murray speciality. Even during what has been by far his most successful clay season to date, the Scot has played numerous matches far too passively–against Pierre Hugues Herbert and Benoit Paire in Monte Carlo, and now twice against Stepanek, in Madrid as well at Roland Garros. Against lower-ranked players, Murray is lulled into what he sees as no-risk tennis: looping the ball over the net and waiting for his Challenger Tour opponent to hack a forehand into the stands. These players, however, are far more clinical than Murray’s strategy gives them credit, and adopting such a timid approach in these matches is landing him in trouble time and time again. While Murray-the-lamb might make an ideal hitting partner, as a competitive tennis player, this gameplan leaves him at the very bottom of the tennis foodchain: an anti-predator, a foodstuff, existing not to eat but to avoid being eaten.
An irritating misconception in the media is that Murray is not this feeble lamb that suffers at the mercy of heavy-hitting opponents. No, for many, Murray is an all-action hero, an aggressive, lock stock and two smoking barrels “beater,” a Fred Weasley pounding the bludger from one side of the court to the other. For his cheerleaders in the media–yes, Mark Petchey, we’re talking about you–Murray is less of a lamb and more of a werewolf, striking fear into his opponents, his presence alone the cause of all of their unforced errors.
It is only when Murray is handed the underdog card, however, that he realizes he cannot play so timidly. He is forced to vacate his shell and to approach the match with concerted aggression. He regains purpose, he realizes the importance of dictating, and his intensity spikes. That is how he beat Djokovic in the final in Rome. Since he split with Ivan Lendl, though, Murray-the-werewolf has become, by and large, a rarer, almost mythical beast.
What has happened to Murray’s intensity in more irrelevant matches? This interview from Federer provides an insight:
“Sometimes you’re just happy playing. Some people, some media unfortunately don’t understand that it’s okay just to play tennis and enjoy it. They always think you have to win everything, it always needs to be a success story, and if it’s not obviously what is the point. Maybe you have to go back and think, Why have I started playing tennis? Because I just like it. It’s actually sort of a dream hobby that became somewhat of a job. Some people just don’t get that ever.”
Roger Federer loves tennis. He plays tennis matches because he enjoys them. It’s that simple.
For Murray, though, nearly every match is an uphill battle. He may love tennis, but he doesn’t seem to enjoy it, not like Federer anyway. Murray punctuates every game with some form of abuse, oscillating between nonsensical berating of himself or his team to petulant exchanges with match officials.
Interestingly, Murray’s mid-match abuse has also lost intensity at a similar pace to his groundstrokes. His berating remains as prevalent as ever but now takes a more sarcastic character. Instead of the shouting we had become accustomed to, Murray is now found laughing or grinning in an even more childish manner. At least his fits of temper proved that Murray had a reason, a purpose. He could do better, he could improve. He was giving himself a wake up call.
Ego tends to promote anger. But when one realizes how powerless one is to impact a situation, laughter is elicited as a natural response. Murray’s subconscious seems to be gradually anchoring expectations in line with his increasingly reactive game. Frustration is no longer expressed through bursts of anger but instead replaced by increased grinning and laughter as his mind begins to realize the absurdity of his resentment.
When players of Teymuraz Gabshavilli’s quality are moving you about in opening round match in a 500 event, the appropriate response is not barnstorming abuse. It just doesn’t feel right. As more and more players gradually apply strokes upon the coloring book of his game, Murray’s coping mechanism of laughter makes far more sense. It is his subconscious way of coming to terms with the situation, coming to terms with the reality that, in his own words, “the base level is now kind of low.”
Of course, it is undeniable that Murray is a top talented tennis player whose results put him towards the top of the game. He is #2 in the World and currently holds two Masters 1000 crowns. But our point is that his success is not sustainable with his current attitude, especially as he struggles against lesser players with increasing frequency. Eventually, that will lead to more losses in earlier rounds and on the biggest stages unless he fixes his attitude.
By Tom and Harry Dry
Enjoy what you read? Check out all of LWOS’ complete coverage of the 2016 French Open here.
Main Photo:
