Save for the last set, Andy Murray lost soundly to Roger Federer in this past Sunday's Australian Open. In the best of worlds, Murray very well may have beaten the Swiss Tennis Maestro, but in this match he all but crumbled. There was a lot riding on this grand slam , for As Federer himself remarked, there hasn't been a british champion "for about 150,000 years".
Though remarkable, the drama at hand was not limited to merely the pride of nations. UK resident or not, Murray was entering the match as a redemptive figure, a man who despite legacy had the chance to buck the trend and assert himself. This position he inhabited made him the embodiment of empathy, and highly relatable to mere mortal fans everywhere. America doesn't just like an underdog, we simultaneously want to be, and hate, the top dog for its perfection. Malaise is a feeling not uncomon to this author and other members of the GRC, and I suspect those who hoped he might beat the unbeatable did so in opposition to their own 16 grand-slam winning obstacles. Sadly, Murray lost. What message does this mean for his fans, it cannot be certain. Yet this much is true, he was cut down like a flower by the indifferent plow that is Federer's grand slam trajectory.
Maybe the tennis gods sought it fit to punish the country with the greatest historical power in the world with tennis impotence, and give a hermit kingdom of chocolate lover-francophone-watchmakers an insurmountable Tennis Empire.