The Flex

It was, by any account, an extraordinary day at Wimbledon, and with signature flair I missed most of it. You know how it is in journalism; some days, you eat the bear. Other days, the bear eats you. So that explains why my stomach is so empty that I could eat a steak-and-kidney pie, and I've got bite and claw marks all over my face and arms. Call me Grizzly Man. But anyway, there I was, struggling with a Graveyard Court piece that I squeezed out with all the grace and facility of someone trying to carry a television set down four flights of narrow stairs. Bump, bump, crash!!!!

Every time I found myself trying to grab a slippery adjective or verb, I'd look up at the televison monitor mounted at eye level at my desk and someone or other was into overtime in the fifth set;  there was  Feliciano Lopez, cranking a go-for-broke, slice second serve at match point, or spidery Mario Ancic shanking a volley while Fernando Verdsco was knocking red clay out of his shoes and wondering whether the U.S. Open isn't onto something, with that fifth-set tiebreaker thing. Should we talk distractions? It was like trying to get your thoughts organized while bouncing around inside a washing machine during the rinse cycle.

But enough about me. How about "Mr Muscle", aka Andy Murray?

As usual, when things get sufficiently visceral and gritty - and near the end there, the Murray vs. Richard Gasquet match was avert-your-face brutal; the tabloids always find the least charming but most pointed way to put it all in perspective. Hence, TheSun, which makes its way churning out a steady stream of topless shots of Essex girls in bad underwear and tales of disgraced soccer stars and magistrates, really did put it best on the back page:

9:30pm - And we finally find a Wimbledon heavyweight

HE's MR. MUSCLE!

Thanks, Sun. I couldn't have put it better myself (and now I don't have to even bother trying).

Under other circumstances, the irony in the appellation would be too delicious, given that the pale and skinny Murray's most lethal assets sometimes appear to be those prominent teeth. But "Mr Muscle" was a reference to Murray's reaction when he finally won the match, in the late stage of dusk familar to y'all as Sampras-Rafter light, after being down two sets and a break late in the third. Upon converting match point, Murray bared his right bi-cep and flexed - a gesture, he later explained, meant to communicate his appreciation to fitness trainers Matt Little and Jez Green. "You know, Ive been putting in so much work off the court, and it was the first time this year that I've really had a chance to show it.. ." Murray paused. "You know, it was maybe a little weak (laughter). But yeah, I decided that's what I wanted to do at the end of the match."

I appreciate Murray's self-effacement, but the flex could also be interpreted as a long-awaited signal that he's finally ready to assert himself in the events that most matter in tennis - at those, the Grand Slams, he had seemed until now content to play the role of the proverbial 98-pound weakling. This is his first quarterfinal at a major, but in all fairness, the bullies haven't been kicking sand in his face for all that long. Is anyone else surprised to learn that this is just his 11th appearance in a major?  Hail, it took Roger Federer 8 majors to get to the quarters, so even before yesterday, you couldn't exactly call Murray a lost cause.

Gasquet is revered by some as Baby Federer, and routinely trashed here as bizarro-world Federer. Whichever you prefer, he was trapped yesterday in one of those matches which, after a certain point is passed, begins to roll away with the same ghastly sense of inevitability that characterizes a nightmare featuring open elevator shafts, sprinting on water, or losing your brakes on a dizzying downhill pitch with the switchbacks coming up fast. You could see what was coming, and intuitively understand that Gasquet wasn't going to be able to get out of the way. It very quickly became obvious that the only hope Gasquet had was the off-chance that Murray would succumb to hubris and dig even deeper into his bottomless bag of drop shots, preferably at the most inopportune of times.

Speaking of those drop shots, here's what Simon Barnes of The Times (London) wrote:  "The manner in which a player struggles is deeply indicative  of his nature and Murray  believes that when in doubt, you go to the drop shot. As a point of information, when Murray is not in doubt it is because he has already played a drop shot. It is his default mechanism and it has been criticised by people in their legions. Make a note, Murray's default mechanism is stubborness."

Now that's a useful observation, and of course it helps explain why we're not likely to see Murray abandon his secret vice any time soon. He's a hard-headed Scot; he knows what he knows. But apart from that, I've grown tired of the once reasonable charge that the drop shot is a cop-out or bail-out. That theory has somehow insinuated itself into the canon as an article of received truth, when it's anything but. Sure, it's risky, and an attempt to end a point. So what? So it the big inside-out forehand placement, although I'll be the first to admit that you look a lot sillier when that drop shot misfires than when you miss the Gonzo forehand.

The drop shot gives an opponent something to think about, which has become an unpopular way of doing business in big-time tennis. The way it's done these days is to hang back,  load up, and whack the forehands and backhands as hard as you dare, all day long. Personally, I'd like to see Murray really step up and go where no ATP pro has, ever before - make the drop shot serve part of his repertoire. You think it's sick; you think I'm pulling your leg. You cry out,  Real men, and even Dementieva, serve overhand! Fair enough, you're entitled to your opinion. But to me it's a silly and telling convention.

Anyway, I had to feel for Gasquet after this match, and he handled the loss with dignity, good-humor, and even-handedness.  He said of the late stages of the match, "Yeah, yeah. When I was a child at eight years old, I could play when I was in the south of France. I could play with the dark, to finish a match in the club. But in Wimbledon. . . It's strange. But that's for both. That's the same for Andy, so it is no excuse. But it was a bit difficult with the dark, for sure."

The officials' determination to finish the match was a point of controversy, but to me the dominant factor is that it is, as Gasquet noted, the same for both players. And a match of this kind involves just too much involvement and momentum - on the part of the spectators, as well as the players - to just call off because of failing light.  A match like this becomes a test of competitive character, and an onlooker can just feel the tectonic plates grinding in the souls of both men. There's nothing better in tennis, except to have such a match play out under ideal conditions. Whatever else is true, abandoning the match would have been tantamout to calling a draw and starting a brand-new one, from four-all in the fifth, the following day. Can you say buzzkill?

Gasquet deserves to get Andy Murray at Roland Garros some evening in the not too distant future. And don't think the thought hasn't occurred to him: "Yeah, I hope to play against him at Roland Garros for sure. I won't be alone this time. . . So I'm waiting him."

Meanwhile, Mr. Muscles has some more flexing to do at Wimbledon.