Murray, Bunny, And Other Tennis Balls...

So, Andy Murray is out of the Wimbledon tournament.

Well, are we really surprised? Isn't it a given that no Brit can ever get to the final, let alone win it?

Not since 1938 with Henry 'Bunny' Austin has a son of this soil got to play in the final.

One of the cool things about a sport that involves individuals rather than teams is that you get the opportunity to go beyond the simple tribal requirements of following your national representatives and delve into the personalities of the players involved.

Through our all seeing TV eyes we get to decide who's a miserable sod, who has a fun personality, who loves his mum, who's got a bit of a temper, all with no actual basis in fact of course, other than seeing a person for a few hours out of their whole lives in an entirely false situation.

But that's ok, even back in ancient Rome, the audience didn't really give a toss about the person in the arena doing battle for their entertainment, they perhaps just felt a brief moment of kinship, based on some random fact, the warrior's homeland, or name perhaps, now, as then, you pick your champion, based on whatever unimportant criteria you have selected, then cheer for him ever louder as he defeats opponent after opponent, until inevitably he is defeated himself.

Now our champion is slain. Do we mourn his loss? Do we let our anger towards his slayer ferment into enmity at his next combat?

Actually no. Andy Roddick seemed like a much nicer bloke in his sound-bites anyway.

Besides, it's not like Murray was English.