And if it were done, when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done slowly. Agonisingly. Leaving no avenue of exquisite pain and drama unexplored. Doing it when we assumed they were done. There is pain in his joints and a heaviness in his step, and yet as Andy Murray reels away in victory as the clock strikes 10.30pm local time, he looks like a child again: the child who first swung a racket in anger, the child who first discovered the pure joy of victory.
Into the good night they went, Murray and Dan Evans, and not gently either but with force and purpose and every intention of returning to fight another day. In a way this has been the motif of Murray’s elongated final curtain call, perhaps even his career: a refusal to vacate the stage before he is ready, a desire to eke out every ounce of talent in his body.
