When looking down upon Centre Court, it is easy to construe the surface as some unearthly plain, to see the players who glide across it as some otherworldly beings. But truthfully, these are just people, and this is (glance over your shoulder, whisper it to a trusted friend) just grass.
In that same vein, Sir Andy Murray is merely a man. His faults prove that, even if his feats belie it. His clanging metal hip is a manmade accessory, not an astral invention. His brain ponders the ideal timing of a forehand and what awaits for dinner, not the bewildering basis of human existence and its place in the cosmos. Murray, like us, is human, no matter how many miracles he conjures on court. That is the reality.
