/ Romilly Evans / 08 June 2011 /

Romilly Evans considers the Scot's chances of ending our search for a home-grown champ, and argues we should be thankful for what we've got.

My, look at the time... is it really Queen's already? Wimbledon must be just around the corner! Time to gear up the printing presses with some fresh and original posers for Andy Murray to answer... can he really become the first British-born player since Fred Perry in 1936 to wear the men's singles crown?

No disrespect to Fred, but that was an awfully long time ago. What's he done for us lately? Instead, my own memories of home-grown tennis talents and their SW19 campaigns are really restricted to three men: Jeremy Bates, Tim Henman and the modern-day Murray. Three likely lads, worthy poster boys for the housewives of middle England. Let's have a look at them in chronological order.

First there was Jezza Bates. With Jeremy there was never any hope of winning the championships. Back then, expectations were better-managed, and the journey was all about getting to the second week. Don't get me wrong, it was still a roller-coaster ride, and the questions were no less important. Would the draw open up for the plucky Brit? Would his dodgy shoulder hold up? And could he avoid that left-handed destroyer of mediocre men, Guy Forget?

1992 was the year when it finally came together. The stage was set: the fourth round, safe passage to Monday, and Bates' cricket jumper - worn to warm his frail right shoulder - was working a treat. He was two-sets-to-one up against Forget with match point upcoming on serve. Jezza tossed the ball up but couldn't bring himself to hit it. He shook out his shoulder in mock tension. The Frenchman needed no second invitation. What began as a day to remember ended as a day to Forget. Jezza would later complain that someone had put him off by sneezing. I mean really.

In his stead, we prayed for someone better. Someone to take us deep into the second week with a shot at victory. We dared to hope. And our prayers were answered in Tiger Tim Henman. Tim was cut from a finer cloth, possessed of perhaps the best volley in his era, and competitive to the end. He was born of privilege too, with the kind of public school self-belief that considers itself entitled to greatness. Fortunately, he also had the talent to back it up.

Tour titles followed, even a Masters one, and a long stay in the elite Top 10 ensued. Grass was his favourite surface and Wimbledon was where it mattered most. Tim delivered time and time again. But just when we thought he'd scaled the peak, we discovered someone else had got there first to push him tumbling down. That person was invariably Pete Sampras, a god on grass who beat our Tim in two semi-finals, while Lleyton Hewitt and the rain extinguished his hopes twice more. He promised us he'd come back next year and win it. He lied.

So back to the drawing board. We couldn't ask for much more, could we? And we didn't want to test the tennis gods? But wait, what was that basket being laid down amid the bulrushes of SW19 by a friendly stalk?

Inside was Andy Murray. And as he grew and developed, we started to believe that here was our heaven-sent player, destined to snaffle multiple majors. Henman and Bates were mere forerunners to his arrival. Murray was taller, fitter, faster and had all the shots. He was Lee Majors.

Sure, there were a few drawbacks, but we reasoned these were the sacrifices we had to make in creating a champion. For here was a more hardy sort from north of the border, who still spoke Anglo-Saxon and wasn't afraid to use it. What we had lost in diffident English charm, we had gained in a mental fortitude, forged in the fires of Scotland's volcanoes. While Henman clenched his fist in understated pride, this Celtic kid pumped his with unbridled rage. While Tim hated English fans calling him Tiger, this guy hated the English football team. Yes, Murray would get the job done.

However, despite the auspicious signs, Grand Slam success still remains on his to-do list. Perhaps Murray will break through at this year's renewal (for which he's an attractively priced [10.0])? He'll tell you the hard courts of the US and Australia offer him the best chance of breaking his duck. But the truth is that Wimbledon also offers him a great opportunity. He has the media and public pressure to contend with here, of course, but so few players can cope on grass that the percentages point to the All England Club. There are 20 people capable of beating Murray at Roland Garros (and one certain of so doing in Nadal), fewer at the US and Australian Opens, and potentially only a handful at Wimbledon. He has all the attributes: a big serve, great slice, touch volley and the requisite movement to give him home advantage.

There's no time like the present. Murray could win it, of that there's no question. The hacks will hark back to Henman: same great strengths, same small but crucial frailties. The harsh reality, though, is that Murray's only failing is to have been born at the wrong time. Bates had his limitations. Henman had Sampras. But Murray has his hands full with arguably the three greatest players of all time, at the same time. For in Rafael Nadal, Roger Federer and Novak Djokovic we have a troika of multi-lingual charmers who simply won't let our gruff Scot aboard their Grand Slam wagon.

Back with Bates, we'd have given anything to have a Henman. Then when Henman came along, we demanded the complete player. Now we've got one, we want to trade him in for a better model. Is Murray a gift or a curse? He is both our reward and our punishment. And never more so than in Wimbledon fortnight.

If he gets to championship point, please hold you nose and be sure not to sneeze.

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