In which a big win and a big loss don’t have the effects we anticipate, and I learn the value of taking a step back, having a look at the long view, and stopping to appreciate how far we have all come.
WHATEVER IT WAS that Jamie rediscovered when he started training with Louis – it worked. Because in July 2007, he surprised us all by becoming the first of the two boys to win a title at Wimbledon, something which no one was expecting, least of all him. That he entered the mixed doubles event at all was a spur of the moment decision. That he won was even more of a bolt from the blue.
In the case of most doubles tournaments, you have to enter well in advance, but mixed doubles is the one event that you can simply sign up for on site, and the championships at Wimbledon are no different. Jamie happened to be getting out of his car in the competitor’s area at the same time that Serbian player Jelena Janković was getting out of hers. They had known each other a while from the circuit, and started chatting. He asked her if she fancied playing together, and she said she would. They entered the event that very day, the first Wednesday of the fortnight, and – having never played a single match together before – ten days later, they were Wimbledon champions. There was no master plan, nothing to prove, and no one to prove it to, and in my opinion that was the secret behind the sudden success: they were simply having fun.
In contrast, that year was the first one that Andy would have got a seeded position at Wimbledon, but he could not play. In the days leading up to the Championships, he was forced to accept that a wrist injury, which had been dogging him for a while, was simply not going to be healed in time for him to be able to take part. But he was very much there, enjoying his brother’s matches where possible, and watching and learning as much about future opponents as he could from the sidelines.
We had thought that Andy’s injury would make for a frustrating or depressing fortnight, but Jamie’s success soon put paid to that, and before I knew it, I was sitting in the crowd during a Wimbledon final in which my son was competing. Then the realisation struck me: he might actually win this. The moment seemed to have overtaken me, and instead of being my usual self, I was just staring, barely even watching, numb with excitement and wonder.
They were 5–1 up in the third set, and Jamie and Jelena still just looked as if they were having an absolute blast. But I could barely feel my hands. This is Wimbledon, I thought to myself. It’s actually the final at the All England Club, and Jamie is about to win, he really is. It’s going to happen.
It was only about eighteen months since I had suggested to him that he focused on doubles. It felt like yesterday. So much had changed for him; he was like a different man – yet he was still only twenty-one. And just as I stopped to pause to take in what he had already achieved, the crowd erupted: they had won.
This victory was like a burst of sunlight after endless clouds. Jamie deserved every moment of joy and praise he got. Yet again, he had done what he so often has in his relationship with his brother: he quietly went ahead and showed Andy that it could be done, that they had it in them, that anything was possible. Just as the nation’s expectation was tightening its vice-like pressure on Andy, Jamie stepped up and forged the path ahead for him. As with those first trips abroad, the excitement of the Orange Bowl in Miami, or the experience of training away from home, Jamie headed out of the traps first, leaving Andy to follow in his own persistent way, in his own sweet time.
That day, Andy was watching Jamie’s win from the BBC Radio 5 Live commentary box, as he had by now accepted that if he was visible to the cameras, they would film him and his reaction. He was so edgy and nervous for Jamie that he didn’t want to be seen, and he certainly didn’t want to distract Jamie’s play or Jamie’s moment in any way. He came out of the commentary box at 5–1, 30–0, in order to see the final points, and was so overjoyed that he was crying. He knew exactly what that win would mean for Jamie, and indeed what it meant for him. The days of Sheffield and San José were now long behind them.
These days, the boys rarely watch each other in person, but often on TV or by live stream on their computers. But they will sometimes turn up under exceptional circumstances. For example, when Jamie and Bruno Soares won the Australian Open Doubles in 2016, Andy had been watching back at his hotel, as he had to play his own singles final the following day. But when it got to the third set and Andy started to sense that they might win, he ran from the hotel to the tournament site late that night all alone. He called me – I was away with the Fed Cup team at the time – gabbling: ‘Mum, I’ve got to go, I’m heading over,’ and I didn’t have time to work out what he was talking about until he had completed the fifteen minute sprint and was there, watching the last few games, seeing Jamie receiving his trophy, and then heading back to the hotel without ever telling anyone except me that he was going to be there.
I love knowing when their schedules coincide and they’re travelling to the same tournament. No matter how much else has changed, the thought of the two of them out on the road together, supporting each other, and competing in the world’s biggest events and flying the flag for Scotland, is a real source of pride and comfort. Back in 2007 it felt as if the challenges were only going to get smaller from now on. But the biggest – for all of us – were yet to come.
Andy was there for Jamie that Wimbledon, and thrilled by every second of it, but he was having a far from easy time himself. The previous year his coaching relationship with the wonderful Mark Petchey had reached its natural end. Mark had guided him amazingly through that incredibly difficult transition from top junior into the world’s top 60. Now Andy had set his heart on working with an American called Brad Gilbert. Brad was a seriously top level coach – he had worked with Andre Agassi, Andy’s big childhood hero, and had been a top twenty tennis player himself. That was going to cost big bucks, but we were all sure it would be worth it. The whole tennis journey had been about investing in the right people at the right time, and this was no different. He could be a game-changer.
Brad had written a book called Winning Ugly, about playing smart and finding a way to win, even if you weren’t at your best or you weren’t the ‘better player’. This had really struck a chord with Andy, and he was determined to get his guy. I’m sure you’ve got the picture by now: Andy likes to make his own decisions, but once he has his heart set on something, he will do anything possible to make it work, whatever that takes. What Andy wanted now was to train with someone who had the experience of taking a player to the very top. So we found a way to contact him via Andy’s management group at the time.
At first, they met for a chat, they had a bit of a play, had the chance to see how a relationship might feel. Things were looking good. But there was the cost to consider. Even though Andy was now beginning to earn decent money, it wasn’t anything like enough to pay a coach like Brad. Financially, things had really turned round for Andy after the summer of 2005: he had picked up some prize money from Queen’s and then from Wimbledon itself. This, combined with two other great sources of income – a sponsorship deal from Fred Perry and the offer of more and more wild card places at Challenger events in the US, which he was now winning quite regularly – meant that the heart-stopping anxiety of the previous years was now largely over. Coaches are by a clear margin the biggest expense for a player, because it’s not just the coach’s salary that the player is expected to pay, but all the attendant expenses as well: accommodation, international travel, food, phone bills and all the rest. This is where individual sports like tennis differ so dramatically from team sports such as football. You are responsible for all your costs and your income is determined by your success.
An example of this was in 2008 when Andy reached the quarter-finals of Wimbledon. His prize money was around £90,000, and by almost everyone’s standards, that is a huge amount of money – far more than a year’s salary for many of us. I can remember Andy asking me to pick up the prize money for him. In those days, if it was your home nation you were given an old-fashioned, handwritten cheque. I went into the All England Club the day after the match and was driving home with the cheque on the passenger seat. It was more money than I had ever seen on a cheque. I couldn’t stop looking at it as I wove my way through the traffic with it sitting next to me like a wealthy passenger. I reached forward to turn on the radio, keen to hear the sports news. Within moments, perspective was slipping into place: the reporters were discussing Frank Lampard’s new deal with Chelsea. It was to be for £125,000 a week. A week! Andy’s winnings would be split into salaries for a fleet of people – coaches, physios, racket stringers, fitness trainers, website managers and PR advisors.
But the mission for Brad Gilbert in 2006 continued nonetheless, and we were very lucky that the LTA was headed up at the time by Roger Draper, a chief executive with a dream to develop world-class players. He had already invested in some top drawer staff. Andy was in the world’s top 100 now, so he was firmly on Roger’s radar, and he offered us the financial help to get Brad on board. He knew there were no guarantees, but he wasn’t afraid to take the risk. A sponsorship deal was worked out, with Andy giving some time and image rights to the LTA, who in turn would contract Brad for thirty or so weeks of the year. Once again, feeling the support of the LTA when we needed it was a huge relief, and it was also a sign of recognition for Andy, some acknowledgement of what he had achieved and what they now saw as his potential.
However, as was so often the case with Andy, their coaching relationship ran its course relatively quickly and was coming to a head shortly before Wimbledon 2007 – the one he couldn’t play in because of his wrist injury. Andy had torn a tendon in his wrist. It was his twentieth birthday, he was in Hamburg for an ATP tournament, when something snapped in his wrist about five games into his opening match. He retired from the match and was taken off for a scan. Although the slit in the tendon was tiny, wrists are crucial to tennis players – it’s where the body takes most of the impact after all – and we all realised that his recovery was going to take some time. Yet again, it looked as if injury was going to stymie his progress.
That evening he was devastated. It was a big birthday, my mum and I had come over to celebrate with him and the team, but he had his wrist in a cast and a more than heavy heart. I was aching for him; he had been doing so well, he was really growing and progressing and now this. Another setback. Or as I like to see it, another obstacle to overcome.
We were determined to make the best of the evening though, and in my memory it will always be special for two reasons. Firstly, it was the night that the family was introduced to sushi for the first time, and secondly we had an unexpected guest at our table. It was Brad’s idea to take us out for Japanese, as he was convinced Andy would love it, and it’s also a good, healthy meal for athletes. It’s now Andy’s absolute favourite food, and these days, he’ll head out for sushi whenever there is a special occasion to be celebrated. Back then, we were all baffled by the menu, especially my mum who kept grabbing my sleeve and muttering about why there wasn’t any ‘normal food’.
Just as we were getting to grips with the menu, Brad, who was sitting opposite me, gasped at something over my shoulder. I turned round to see what had startled him, and saw a guy bigger than anyone I’ve ever seen in my life. He looked like a Bond villain. He had enormous shoulders, was hugely tall and was rippling with muscle like some sort of cartoon character. The woman with him was of almost similar dimensions. I was as baffled by them as my mum had been by the menu. But Brad left his seat, headed to the bar and started talking to them.
He came back to the table and said to me, ‘That’s Wladimir Klitschko, the boxer. I have asked him to come over and have a word with Andy.’
Andy is a massive boxing fan, and has been since childhood. When he gets the chance to meet a boxer, it’s as if he’s that little boy in the cereal-box WWF belt all over again. So when Klitschko appeared at his side and started chatting away, he was spellbound. The guy had such presence. They talked for ages, discussing Andy’s injury and sharing his experience in managing injuries and setbacks. There were lots of boxing anecdotes and Andy was very inspired. He seemed much more upbeat and philosophical when the night ended back in the hotel lounge with us all eating the chocolate cake his gran had made and brought over all the way from Dunblane.
The next few weeks were tough psychologically, as Andy had to learn yet again how to rehab another injury. He started trying to practise after a month or so, just using soft foamy balls which would be easier on the wrist. But he could barely hit a forehand. Time crept on, progress was slow and as I was watching him practise two days before Wimbledon, I told it to him straight: ‘You’ve just got to stop. You’re not ready.’ He could only hit his forehand with slice, which basically means you hit down and under the ball, and would normally only be used in a defensive situation. The injury wouldn’t allow him to hit up and over the ball with top spin so he couldn’t be aggressive at all.
Brad saw it differently, though. He was courtside, coaching Andy, and he was determined that Andy should play. I am not sure if he felt pressure to produce a result while under contract, but he wasn’t letting up. Andy’s first round match was due to be against Nicolás Lapentti, the Ecuadorian player, and Brad was insistent. ‘You can beat him without a forehand,’ he told Andy.
But it wasn’t about that. Someone had to think outside of that immediate Wimbledon pressure and step in. I could see Andy talking to Brad between play, and then looking back at me on the balcony. He was anxious – really anxious.
It had taken a lot of effort to get Brad on board, and I am sure that he was doing what he thought was best for Andy and his morale. But he was a strong-willed man, and everyone ultimately has their own agenda unless they’re family. As family, I had no vested interest in Andy beyond love, and my only real job was to make sure that he was happy and healthy. And the minute I asked him, ‘What do you think about playing?’ I could see that he wasn’t happy. Torn between knowing he wasn’t yet fully fit and following his coach’s advice. That night we created a list of pros and cons to help him make the right decision. The cons won and the next day, he pulled out of the tournament. It’s always tough to miss Wimbledon – it’s the highlight of the tennis calendar. But that year, with Jamie’s incredible win, is remembered for good news not bad. But it was the beginning of the end of Andy’s relationship with Brad and it had run its course by the end of the year.
As a sportsman you become acutely attuned to your body and its needs. Injury can be so demoralising, but for long-term good you often have to sacrifice short-term gain. In 2009 Andy faced another wrist injury and it threatened his appearance at the Davis Cup tie against Poland in Liverpool that September. It was a crucial match: lose and the GB team would be relegated. Andy had been suffering since August and he was pretty certain he wouldn’t be able to play, but he agreed to travel with the team for the practice week as his physio was attached to the team along with a team doctor who could help him treat the injury and track his progress.
As they neared the date of the tie, both the team doctor and team physio declared him unfit to play, yet Andy felt the captain and coach both weigh in and try to persuade him to play: GB couldn’t win the tie without him. Andy was young, vulnerable, and felt under extreme pressure to play. He eventually agreed to have his wrist strapped and be dosed up on pain killers. He played three matches in that tie but the team ultimately lost. The night before the last match (with Poland leading 2–1) I decided to drive back to Scotland, convinced that Andy was not going to play on the final day. His wrist was inflamed, he was in a lot of pain and it just made no sense to inflict further damage. As I pulled into the drive a text pinged through. It was Andy: ‘Can’t sleep. They’re going to blame me if we lose. Everyone will say it’s my fault for not playing.’ The pressure on him was intense. I felt utterly powerless, miles away at three o’clock in the morning. Playing those matches seriously aggravated his injury and he was out of action for three months, which affected his end of year ranking and most of all his confidence. It also radically affected me as a coach and a captain, and taught me to always listen to my players first and foremost.
It can be hard to stand firm when others are depending on you, and as parents, coaches, friends, we have to learn how important it is to always, always listen to the player and trust that they know their body better than any of us. The power of peer pressure can be overwhelming in any industry, and looking beyond the immediate moment and seeing the long-term, bigger picture is vital, no matter what the circumstances.
Just over a year later, Andy had a shot at his first Grand Slam final, in the 2008 US Open. I would love to be able to regale you with every detail of the match, but once again a big career moment turned out to be just as memorable for the family dynamics at play. This time, I had flown out with my dad on the Wednesday as Jamie had reached the mixed doubles final, and we wanted to be able to support him.
While we were in the air, Andy had beaten Argentinian Juan Martín del Potro in the quarter-final and went on to play Rafa Nadal in the semi-final a couple of days later. He was by now working with Miles Maclagan, and doing pretty well, but that Rafa match was horribly tough going. Rafa was so dominant back then that it would have been a fierce battle under any conditions, but the weather was terrible, causing the match to be suspended until the following day – just as Andy was leading. It was the first time that Andy had to deal with an anxious overnight delay in the middle of a huge match, and it was difficult for all of us. I hated being a parent, and being nearby, yet unable to do anything useful. Adversity performed its usual spell on Andy though, and just when I started to fear he might buckle under the pressure, he rose to it instead – and won. Despite the best efforts of my dad to inadvertently wreck it all!
There was a good group of us there supporting him. My brother, who was by then a golf pro in Dallas, had flown down, and of course Jamie was there as well. I was sitting with Andy’s team; my brother and dad were two rows behind us. Because of all of the bad weather and the fact that the tournament was trying to catch up with delayed matches, the semi-final against Rafa was transferred to one of the smaller courts, which made things feel a little off-kilter, particularly as the players’ box was very close to the court itself. Almost on the baseline. Usually, it is a bit removed, which I prefer as you can be seen but not heard. That day … far from it, and it couldn’t have been a worse set-up as my dad hit his spectating stride.
All of my match-watching life, I have always tried to betray nothing other than positive emotions – particularly if it’s a big match. I know some of them might seem a little excessive but you’ll never see me show any negativity: never a shaken head, never a furious wince or a despondent hand gesture, never a tut or a sag of the shoulders. My dad is not held back by such fluffy sentiment though. Added to that, of course, he shares Andy’s ferocious sense of competitiveness. So, while he was watching the match, he was letting fly with the heavy sighs, the head dramatically tipped into hands, the stage whispers about how ‘that shot should have been easy!’ and a few eye rolls for good measure.
He probably didn’t even know he was doing it. And maybe he thought showing such passion was actively supportive. He was wrong. It was hitting Andy right where it hurt – his focus and his confidence. After a couple of sets, Andy stood at the very back of the court, where he was clearly audible to us – and us alone – and whispered hoarsely to me: ‘TELL GRANDPA TO STOP PUTTING HIS HEAD IN HIS HANDS.’
I could picture exactly what Andy was seeing from his vantage point at the other end of the court, and the minute Andy looked away from me, I spun round to see my dad in a flurry of negative gesticulations. It must have been utterly infuriating for him, poor kid. I caught my brother’s eye and whispered as fast as I could, ‘Get Dad to put his bloody hands down.’
My dad behaved a little better for the rest of the match, and Andy survived to make his first Grand Slam final. For me, it was the day that I realised you can sort the money, you can sort the kit, you can sort the coach … but from childhood onwards, the one thing you can’t sort is your parents’ behaviour.
Andy faced Federer in that 2008 US Open Final and the match came and went pretty quickly. A classic example of experience versus inexperience. For Federer it was his fifth US Open title. He looked totally at ease with the occasion, while Andy never really settled into it. He faced him in a second Grand Slam final at the 2010 Australian Open, and lost again. By now, these close calls were becoming really tough emotionally. The set-up at these big tournaments is such that if you are the runner-up, or on the team of the runner-up, you are largely forgotten. If you lose in any of the earlier stages, it somehow doesn’t feel quite as depressing – the locker rooms, the players’ lounges, the media suites – they are all still buzzing as you collect your prize money and get going, on to the next tournament. But when you come second in a Grand Slam, the player areas are all eerily silent. And every single thing is geared around the winner. You have to do your media straight after the final and you head to the locker room alone. At this Australian Open even the players lounge had been transformed for the party for staff and was full of people celebrating. There was literally nowhere to sit and wait for Andy.
When Andy lost that match in 2010, I just wanted to get out of the arena and give him a hug. I knew how tough it was for him to be so close and yet so far. Again. And the burden of expectation was weighing on his shoulders heavier than ever. After giving him a while to do his press commitments, I decided to go and find him – it wasn’t as if there would be anyone around to stop me after all.
I saw his team at the corner of the bar as I headed out of the player’s lounge, and asked where Andy was. ‘He’s in the locker room,’ one of them replied, and I couldn’t believe it. I knew he would be alone and devastated in there, and wanted to be furious with them for leaving him by himself. I stopped myself, remembering that I always saw these moments from a mother’s perspective, and they were seeing it as purely professional. They were his colleagues – they were all macho guys – and they saw the situation differently from me. They would wait for him to set the tone.
Not me though. I found my way to the male locker room and was met with a guy on the door who tried to tell me I couldn’t go in. ‘Oh, yes I can,’ I replied. ‘There’s only one person who can possibly be in there and he won’t mind.’ Sure enough, Andy was in there, slouched on a chair with a towel round his waist. He looked so defeated.
‘I’m so sorry, Mum,’ he said, as he looked up at me through watery eyes. ‘I’ve let everybody down. I’m just so sorry.’
I couldn’t believe it – how could he even be thinking like this? I didn’t know whether to shake him or hug him. He had just played Roger Bloody Federer in a Grand Slam final!
‘Oh, Andy,’ I said, putting my arms round him. ‘You haven’t let anybody down. Do you have any idea what it is like for me to sit there and see you play in the final of a Grand Slam? Against the greatest player ever. It’s unbelievable how well you’ve done and you’ve got so much to be proud of. You’ll learn from this; you’ll come back stronger, and you’ll get there one day. You mustn’t ever, ever believe you are letting anyone down. Never.’
It was as if all the progress he had made had been forgotten, and it took someone who had seen every step to remind him how many there had been. The closer he got to a Grand Slam, the steeper the fall in his and the public’s eyes if he didn’t make it. And that year more than almost any other, it reminded me of the importance of unconditional emotional support and I felt my responsibility to him as a parent rather than as part of any ‘team’ he had behind him.
The tone was somewhat different at the next year’s Australian Open, as Andy had a special request from a fan who wanted to watch him play: Billy Connolly. He had specifically asked if he could come and see one of Andy’s matches, so I set it all up for the beginning of the second week. I’d arranged to meet him in the player’s restaurant and as I sat there I was ridiculously nervous. He was someone I had so often watched on TV since I was a teenager. He is a Scottish hero and someone I would never have dreamed I’d have the chance to meet, let alone have asking to meet my son.
When I found myself walking towards him, I started laughing. In any other circumstance it would have been rude, but I somehow couldn’t help myself. Maybe it was nerves. He hadn’t done a thing and I was giggling like a schoolgirl at the sight of him sitting there, at a white Formica table, facing me.
‘It’s so nice to see you smiling,’ he said, with a familiar twinkle in his eyes.
‘What do you mean?’ I replied. ‘I’m always smiling!’
Very slowly he replied. ‘Oooooh nooooo you’re noooooot.’
Oh here we go, I thought. Someone else who thinks I’m a nightmare. And I tried to be annoyed, but I couldn’t stop grinning, and on top of that, all I could hear was my own voice bellowing internally: ‘You’ve having tea and a doughnut with Billy Bloody Connolly!’
Part of me was frustrated that yet another person thought I was the Grinch who never smiles, but, honestly, it is hard to be anything other than amused in Connolly’s presence. I was pretty much crying with laughter for the entire match. Absolutely unheard of for me. His commentary, peppered with some very colourful language, was so much more entertaining than anything I’d heard on TV. Interestingly, once the match was over, Billy just slipped away. He refused all requests for interviews saying he was just there for the tennis, and the day was all about Andy.
In the spring of 2011 my role in Andy’s team was questioned in the most horrible way possible. By now I was used to seeing – and ignoring – articles and opinion pieces about Andy every time he lost a big match. They would often analyse my involvement and question my role in his career. It hurt, but they were journalists who I’d never met, who didn’t know anything about us or our journey – what did they know? Then the Express printed an article with the headline ‘Time to Cut the Apron Strings, Andy Murray’, quoting Boris Becker saying Andy would never win a Grand Slam with me around. ‘I don’t know why Andy prefers Judy close by … He needs to ditch her.’ It stung. A lot. I’d been able to dismiss the journalists and their reams of copy, but the opinion of a Wimbledon champion, commentator and coach was a lot harder to disregard. Even just popping out for a loaf of bread to the local shops was tough when every Scottish tabloid had his words plastered over their front pages. Happily I had a chance to face Boris two years later after Andy had won the US Open and Wimbledon.
By now, I had been unofficially coordinating both of the boys’ teams for about five or six years, keeping a careful eye over their transition into adulthood and professional life, while trying to give them space and maintain a mother–son relationship. It had been quite a juggling act, as teams got bigger and Andy in particular had moved on from coaches with relative frequency, switching when he felt he had learned all that he could from someone, keen to move onwards and upwards. After Brad, he worked with Miles Maclagan for a while, then Àlex Corretja, specifically to help his clay court game, and then Danny Vallverdu, his old pal from his Barcelona days, who started as a hitting partner and ended up being on his coaching team for some time.
On top of that, there was the matter of finding a tennis-specific fitness trainer – someone who could turn Andy from a gangly teenager to a player who had the physical strength to match his emotional doggedness over a five-set match. The minute that a young player starts to have some success, they are offered spaces and appearance fees at major events. The more you win, the better the opponents, the higher the standard of tennis, and the greater the demands on the body. Left unattended, this can lead to injury fast, but of course the great advantage is that with bigger earnings you can pay for the physical trainers, nutritionists and physiotherapists. Then there are the luxury extras such as signing up to a restringing team – a company who will collect your rackets from your hotel each evening, and string them for you overnight, so that they’re ready the next morning at the right tension for the conditions and court surface. And that was just the tennis side. There was a whole business team to be recruited and organised as well, and of course the input of sports psychologists at key times.
Over time, as Andy in particular grew more confident around all these people, and more able to pay for what he wanted without needing to panic, I was able to step back. And it was at this point that my old friend and protegé Leon Smith popped up with an offer that presented a whole new career opportunity for me, which proved far too interesting to turn down.