There are very few men I’ll lose sleep for. My sons, obviously. My husband (although in his case there usually has to be a pay off involving dinner or the promise to put the wheelie bin out). Liam Neeson would, of course, make the list.
And now, step forward Andy Murray. Actually Andy, make it more of a shuffle than a step because your bones must be aching after winning the US Open.
Brad Pitt could have been waiting with a rose between his teeth and I still wouldn’t have switched the tennis off the other night.
Wasn’t Murray brilliant? Okay, so he doesn’t ever make it easy for himself or for those of us willing him on from the high-pressure environment of the sofa. Or, in Alex Ferguson’s case, sitting in the stadium like the sporting world equivalent of an enforcer, ready to dish out the hairdryer treatment if Murray looked like failing.
My nerves were shredded. I shouted at the telly. On several occasions I required the calming properties of a hot beverage and a Kit Kat Chunky. And when he lifted that cup, I emitted a screech so piercing the neighbours immediately called Crimestoppers. But it was worth every excruciating moment.
However, there was one other person at the match who should have been doing a lap of honour with a trophy held aloft.
I hereby dedicate a golden MASK award (Mother of A Sporty Kid) to the irrepressible Judy Murray.
Judy has been much criticised over the years, accused of being a pushy parent and maligned for her dogmatic dedication to her son’s career. Isn’t that missing the point?
Year after year she ferried him to matches, washed his kit, cheered him on and stood in the pouring rain watching wee Andy batter a ball across a net.
And now that she gets to jet to New York and hob nob with Sean Connery, she gives hope to the rest of us, standing in the rain on touchlines all over the nation, slowly developing hypothermic tootsies while mentally working out how many times we’ll have to soak the offspring’s socks to get the grass marks out.
My eleven-year-old spends every evening and weekend partaking in some combination of tennis, football, basketball and the 100-metre escape from an embarrassing mother. The last one isn’t yet an official sport but he’s been practising ever since he was six and I stood in a goalmouth holding a brolly over him so he didn’t get a chill.
The image of Judy punching the air this week will keep us parents of sporty weans going through another winter of Saturday morning fixtures, sub-zero temperatures, thermal knickers and chattering teeth. We can picture her joy when we’re dizzy with euphoria that a week of galloping up and down the garden has paid off and our wee angels have finally managed to bend it like Beckham.
We can channel her relief when we’re using two ten-foot barge poles to transfer rancid sports kits from a bag to the washing machine.
Behind every sporty kid there’s a mum or dad, clutching a water bottle and forking out for petrol money, so Andy’s parents deserve to revel in every second of his triumph.
I couldn’t care less what career Low the Elder chooses, as long as he’s happy. But if he does become a professional sportsman, I plan to be just like Judy, in that stand, cheering him on, making sure he’s got everything he needs to play his very best.
Anyone know how I can book Mr Ferguson and his hairdryer?