Britain's search for Fred Perry's successor tilts into farce
WIMBLEDON, England -- One of the most durable sentences in the English language is, "No British man since Fred Perry in 1936 has won the Wimbledon title."
This sentence has endured year upon year of draw upon draw while retaining its dogged accuracy.
It's feral crab grass; it will not die.
The search for a successor to Perry has persisted for almost as long as the average male life expectancy. It has been grim. It has been fun. It has been charming. It has been a loud and intricate part of going to Wimbledon. It has been rife with hopes that have wound up dashed, mangled, obliterated, mocked and pilloried.
Finally, it has tilted into farce.
That's the only apt description of the fifth set Monday night between the Scot Andy Murray, Britain's best hope at No. 11 in the world, and France's Richard Gasquet, ranked No. 10.
This fifth set, allegedly momentous, transpired in enough darkness that your mother long since would've called you indoors, yet play persisted. Well, Murray did have the momentum.
During the last few points, camera flashes went off in droves as the players prepared for crucial points, yet the chair umpire Carlos Ramos gave no censure. Well, fans did need their souvenirs of Murray's impending victory and, as a bonus, the flashes made it even harder for Gasquet to read Murray's serve.
Early in the fifth set, the road team (Gasquet) plunked a double fault into the net and many of the 15,000 made a swell of a cheer. Well, 72 years does instill some desperation.
Murray won 5-7, 3-6, 7-6 (3), 6-2, 6-4, and Gasquet blamed himself for not clinching when he served for the match in the third set, stressing that conditions were identical for both players.
He also said, "When I was a child at 8 years old when I was in south of France, I could play with the dark, to finish a match in the club. But in Wimbledon, it's strange. But that's for both."
True, but the long search found a new wrinkle with this cheap match. When the search coursed through the plight of Tim Henman in the 1990s and early 2000s, it often majored in graciousness and patience, as nobody then could beat Pete Sampras.
When it came upon Henman's rain-haunted, three-day, five-set, semifinal loss to Goran Ivanisevic in 2001, it majored in heartache, and you could feel some of it yourself even if you didn't hail from England.
Finally on Monday, though, it aged to a newfound stage, majoring in obnoxiousness.
