Andy Murray Tennis Player

Those people at home still glued to their televisions at 12.45 yesterday morning were treated to a sight they have not been privileged to witness in the recent history of the British game. And that does not just mean watching a man throw up twice on court, then choke in the metaphorical sense, before steeling himself to a famous US Open victory in five riveting sets.

It was the air of the 18-year-old from Dunblane, the urgency, the gestures, the ferocious competitive spirit, the control, the way he plays as if being 40-0 down at any time is an insult to his integrity, and how that messes with his opponents’ minds; as the vanquished Andrei Pavel, the world No 39 from Romania, said: “I had the feeling all the time I was winning the points but somehow I was losing; it was a strange situation.”

At the point of his 6-3, 3-6, 3-6, 6-1, 6-4 victory, Murray once more held one finger to his lips, a similar gesture to that at the end of his final qualifying-round win, one that admonishes those who have been outrageous enough to doubt his capabilities. If tomorrow he defeats Arnaud Clément, his French second-round opponent, in five sets, Murray says he will repeat the message.

Better strap yourself in for a ride through at least the next five years, when Murray will indulge us with a profusion of exploits as he seeks to carve for himself a place in the upper echelons of the sport, where many experts have begun to predict he is destined. He may not gather as many friends as he does admirers along the way, but he will do what it takes to make it, of that we can be sure.

What is certain is that should he beat Clément, the former Australian Open finalist who, like Murray, qualified here, the Scot will move inside the top 100. That was his target for the end of the year, so he is ahead of the game. He is thriving in the United States, where he has spent the past ten weeks on a procession of short, sharp, shock tennis initiations, winning two Challenger Series events, saving match points, infused and enthused.

But he would not have been able to achieve what he has if the bedrock was not so secure, a game of infinite possibilities because of its structure, its moments of calm, followed by explosions of power, his improving footwork and serve, the stronger legs (if not insides) and the iron resolve. It helps that he does not have to generate the atmosphere he loves so much, for no nation quite loves heart-on-the-sleeve sport as fervently as they do here.

“They make so much noise and it’s much easier to play when it’s like that, even when they’re not all for you, because you don’t feel you have to please them or you have to win, because they’re just enjoying the match,” he said. “It’s much easier here than in Wimbledon.”

And, so far, he is recognised only on the courts of Queens; in downtown Manhattan he is able to stroll the streets anonymously. That may soon change, not least if nicknames such as “The Regurgitator” stick. At the Stella Artois Championships in June, Murray collapsed because he had not drunk enough fluids; here it was because the Lucozade sodium drink, which is supposed to be the antidote to the cramping that beset him in London, reacted powerfully with his pre-match meal. “I felt like I was going to burp,” he said. “I suppose I’ll find it funny in the morning.”

The 15-minute delay was caused by the inability to find things as routine as a mop and a bucket of water. These events can have all the court-drying paraphanelia in the world, but they are not used to dealing with vomit. Mike Morrissey, the British supervisor, said that Murray wanted to continue after the first episode but once he had been sick for a second time, he was advised to sit down and wait for the doctor. The court had to be cleared, wetted, then dried.

There was the semblance of a choke when Murray served for the match, he managed only two of ten first serves and the rest landed halfway up the net. But he saw that through as well and the sick man of British tennis was the toast of the town.