Free Hitting Back by Andy Murray Page B

of us, however, it meant that the field
had just opened up. A grand slam title was waiting to be won.
    I was feeling pretty confident going into my next match –
and, typically, nearly lost it. I had to battle my way out of
trouble after losing the first set 2–6 to Sam Querry, a tall
Californian, in the quarter-finals. After that sharp reminder
that I had to play with my brain as well as my racket, I played
better against Mihail Zverev of Germany in the semis and won
in straight sets. However, it was not so much the match, I
remember as the day. This was Saturday September 11, the
third anniversary of the terrorist attack on New York. It was
my first big press conference at a grand slam event, and I ended
up being asked about world terrorism. I said that
I hadn't realised what day it was until I turned on the TV in my
hotel room that morning, and how sad it was, but when I saw
people crying, I turned it off again because I didn't want to feel
like that when I walked on court.
    I seemed to be having one new experience after another. The
next one would be the grand slam junior final against Sergiy
Stakhovsky of the Ukraine. I was on form, prepared, supported
. . . and petrified. I've never been as petrified since. My mum
was there, my brother, my uncle had flown in from Dallas,
some of the other British juniors like Jamie Baker and Tom
Rushby, all supporting me, but as I walked to Court Ten with
Jamie at my side, listening to my iPod, I was really, really
nervous. I wanted to win so much, but I lacked the confidence
that comes from having won a major junior title.
    The night before, we were sitting in a café – me, my brother,
Jamie, Tom, my mum and a couple of coaches – chatting about
the celebrations if I won the next day. Maybe that had been
slightly premature. I certainly wasn't thinking that the next
couple of hours would be easy as I stepped on to Court Ten.
    It was packed. My mum and my friends were there in the
corner. There wasn't an empty seat to be seen. The atmosphere
crackled. I stopped my music, unpacked my rackets,
took a deep breath and prepared to return serve in the first
game of the first set. I was well prepared for the match because
we had taken a video analyst from the Scottish Institute of
Sports with us to the tournament and she had videoed
Stakhovsky's semi-final match. My mum and she had analysed
it and I'd watched it to decide on my tactics. I knew he would
serve and volley and I knew I had to find his feet – make him
volley up, so I could attack him. My return has always been
the best part of my game and a few points later, I'd relaxed. I
had almost broken his serve. I broke his next service game,
and despite my previous nerves, the match went smoothly
from there. I played well. The guy hardly had a chance and I
won 6–4 6–2. At match point for the second time, he hit a
return and I knew immediately it was going out at the back.
    I dropped my racket, took my cap off, and I just put my head
in my hands. I didn't cry. It was such a release. I suddenly felt
so relaxed, so confident, so assured. After all the nerves and
sacrifices and the injury, I had won a grand slam. That was the
moment when I felt I could be one of the best players in the
world.
    I would know real fame at Wimbledon in a few months'
time, but this was my first taste of the madness. The morning
after the victory, I did interview after interview by live links
back to London. I had no idea what was going on. They gave
me earpieces, pointed cameras at me and I didn't have a clue
where to look. I'd had a little media training when I was
injured, but nothing prepares you for this. My mum was there,
organising all the interviews, but when it came to doing them I
was on my own. I just said what I thought, which may or may
not have been a good thing.
    I remember telling someone that the moment after I'd won,
I hit a ball into the crowd aimed right for my mum. I said I was
trying to hit her because she had been making so much noise.