DavieCooper.com Editor’s Blog

“Andy Murray has only won crappy tournaments - he’s another Tim Henman,” quipped my friend after watching his Wimbledon semi-final defeat to Andy Roddick. My face ignited as frustration bubbled inside me. I hit back reeling off an impressive list of facts and figures, about the world number 2, that relegated his argument to the dustbin.

In Britain, there are people who watch Wimbledon (my friend), and people who follow tennis. The former are casual tennis fans that, for two weeks every summer, appoint themselves as experts on the subject. They pay little or no attention to the remainder of the tennis tour and it is a footnote in their sporting calendar. Yet after watching a few hours of Wimbledon highlights they nonchalantly write-off a player’s career. Infuriating. It’s not all their fault – the lack of terrestrial TV coverage of the ATP tennis tour, and the dearth of meaningful tennis tournaments in the UK makes perspective difficult. Even so, Brits who watch only one grand slam a year should really know better.

Indeed, as the dust settles over the leafy hamlet of Wimbledon, in southwest London, Andy Murray is dominating on the other side of the Atlantic; having just won another elite Masters title in Montreal. Victory must feel sweet, especially after all the nonsense he had to endure at SW19: a smug John Inverdale, strawberries and cream, further interrogation about his comments on the England football team, Gary “Alan Partridge” Richardson, Henman Hill, criticism from a tennis-ignorant British public, John “I’m still a rebel” McEnroe and all the other faux charm that haunts the grass court season.

Murray has always been adamant that the American hard courts are where he places his best tennis, and that the US Open is his favourite tournament. The sporting crowds in North America are more raucous than their UK counterparts and respond to his fist pumps, emotional outbursts and win at all costs attitude - Muzza feeds off their energy. Let’s hope he can go all the way this time and win his first grand slam title in the Big Apple. Andy, forget about stuffy Wimbledon and go for it!

Thor wielded his hammer over the grey, murky skies of Oslo last night, and smashed George Burley’s fragile World Cup dream into a thousand pieces. Seconds later, the after shock ripped across the North Sea towards Scotland - rocking the plush chambers of the SFA and the printing presses of Glasgow. As Bob Dylan’s new song goes “I feel a change comin’ on…”. 

Towards the final whistle, the standard of Scottish play was reminiscent of the unorganised mayhem that flourished under Berti Vogts. He debunked the theory that Germans can’t do comedy. We can debate the folly of Burley’s team selection, the injuries, and the manner of the sending offs, but this wasn’t just an unfortunate series of mishaps in Norway – the cracks run deeper. 

The underlying problem is that Burley, in the eyes of the media and the public, was never the man for the job. Perhaps even in his own mind a deep sense of insecurity haunts his every managerial decision. His Scotland career has been a procession of apologies, appeasements and U-turns. Not the convictions of a strong, single minded, charismatic leader. Would certain players have indulged in an all-nighter at Cameron House if Walter Smith had been in charge? I doubt it. This result has been coming, a long time coming.

I want to congratulate Celtic on an unlikely victory in Russia last week. Serial failure away from home has blotted their European CV in recent times. But in the historic, imperious city of Moscow they redeemed themselves in dramatic style. Following a nail biting 90 minutes, the Mick Jagger of London road ghosted into the box in injury time and trundled the ball into the bottom corner to secure a famous win. Scenes of jubilation followed as the Celtic players piled on top of each other, there Russian counterparts were disconsolate and trudged back to the half way line head in hands.  

Meanwhile, in the dilapidated stands, the Celtic fans burst into life. They bounced and bounced and bounced, exorcising the pain of countless defeats on foreign soil. They were giddy on a potent cocktail of emotions: excitement, relief and bittersweet joy; like an innocent prisoner celebrating his release from jail. Indeed, after the endorphins subsided and the Celtic supporters sobered up on the red eye back to Glasvegas, they must have been asking: Why couldn’t we do this under wee Gordon? 

Several hundred miles south on an exclusive golf resort in the Mediterranean, the news probably filtered back to the diminutive ex-Hoops gaffer. Whither he hooked his next drive into the manicured rough or split the fairway is up for debate. Publicly, he would be diplomatic about his former employer and supportive of his successors achievement, but deep inside his subconscious a little green monster would be whispering. Okay, so it was only a Champions league qualifier and not a prestigious group stage match. But the timing of this victory made it symbolic – coming shortly after he was replaced as Celtic manager. But let’s not get over excited, this isn’t a new dawn for Celtic under Tony Mowbray, but it does give Scottish football a much needed and unexpected lift ahead of the 2010-11 season. Right now, be thankful for small mercies.

I fondly remember a transfer tornado sweeping across Scottish football in the 1990s. Every summer the back pages were on fire, bustling with scoops about big name signings descending into Glasgow on David Murray’s Bear Force One. Evening Times vendors were bellowing transfer news across George Square. Football hacks were on an intravenous drip of Red Bull, trying to keep up with over-excited taxi drivers. It felt like it was all going off.  So who’s coming to dinner now – Danny Fox? If that’s the guest list, I’m locking my door.

Chairmen spent wildly back then, and as a result, many clubs are now rattling the piggy bank, but it was great entertainment while it lasted: David Murray declared “I have a dream”, pledging to make Rangers kings of Europe. But a gangly Norwegian sniper, with the co-ordination of a baby giraffe, paid heed to his ambition. A manic Gazza stormed around Glasgow, thumping on McCoist’s front door at 3am to see if he wanted a game of pool. Amoruso strutted through the Italian Centre in Gucci leathers, while urban myths about the size of his plonker reverberated around the hair salons of Glasgow.

Let’s be honest, the current “product” is pretty poor. The SPL should compensate for this lack of quality with humour; how about Andy Cameron performs jazz ballet, in the centre circle at Ibrox, before every match? I hope the Old Firm receive a massive injection of cash and embark on another ridiculous, self-destructive spending spree in the transfer market. It’s selfish, but I miss the surreal soap opera that aired in summers gone by…